Wednesday, June 03, 2015
New marriage, old divorce
I got an email from a blog lurker asking me why I hadn’t congratulated Ginger Spice on her wedding, which occurred last month. Having previously anointed Ginger as the Spice Girl I’d most like to eat, this was indeed a regrettable oversight. I apologise profusely to Ginger for my lapse, and wish her all the blessings that matrimonial co-indulgence can bring.
Ginger’s husband is a suave-looking fellow called Christian Horner, who at the age of 40 is only two years younger than his wife. Fortunately, this age difference is too small for Ginger to be called a cougar or her husband to be called a toy-boy. I predict the marriage will last longer than J. Lo’s last one or Madonna’s next one.
Now Christian Horner is a slightly odd name for a human, but not sufficiently strange to indicate his parents were upstarts or anarchists. It is actually a hybrid of ‘Hans Christian Anderson’ and ‘Little Jack Horner’, which implies a consistent theme. The man is apparently a former racing driver, so he might be in a hurry to prove himself. If I were Ginger, I would install speed bumps in the driveway and a portrait of Gerard Depardieu above the marital bed. As the senior partner in the marriage, she should be the one who sets the tempo.
Perhaps if Ginger’s husband were famous his name wouldn’t seem odd at all. It is certainly less peculiar than ‘Art Garfunkel’, yet no one twitches a nostril when that name is mentioned in the art galleries and saunas of New York City. Art has recently been in the news for describing Paul Simon as “an idiot” and “a jerk”. He considers these harsh epithets to be justified because Paul chose to end their musical partnership in 1970.
"How can you walk away from this lucky place on top of the world, Paul?” asked Art of his former comrade-in-song.
But was Paul really “walking away” from success? Given that he wrote all the songs, it might be more accurate to say that he kicked Art out of the band, possibly because the hairstyle was getting on his nerves. My only regret about this divorce is that it destroyed Paul’s ability to write great songs, much in the same way that the other Paul lost his mojo after leaving The Beatles.
Does being in an unhappy situation inspire artists to produce great art, possibly as a form of escapism or self-mollification? We don’t know much about Shakespeare’s life, but he must have suffered episodes of gloom and despair. That much was inevitable in a society where farting in the presence of nobility was a banishable offence.
Perhaps I should spend a few days in a tree overhanging a mangrove swamp to see whether I can compose some tunes on my recorder. If misery is what’s required, there are few more miserable places in the Congo. If the tunes are any good, I’ll release them in an album called ‘Bridge over Troubled Crocodiles’.
Labels: Divorce, Gerard Depardieu, Ginger Spice, marriage, Simon and Garfunkel
Friday, September 16, 2011
French divorce settlement
I have a certain amount of sympathy for the Frenchman who had to pay his ex-wife 10,000 euros for not having sex with her during their marriage. A French court ruled that a wife is entitled to a regular rogering from her husband, and must be financially compensated if the said rogering is not delivered with reasonable frequency. Speaking as a gorilla who has been ruthlessly pressed into service by females in season, I would never dispute a woman’s right to have her natural yearnings satisfied. Rather like a postage stamp, the female of the species must be moistened and mounted to fulfil her destiny.
What I don’t think is fair is putting all the blame on the man for the absence of conjugal deeds. To my way of thinking, a resourceful wife should always be capable of goading her husband into giving her a good seeing to. Did this particular lady just lie on the bed like a sack of potatoes, waiting to be ravished like a sacrificial virgin? If so, she must accept her share of the blame for the lack of bedroom action. Sometimes a woman must take the bull by the horns rather than waiting for the beast to gore her.
I am reminded of the scene in Midnight Cowboy where young Joe Buck is inexplicably unable to oblige a funky femme fatale who has hired him for that purpose. She then challenges him to a game of Scrabble and puts a suggestive word on the board, provoking him to pounce on her like a tomcat.
The other puzzling aspect of this case is that the wife supposedly endured 21 years of a sexless marriage before deciding to call it a day. That’s a hell of a long time to realise that something is amiss in your relationship. It makes me wonder whether she was really celibate for all those years. Most wives in her situation would invite their tennis instructor home to practice his serve-and-volley, soon to be followed by the postman, the plumber and the hard-hatted workman with a tool belt.
Having said all that, the past is past, and there’s point crying over skimmed milk. The woman is 47 years old with money in her purse and plenty of lost time to make up for. Some would say that she should settle down with an honest fellow who will shag her twice a week and go down on her on their wedding anniversary. I would advise her to get sowed with a few wild oats before committing herself to another matrimonial project.
I don’t know whether you can look up gigolos in the Yellow Pages, but one assumes they have ways of advertising their services. If she doesn’t trust the dandies of her native land to deliver value for money, she could always visit Africa and hire the young bucks who hang out on our beaches. Most of them don’t speak French, but that shouldn’t matter – they are used to giving satisfaction on a pidgin vocabulary.
Labels: celibacy, Divorce, France, gigolo, Midnight Cowboy
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Hello Goodbye
I am delighted to hear that Paul McCartney is getting married for the third time. As a friend of the gorilla nation, he is entitled to the warmest of good wishes from me and my females. The omens for this union are good. Paul has wisely gone through a five-year courtship rather than rushing, lemming-like, into wedlock with a woman of avaricious and cantankerous disposition. His fiancé’s first name is Nancy, one of the select few that Macca has used in one of his own compositions. Admittedly, the woman in the song was a saloon bar dancer of easy virtue, but one is entitled to poetic license in making such artistic analogies.
It reflects well on Paul that he is still willing to get hitched after the ignominy of his second marriage. Let us never forget the calumnies that emerged from the poisonous tongue of Ms Heather Mills, who accused her husband, among other things, of being obsessed about her breasts. The woman was clearly unfit for matrimony – an honest wife would have thanked her lucky stars that he wasn’t obsessed about another woman’s breasts. Yet in spite of the humiliations and pecuniary losses he suffered at the hands of his ex-wife, Paul is now taking the plunge with another woman (albeit of very different temperament, one hopes). All those sappy romantic lyrics he wrote must have genuinely come from the heart.
As one musical man marries, another brawny one divorces. It gives me no pleasure whatever to hear that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife has given the old beef steer his marching orders, even though he has no one to blame but himself. I don’t know what possessed him to declare that mulatto women have the best behinds. His wife, who is not a mulatto, must have burned with indignation as she strained her neck to inspect her own tush in the bedroom mirror. As a woman from the Kennedy family, she might have forgiven Arnie the odd affair, but she could never tolerate him publicly scorning her charms. Apparently his remark was made on the spur of the moment, after a Brazilian samba dancer nudged him with her buttocks, but there are times when a husband should salivate in silence. A wise man never comments about the first thing that rubs against his thigh.
Arnie’s troubles remind me of the advice I gave Smacker Ramrod before he popped the question to his current lady wife. My devoted circus buddy had asked me whether he ought to inform his intended of his past dalliances and debaucheries, of which there had been many.
“Don’t do it, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “However much she says it doesn’t matter, it will always prey on her mind! Just smile enigmatically if she asks. Let sleeping cats lie!”
I am pleased to say that Smacker followed my advice and has remained happily married for almost a decade. As we say in the jungle, the truth is like a hornet sting – only give it to creatures with a thick hide.
Labels: Divorce, marriage, mulatto women, Paul McCartney
Friday, April 13, 2007
Divorce, gorilla-style
“Is it possible to fart in your sleep?” asked a tourist the other day.
When humans ask me questions about farting, I expect them to make a joke about the gale-force blasts for which we gorillas are famed. But it turned out that this particular fellow was in earnest. He was going through a messy divorce, and breaking wind in bed was of one the many complaints levelled at him by his estranged wife. I told him that a forceful expulsion of flatulence was unlikely because sleep normally paralyses the muscles. Any gas building up in the bowels would probably leak out slowly, as if from a puncture. He thanked me for my opinion and jotted down a few notes in his diary. Much to my relief, he didn’t ask me to appear in court as an expert witness.
Is there such a thing as an amicable divorce? For gorillas, the answer is “yes”. If one of my females wants a change of scene, I find another alpha male willing to accept her and send her on her way with an affectionate pat on the rump. There is no question of divorcing a female without fixing her up with another mate – that sort of thing gets you blackballed from the local chest-thumping association. Human divorces would surely be less painful if the protagonists had to find new partners for their spouses before parting company.
This is not as far-fetched as it sounds. It’s more or less the plot being followed my Australian friend Fatman and his long-suffering girlfriend Kitty. They never actually married, but were in a cohabiting relationship involving sporadic sexual contact. Fatman then went on a long solo vacation in Russia, where he penetrated the Slavic soul from the inside of a vodka bottle. When he returned to Melbourne, Kitty and he agreed that they were no longer an item. But as he was both penniless and homeless, Kitty happily gave him lodgings in her abode.
Now comes the interesting part. Fatman introduces Kitty to his cousin Jesse and they hit it off rather well. No, they hit it off much better than that, if you see what I mean. Fatman feels pangs of jealousy, baring his anguish in his blog, but soon accepts that he has no real wish to stand in the way of Kitty’s happiness. Nor should he, indeed, for Kitty herself is making strenuous efforts to pair him off with one of her own circle of unattached females. As yet, Fatman has been reluctant to pursue these overtures for fear that Kitty and his new paramour would discuss him covertly, comparing notes and giggling at his peccadilloes.
This is where I can give Fatman some friendly ape-to-man advice. If females who have mated with you are on friendly terms, they will inevitably compare notes and laugh at your expense. You just have to get over it because it cannot be helped. It is a law of nature and a fait accompli.
I once had the misfortune to overhear two of my females discussing my sexual habits. One of them said: “You know when he’s finished because he grunts like a wart hog!” and they both hooted with glee. I crept through the undergrowth to surprise them and said loudly: “Do I indeed?”. They were not the least bit embarrassed and laughed all the harder.
But I had my revenge. The next time I mated with one of those apettes, I cried “Oink! Oink!” while climaxing and walked off abruptly without so much as a peck on the cheek. I knew she was annoyed because I felt a stone strike the back of my head, but I just wiggled my posterior scornfully without turning round. There’s nothing like a bit of sarcasm when you’re ejaculating to put a female in her place.
Labels: Divorce, farting in your sleep, sarcasm
