Monday, September 10, 2012
Health news
I note a spate of breakthroughs in the field of human healthcare. I say “human healthcare”, because you’d have to be a blithering idiot to believe that any of these therapies would work on another species. Homo Sapiens has evolved into an idiosyncratic beast, with its own peculiar diseases and remedies. That’s why vets and doctors are rival professions with their own qualifications and secret handshakes. Having seen both of them, I would say that the vet handshake is kinkier.
The first treatment to consider is clown therapy. Apparently, bringing clowns into hospital wards improves the morale of patients and gives their immune system a boost. I can well believe it. Laughter is a natural opiate which exercises all the right muscles. In my circus career, I raised the hilarity to an even higher level by kicking the clowns’ arses when they were performing. Whether this was good for the health of the audience is difficult to say. Most of them probably felt better, but a few may have suffered hernias or died from laughing too much. A classic case of swings and roundabouts.
The next theory to consider is that eating walnuts improves the health of a man’s sperm. There must be something in this. We apes have always been pro-nut, going to great lengths just to munch on a handful of them. They are surely more than capable of perking up a man’s jism. I am sceptical, however, about the feeble-textured walnut being the nut of choice. Groundnuts and almonds should make human spermatozoa swish their tails more vigorously.
The final treatment I wish to discuss follows conveniently from the last one. It has been postulated that women suffering from depression can cure themselves by taking a man’s semen. This can be done by having straight sex, but oral ingestion is of greater therapeutic value.
Reluctant though I am to pooh-pooh the work of scientists, this one is much harder to swallow. I suspect that a cabal of male researchers have got their heads together in the hope of getting some head. There are a lot of depressed women in the vicinity of medical research laboratories, desperately looking for something to give them a lift. Although going down on horny scientists is unlikely to harm them, one should never give patients false hope. And how will they feel when they find out they’ve been duped into fellating geeky men? It would surely be a terrible blow.
Many humans, of course, nonchalantly ignore the findings of medical science in attending to their physical well-being. I recall an old gypsy woman who cured her ailments by putting a clove of garlic up each nostril. Our local witchdoctor, peace be upon him, got rid of a boil on his behind by smearing it with chicken shit. There are many paths to wisdom in this world of ours, and the men in white coats don’t have all the answers. Having said that, they’re probably the best people to ask if you’re looking for someone to give you a blowjob.
Labels: clowns, fellatio, jism, semen
Friday, April 09, 2010
Peaches and Face Cream
Poor little Peachy Geldof! The sharp-tongued denizens of New York City have been calling her “tranny” and other unpleasant names. This discourtesy has been provoked by Peachy appearing in public with several layers of foundation on her face. For some mysterious reason she acquired a queer fancy to mimic Boy George, the hermaphrodite singer of the 1980s. This aptly illustrates the danger of fame at too young an age – lacking a sense of decorum, one is tempted to indulge in grotesque displays. Young female baboons often smack their own bottoms to make them appear more swollen and red. It never impresses the males.
If I were Peachy’s guardian, I would send her to a convent until the age of 27. Mother Superior would be given strict instructions not to tolerate her conceits and caprices. She would be permitted to read classics of English literature such as Pride and Prejudice and Little Women, and expected to give a seminar on each book. Any inane opinions would be ruthlessly censured and derided by the nuns. She would only be allowed to leave the convent in the company of four strong-willed sisters, armed with coshes and mace sprays. By such means, she would be prevented from engaging in frivolous behaviour that might otherwise haunt her to her dying day. In the fullness of time, she would appreciate what I had done for her:
“My dear Uncle Bananas!” she might say to me on her wedding day. “What a headstrong filly I was, and how I needed to be restrained for my own good! What chance that I would have wed the honourable Chad Cadwalader without my corrective sojourn in a convent? I owe my good fortune to your timely intervention.”
Let me emphasize, in passing, that I have no issue with humans wearing make-up. If one habitually exposes one’s bare skin to the elements, there is much to be said for a little plastering and varnishing to fill in the cracks and cover the blemishes. As a former circus ape, I fully appreciate its decorative function as well. Fellow performers of both genders used cosmetics to beautify themselves before appearing in the ring. It made the women look like dolls and the men look like Freddie Mercury. I never needed to wear the stuff myself, of course – a gorilla’s noble countenance needs no decoration.
"What about clowns?" I hear you ask. They are a special case. The purpose of their face paint is to make them look like clowns, which it never fails to do. It amuses me that some humans actually find them frightening. It seems they are scared of the mask-like quality of the make-up, which allows the clown to hide its true emotions from the observer. Beneath the painted-on goofy expression, they fear that the clown may be glaring at them malevolently and planning to assault them in their beds.
I must say such thoughts never entered my head. My job was simply to kick the clowns in the arse, which I did repeatedly with considerable zest. We gorillas never over-analyse the intentions of a potential adversary. Ignore the attitude but watch the movements, as we say in the jungle.
Labels: clowns, convent, make-up, Peaches Geldof, tranny
Monday, June 29, 2009
Dongfall
Kim Dong Il has put his youngest son in charge of his country’s spy agency. An unusually rash decision for the crafty little midget. His older sons are bound to feel resentful and are probably hatching a plot against the Dear Daddy as I write. My guess is they’ll go for the scorpion in the long johns. Humans have always used animals as assassins to cover their traces. One sting on the scrotum and Dongy’s chestnuts will be toast. A small target, admittedly, but scorpions can always sense the most vulnerable organ.
Anyone who’s watched Team America knows that Dongy is not a happy man. Living in North Korea probably has a lot to do with it. The clothes are drab and itchy, the nightlife is non-existent and the television is absolute crap. The boredom must be unbearable for a pint-sized despot with loads of cash and nothing to spend it on. Nor can he enjoy his position at the top, surrounded as he is by toadies, flunkies and assorted aunties. This is what happens when a man is forced to follow in his father’s footsteps rather than pursue his career of choice. A chubby-cheeked homunculus like Dongy would have been a natural clown, and it’s obvious from his antics that he wanted to be one.
Speaking of clowns, I recently received an email from Roly Bain, the Anglican priest who made a name for himself by acting the goat. I met Roly a long time ago after he watched my circus act. On seeing his funny little face, I immediately suggested he go to clown school, and he took my advice to heart. Every year I get a message from Roly asking me to visit him in England:
“Dearest GB,” he wrote, “I am the most successful comedy vicar in the world and I owe it all to you. How about doing a double act with me for the summer season?”
He’s a grateful little tyke as you can see. I should imagine he’d be even more grateful if I gave him a sound thrashing in front of his congregation. But I can’t fly across the globe every time a clown longs to feel my foot on his arse. Roly will have to make use of whatever local talent there is in England. Mick Jagger seems to have the lithe body movements required to perform with a clown. I’m sure he’d agree to take the stage with Roly for a share of the box office and a bottle of anti-wrinkle cream.
None of this clowning about will do anything about the political crisis in North Korea, of course. The recent nuclear explosions there are the sign of an internal power struggle. Intelligence sources indicate that the last one went off in an adventure playground, depriving the Dear Leader of his favourite recreation facility. There are obviously sinister forces at work trying to destabilise the regime by turning Dongy into a frustrated little imp. If I were President Obama, I’d send him some toys to play with pretty damn quick before he starts firing his rockets at San Francisco. The mark of a statesman is the ability to nip problems in the bud before they bite you in the arse.
Labels: clowns, Kim Jong Il, nuclear explosions, Roly Bain
Monday, September 01, 2008
The herd instinct
I recently heard some tourists speculating about the next celebrity-inspired fad. A futile endeavour in my view. You may as well try to predict where the next outbreak of genital cooties will occur (not necessarily in Paris Hilton’s briar patch, for those tempted to skewer a sitting duck). Remember when Britney Spears and Madonna kissed open-mouthed on stage? Who would have thought it would inspire girls to start smooching each other all over the place? There’s no telling what event will spark off copycat behaviour among the human masses.
Back in my circus days, I remember a clown over-balancing during a performance and falling out of the ring. In doing so, he accidentally massaged the enormous bosom of a middle-aged lady in a ringside seat – an honest mistake that could have happened to anyone. Most of the audience laughed like mad, but the woman was visibly shocked by the incident. Ashamed of his faux pas, the clown punished himself by bending over in the centre of the ring and slapping his buttocks with both hands. This deed provoked a tumultuous chorus of delighted shrieks from the kiddies in the crowd. They were bending over and spanking themselves throughout the rest of the show, and no doubt for many days afterwards at home. I suppose it saved their parents the bother of punishing them. Anyway, the moral of the story is that humans instinctively follow crazes from their infancy.
One activity I predict will not become the next big thing is nude barbecuing, a pastime promoted by madcap comedian Adam Sandler. There is something rather desperate about a celebrity self-consciously trying to get others to copy him. The human herd can sense it’s not the behaviour of a true pack leader and will assume the person doing it is a bit of a dick. Speaking of which, what sane man would allow his todger to dangle unprotected near the sizzling heat of an open-air stove? Risk-taking in pursuit of glory has its merits, but doing it in the cause of grilling a piece of meat is gratuitous bravado. Even Scott and Amundsen dressed to ensure that their willies would be the last bits to get frostbitten in the Antartic. I suspect that Mr Sandler has unresolved “penile issues” from childhood, which have resulted in a perverse desire to expose his member to the naked flame.
Of course, humans who follow the latest fashions and trends are often decidedly mediocre themselves. I avoided such types in the circus and sought out the society of misfits and eccentrics instead, much as Jesus did at the height of his own crowd-pulling fame. Whether you’re Portia de Rossi or a warthog, the important thing is to be comfortable in your own skin and develop a personal style that works for you. There was a tightrope walker with whom I was friendly who wore a beret when he wasn't performing – it made him something of a social pariah. When I decided to wear one myself it instantly became trendy and people started asking the high-wire man where they could buy one. At this point I went back to my sans chapeau condition.
Although few humans are lucky enough to have a gorilla to lend them moral support, I hope that the individualists among them will nevertheless persevere in the face of public derision. As Witch Hazel wisely said: “Different means heartache, different means pain, but I’d rather be different than be the same”.
Labels: Adam Sandler, Amundsen, clowns, Pufnstuf
