Friday, July 22, 2011
Unbelievable
I base my opinion on the results of a recent survey of human couples in long-term relationships. It appears that the women said regular sex was essential, whereas the men said they needed to be kissed and cuddled. After pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t in a parallel universe, I realised what must have happened. The women were so worried about appearing needy and emotional that they pretended to be men, while the men were so fearful of looking like heartless lechers that they pretended to be women. The result of all this disinformation was a report with findings that would make a baboon chortle.
The ability of humans to lie convincingly is a big problem for us anthropological apes. Mother Nature has designed the face of homo sapiens to be the perfect lying machine. Those devious inscrutable eyes; that prominent nose (which unlike Pinocchio’s remains the same length unless you pull it); that weaselly mouth, capable of beguiling the naïve listener with its forked-tongued phrases. Many an honest gorilla has been hoodwinked by deceitful humans.
Fortunately, my time in the circus enabled me to hone my human-face-reading skills. I remember a clown once asking me not to kick his arse during our act, because his pelvis had been replaced by a metal plate after a riding accident.
“You would break your foot,” he warned, apparently concerned for my welfare.
I sensed he was lying from the way his eyebrows twitched as he spoke. After some diligent detective work, I discovered that the only metal plates in his backside were those he stuffed into his underpants before putting on his costume. To teach him a lesson, I entered the ring with a large mallet in hand and smashed his buttocks like a pair of cymbals. The audience loved it.
Another devilish trick humans employ is to tell you something that sounds like a tall story which turns out to be true. A few days ago, the manager of the safari camp asked me if I’d been invited to the “monkey wedding” in India.
“A simian of your stature ought to be present at this ground-breaking event,” he said. “If I were a monkey I’d want you to be my best man.”
“You don’t say,” I replied. “Well, unfortunately I’ve got a prior engagement to attend a chimpanzee christening before going to the barber to get my arse-hairs trimmed.”
“Look it up if you don’t believe me,” he said sniggering.
I did and was amazed to find a corroborating news item. It seems that an Indian villager brought up a monkey as his son and found a bride for him in a neighbouring village. Their betrothal was celebrated with a traditional Indian jamboree involving saffron and plenty of coconuts. I don’t see it lasting unless their tails are tied together.
I did and was amazed to find a corroborating news item. It seems that an Indian villager brought up a monkey as his son and found a bride for him in a neighbouring village. Their betrothal was celebrated with a traditional Indian jamboree involving saffron and plenty of coconuts. I don’t see it lasting unless their tails are tied together.
Labels: arse-kicking, lying humans, monkey wedding, relationship surveys
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Cats will be cats
I’ve been watching a video clip of the keyboard cat, who has impressed a lot of people with his musical ability. I don’t deny the boy has talent, but pawing out tunes wearing sky-blue pyjamas does nothing for the dignity of his species.
In my circus days I was friendly with a feline camp follower called Catkins. I never mollycoddled him in human fashion and he respected me for it. “Catkins,” I said to him, “you scratch my back and I’ll stroke yours.” He was quick to agree to my offer, the claws of a cat being the perfect length and sharpness for grooming a gorilla’s fur. I returned the favour by stroking him with my toes while reading a magazine.
The ringmaster, being a visceral cat-hater, had no appreciation of Catkins and his grooming skills. He bought a goldfish and put it in a bowl next to the window of his trailer, supposedly so the fish could enjoy the view. I immediately suspected that his real motive was to taunt and frustrate any cats in the vicinity. He named the goldfish ‘Lockhart’ after a maestro of the circus ring he revered. I gave Catkins a few cautionary words after seeing him staring at it from a nearby gatepost.
“Catkins,” I said, “I know you want to eat the ringmaster’s goldfish. It is in your nature and cannot be helped. But please be aware that if you leave your paw-prints at the crime scene my efforts to protect you will be futile. As sure as night follows day, the ringmaster will hunt you down and kick your arse repeatedly. You have been warned.”
Catkins licked his paws and cleaned his whiskers as I spoke, which I interpreted as a display of insouciance. The opportunity for a snatch-and-grab raid occurred when the ringmaster stupidly left the skylight ajar during a day out with his wife. I happened to be passing nearby when Catkins jumped off the roof with the fish in his mouth. Peering through the window, I saw the goldfish bowl tipped over on its side and water dripping from the table it was situated on.
I decided to help Catkins cover his tracks. He may have been guilty in deed, but any lawyer will tell you that a cat is incapable of mens rea in matters of predation. After discreetly picking the lock of the trailer door, I mopped up the spillage and refilled the bowl. I then placed it in its original position, dropping in a plastic goldfish which I had bought from a pet shop. It sank to the bottom.
The ringmaster returned in the evening to find that his pet had been plasticated. “Some dirty thief has stolen Lockhart and replaced him with a plastic fish!” he bellowed. “This is an act of war! I bet that bastard Catkins is responsible!”
“Come off it, ringmaster!” I exclaimed. “Why would Catkins have put a plastic fish in the bowl? This was obviously a calculated insult delivered by someone who despises you, rather than the work of a feline felon. I suggest you interrogate the clowns forthwith.”
The ringmaster made walrus noises in his throat. “You’re right!” he growled. “My enemies are everywhere and snipe at me when my back is turned. If I kick the cat’s arse they’ll think they’re in the clear. I must behave with stealth and cunning.”
I left him to pursue his schemes, satisfied in the knowledge that I had saved a cat from a senseless act of retribution.
Labels: arse-kicking, cat, goldfish, ringmaster
Friday, October 09, 2009
Indian in-law ruling
I’m in two minds over the Indian supreme court’s decision to give a man’s mother the right to kick her daughter-in-law. As a former circus ape, I know that kicking humans in a fleshy area of the body can be a playful and even affectionate gesture. The countless clowns whose bottoms were thumped by my foot never bore me any malice. If it were possible for in-laws to kick each other in the right spirit, it would be a good way of cementing family bonds and toning up the buttocks.
The nagging doubt in my mind is whether the typical Indian mother-in-law is suitably disposed to place an affectionate foot on her daughter-in-law’s posterior. I fear that she who delivers the foot wallop may be motivated by the Mother-of-Oedipus complex rather than a spirit of friendly horseplay. This psychological disorder causes post-menopausal women to be insanely jealous of the maiden who has married their son.
“How dare this Jezebel steal the affection of my boy, who used to rest his head against my motherly bosom, and now prefers to put it between her pert sugar-plums!” she subconsciously thinks. “She'll regret her sluttish ways when she feels my foot on her backside!”
Of course, we shouldn’t be too judgemental about the older female, whose short-temper is often a product of biology. When an ageing female gorilla starts getting grumpy, the first thing we do is find her a gigolo. There’s usually a young male who’ll do it out of respect for his elders and a general eagerness for hairy poontang. It’s normally just the thing to soothe her festering grudges and squash the bee in her bonnet.
I’m sure there is no shortage of likely lads in India who would bend their backs in a worthy cause (and for a generous stipend). The fellow who played the leading role in Slumdog Millionaire looks to have the right manner about him. On second thoughts, I’d make the quiz master do it as a penance for his duplicity and arrogance.
When you think about it, Indian brides are the last humans on Earth who deserve a good kicking. It speaks volumes about their sweet and subservient nature that they agree to live with their in-laws and put up with the persecution that seems to be their lot in life. You couldn’t imagine women in the West doing that. Few of them agree to marry without a separate home and strictly-controlled visiting rights for their in-laws. The mother-in-law is dealt with mercilessly if she dares step out of line.
If Indian matriarchs want to kick someone, I suggest they make the derrière of Guy Laliberté the target of their animosity. I met the circus impresario in my performing days, but sadly never had the opportunity to victimise him in the ring. His latest exploit was to blast into orbit on a Soyuz rocket while wearing a clown’s red nose. I believe he has ambitions to land on the moon.
Is it technically feasible to kick a man’s arse on the lunar surface? The Apollo astronauts never tried it and I’m not sure you’d get the required leverage in a low gravity environment. If it is possible, I shall certainly bribe one of Laliberté’s travelling companions to boot him in the seat of the pants during his moon walk. With any luck it will put him back into orbit.
Labels: arse-kicking, Guy Laliberte, Indian supreme court, mother-in-law
