Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Butt surgery
A man in England has paid for his goldfish to have an operation. Not cosmetic surgery, I’m glad to say, but a procedure to relieve it of constipation. The vet managed to unblock the offending poop-duct, and the fish is now convalescing in a beaker of Lucozade. Animal lovers are praising the goldfish owner for spending a considerable sum to save a creature worth loose change, but I suspect that guilt was the motivating factor. Humans are renowned for giving their pets food unsuited to their digestive systems.
Back in my circus days, there was a clown who fed his parrot sausages and baked beans. When I questioned the suitability of this cuisine, he said “How would you like to live on a diet of bird seed and nuts?” There was no point answering such an asinine question. The parrot naturally suffered from wind, but that didn’t bother its owner, who taught it to say “Feeling farty!” before blowing one off. It gave you some warning, I suppose.
If you’ve been reading this post studiously, you will remember that I mentioned cosmetic surgery in the first paragraph. This was no flippant aside, because I have recently been thinking about disturbing news from Brazil. A former beauty queen called Andressa Urach is currently recovering from life-threatening complications arising from buttock enhancement surgery. She underwent the operation prior to participating in the Miss Bumbum pageant of 2012, in which she finished runner-up.
Do the tournament organisers have any responsibility for Miss Urach’s doleful condition? On the one hand, she’s an adult who did what she did of her own free will. But on the other hand, the impresario has a duty of care to his cast. I would be racked with guilt if any of my protégés injured themselves in their eagerness to please me. If these Bumbum events are to continue, they should introduce a rule requiring all the bumbums on display to be 100% natural, with immediate disqualification for any contestant with surgical modifications. It would be no different, in my view, from banning athletes who’ve taken performance-enhancing drugs.
When I mentioned this idea to my friend Smacker Ramrod, he gave it his unqualified blessing. The main attraction of such pageants, he said, was to fantasize about rubbing your face against the contestants’ fleshy parts. A pre-requisite for such pleasurable imaginings, he added, was that the flesh in question was composed of living tissue rather than an inorganic substance. He would rather rub his face on a natural wobbly woman, he said, than a female body made taut with gelatinous implants.
I would like to think that Smacker is speaking for the vast majority of red-blooded men. Whether or not this is so, his endorsement has encouraged me to write to the producers of the Bumbum pageant, advising them to adopt my rule. I will suggest that they call it “the Bananas rule”. I’m not a vain ape, but it would please me to leave a small mark on human history.
Labels: buttock enhancement surgery, constipation, goldfish, Miss Bumbum, parrots
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
