Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Congo Christmas
It’s Christmas morning in the jungle, and I awake to the sound of African songbirds chirping to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. On seeing me stir, the parrots flap their wings and greet me. “Give us some nuts!” they squawk, but I have no intention of obliging them. One does not reward creatures whose evocation of the Christmas spirit is to shit on your head while you’re sleeping.
In a few hours, I’ll be making my way to the safari camp with my customary gift of freshly-picked wild fruit. The manager, truth be told, is not a big fan of fruit, but his wife forces him to eat it as a palliative for his constipation. “I don’t want to hear you grunting and groaning in the bathroom,” she says in answer to his complaints.
Another yuletide tradition at the safari camp is the singing of our favourite Christmas songs. This year, my choice will be ‘Mrs Robinson’ by Simon and Garfunkel. For those who doubt its relevance to the most auspicious day in the Christian calendar, let me remind you the lyrics:
And here’s to you, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa whoa whoa.
God bless you please, Mrs Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, hey.
It’s a fine example of the Christmas message – peace and goodwill to all, including the shameless cougar. For Mrs Robinson was indeed a wicked woman, and seducing a fresh-faced college graduate was the least of her infractions. Her worst abomination occurred when young Ben Braddock repented of their lustful liaison and declared himself a suitor for the lovely Elaine. Rather than rejoicing that her daughter would have a husband with excellent prospects (and one that she had personally trained), she banned him from the family home and concocted a false story to make Elaine despise him.
If I saw Mrs Robinson in the jungle today, I would grab her by the waist, lift her off her feet (to stop her running away) and invite her to lunch at the safari camp. No doubt, she would snarl like a she-wolf and curse like a sailor, but I would maintain steady eye contact while bearing her kicks and punches with apely fortitude.
“Woman, cease thine evil beshrewing!” I would say. “Tis a day for even the most cussed harridan to repent of her sins and break bread with the virtuous.”
If that didn’t pacify her, I don’t know what would.
There’s more to Christmas than singing songs and making sinners repent, of course. At this holy time of year, humans are apt to hold drunken parties, which for some may lead to illicit groping and smooching. Having avoided this year’s “event” at the safari guesthouse, I have been spared the drudgery of disciplining the unruly and carrying the unconscious to a safe place of repose. This means I have no lurid tales to tell, which doesn’t bother me at all. Nor should it bother you. Christmas is not a time for gossip and tittle-tattle.
The Japing ape wishes his readers a Happy Christmas
Labels: Christmas shagging, constipation, Mrs Robinson
