Tuesday, December 06, 2016
Woman marries dog
There are conflicting reports about the Argentinian woman who married her dog. Some say she did it because her fiancé jilted her; others say she did it because her fiancé cheated on her. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this romantic tale, but I would beg to differ. If her fiancé’s philandering was the issue, who is to say that her dog won’t cheat on her too? Although dogs are normally very loyal to their owners, their concept of fidelity doesn’t stop them from humping other dogs. The behaviour of stray mutts in the shanties of Brazzaville suggests that love and sex are wholly separate categories for the canine community. As they are for many humans, of course.
Now it seems that Miss Romina Pitton’s main motive in this affair, apart from confirming her affections for her pooch, was to avoid cancelling a wedding in the final stages of preparation. With so much money already lavished on cakes and frilly dresses and gay wedding planners who charge by the hour, she didn’t want to deprive herself and her guests of the extravaganza they’d been eagerly anticipating. All of which shows how the human wedding has evolved, over the centuries, into a ridiculous circus. A simple exchange of vows has become the excuse for an absurd and overblown show with a giant cast of extras.
Personally, I can’t think of anything more undignified than participating in a human-style wedding. When Gorilla Bananas makes a promise to someone, there is no need for witnesses. His word is his bond. Potential voyeurs are told politely to sod off before any oaths are uttered. My solemn covenants are a private affair, not a gala event that the world and his wife may attend. Listening to an impertinent speech by the best man would be out of the question too. Any “best man” who attempted to mock me in front of an audience would immediately find himself demoted to “worst baboon”.
This explains why I’ve always had a soft spot for humans who elope. When a clown ran off with the ringmaster’s daughter in my circus days, I was quick to offer help with getaway vehicles, safe houses and disguises. Obviously I didn’t provide all these services myself. Like Frank Sinatra, I had underworld contacts who were only too willing carry out favours on my behalf. Most things can be arranged if you know the right people.
You may think that eloping has gone out of fashion and doesn’t happen anymore, but I have a suspicion that a big one is in the offing. Prince Harry seems to be very besotted with his latest girlfriend, to the extent that he’s issued a statement to the press, telling them to back off. I don’t think he’d want to expose her to the media scrutiny that a royal wedding would generate. If he and his would-be-bride are interested, I have a nice little hut in the Congo where they could consummate their nuptials in peace.
Labels: marriage, Prince Harry, weddings
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Wedding planner
Perhaps I’m not paying sufficient attention, but I can’t seem to recall any show business weddings happening for a long time. Maybe the A-list crowd have finally realised that turning your wedding into a gala event makes you look like a complete ass when you file for divorce six months later. George Clooney did make a big hoo-hah about his marriage to Ms What’s-Her-Name, but she was a high-flying lawyer rather than a starlet. A man who marries a lawyer knows he will be subjected to a serious pussy-whipping if the marriage fails, so he may as well burn his bridges and go in with all guns blazing.
You don’t have to be a celebrity to have marital problems, of course. Indeed, the problems often arise before the marriage begins. I was bemused to read a news report about a German man who proposed to his girlfriend when he was drunk, at 4.30am in the morning. After sleeping off his hangover, he knew he’d popped the question, but couldn’t remember what her answer had been. A peculiar stalemate then arose when his girlfriend refused to tell him. In his desperation, the man placed an advertisement in a newspaper asking for eyewitnesses to the event. It included the following statement:
"Due to a large consumption of alcohol, I cannot remember her answer and she's remaining silent. Who saw the proposal and can give me relevant clues?"
Call me an innocent ape, but does a woman who’s been asked to repeat her answer to a marriage proposal normally clam up in this way? I admit it can be mildly irritating to have to say the same thing twice, but she must have known her boyfriend was pissed on the first occasion. There’s no point getting into a huff if someone can’t remember something. Back in my circus days, a clown forgot what he was supposed to do in a comedy routine we were rehearsing. I told him to bend over and kicked his arse. Problem solved.
If you ask me, the essential prerequisite for human marriages is the management of expectations. If a couple enter the matrimonial contract expecting it to resemble the ending of a Doris Day movie, they are bound to be disappointed. Far better to think they’ve been sentenced to a life term with hard labour and no parole. No one can deny that most marriages are easier to bear than prison. The food is better, the bed is more comfortable, you have regular vacations and sex if you’re lucky. Men who complain about their marriages should thank their lucky stars they aren’t residing in a high-security gaol, with a beefy looking fellow with tattoos on his arms as their roommate.
Truly, we earth-dwelling creatures have much to be grateful for – blue skies, sandy beaches, forests full of trees to climb, Doris Day movies to watch. Having a girlfriend who won’t tell you whether she accepted your marriage proposal is a minor inconvenience by comparison. Just say “whatever” and get on with your life.
Labels: Doris Day, George Clooney, Germans, marriage, marriage proposal
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
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Gaga gets hitched
So Lady Gaga is getting married. I don’t know anything about her fiancé, but I predict the marriage will fail if he possesses an iota of machismo. The merest morsel of manly pride must be crushed like a pomegranate seed if he’s going to succeed as Gaga’s official bed-warmer. That’s the way it has to be when the queen bee elopes with a drone. He should get into the habit of thinking and acting like a lesbian in a man’s body. If he does that, he might yet make a good fist of it.
Gaga herself is as happy as a lark, fluttering around the globe with a gooey smile on her face, like a fairy princess whose frog has just turned into a prince. When Taylor Swift tweeted a few wistful words about Gaga’s enviable predicament, the bride-to-be reassured her that “your prince charming will come”. She must be suffering from the giddy vapours to write such drivel.
Now I don’t deny there are real-life examples of a successful marriage between a show-business queen and a beta male. Some time ago I discussed the nuptials of Kate Winslet, who had pledged her troth to an oafish-looking swain called Ned Rocknroll. If anything he was an omega male, yet Kate recently praised him as the perfect husband:
“I have a wonderful man in my life who is so incredibly supportive that makes it possible for me to have those experiences,” she said.
The “experiences” she refers to were related to her movie career rather than any kind of kerfuffle in the marital bed. Be that as it may, the couple had their first child on 7th December 2013, a son whom they named “Bear Blaze”. No boy should have a father whose name is sillier than his own.
Maybe the secret of their blissful union is that everyone knows their place. Ned is so far down the pecking order that he doesn’t bother trying to compete with Kate, meekly accepting his role as concubine and comic sidekick. One can imagine him happily strumming his electric guitar in the playroom while Kate is in the lounge, discussing her next film with the moguls of Hollywood. It could actually be a similar type of relationship to the one Paris Hilton had with her pet chimpanzee.
Let’s hope Miley Cyrus learns from Kate’s experience. Her romance with Patrick Swarzenegger is currently on the rocks because he was photographed canoodling with a floozy. The blighter is now begging Miley to forgive him, but the episode should have taught her that he’ll never be a suitable consort. His famous name has given him the delusion that he’s someone of note, rather than a superficial young rake of no distinction whatever. He’ll constantly be trying to compete for the limelight if Miley accepts his suit.
Will another Ned Rocknroll come along to give Miley the unconditional service and succour she requires? If not, she may have to marry her butler.
Labels: giddy vapours, Kate Winslet, Lady Gaga, marriage, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Nuptial news
"She brings a bright light to everything she is involved in and I am so delighted at her happy news," said the chief executive.
The danger for George is that she reserves her smiley face for work while lashing out like a scorpion at home. The woman who must be courteous and congenial in her professional life is all the more likely to box her husband’s ears.
Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I now feel sorry for Clooney’s ex-girlfriends, who were led to believe that George would never marry because of “commitment issues” or whatever. Now they know the truth: he thought they were too stupid to be his wife. These spurned spinsters must be feeling like airheads and bimbos, so I’ve sent an email to my mentor Dr Whipsnade, suggesting that he holds a summer school for them. Attending the good doctor’s seminars in philosophy, gastronomy and coquettery should help to restore their intellectual self-confidence.
Clooney’s fiancé comes from a small, middle-eastern sect called the Druze, who normally only marry within their community. George has reacted furiously to media reports that his prospective mother-in-law disapproves of the marriage on religious grounds:
“It’s a completely fabricated story!” he wailed, and went on to accuse the offending newspaper of “inciting violence” by “exploiting religious differences where none exist”.
The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. A statement from Mother Alamuddin herself would have scotched the rumour more conclusively, but I suppose the cat got her tongue.
It’s not the end of the world if George’s mother-in-law doesn’t approve of him anyway. He’ll be in the same boat as millions of other men, who manage to cope with the problem without provoking a deadly blood feud. If I were George, I’d try buttering her up with flattery and expensive gifts. If that didn’t work, I’d tell her to fly off on her broomstick. He shouldn’t say that if she really is a witch, of course. Many might be amused to see Clooney turned into a frog, but it would limit his acting roles to nature documentaries and romantic comedies with Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Perhaps George should have hired a committee of “relationship experts” to find him a bride. This is the concept behind a new reality TV show, where marriages are arranged for couples who agree not to see each other until their wedding day.
As a gorilla, I have a lot of admiration for this idea, but there is one fatal flaw: it is impossible to be sure that Human A will be sexually attracted to Human B before they have actually met. This has already led to one unlucky candidate feeling terribly let down after getting a husband she didn’t fancy. Is there a solution? I would allow them to sniff each other’s underwear before pairing them off.
Labels: arranged marriages, George Clooney, marriage, mothers-in-law
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The ballsy man syndrome
“Daddy, what are those grapefruit doing in the sack between your legs?”
Not an easy one to answer if you’re trying to set an example of modest self-deprecation to the younger generation.
Big-balled men can easily avoid such questions by wearing baggy pants, but few of them have the patience to look after children. Back in my circus days, there was a brawny Puerto Rican who performed stunts on horses. His name was Miguel de Bolas and his nut-sack was visibly well-packed. I once spit out a cherry stone in his direction and it hit him between the eyes, which prompted him to say:
“Hey buddy, I fock your modder in de ass!”
This was one of his favourite salutations.
“A wise man does not put his appendage in places he cannot extract it from,” I replied aphoristically.
He was not a wise man, of course. Most of his evenings were spent in taverns, looking for women to bewilder and men to insult. After one of these excursions, he surfaced next morning with bruises on his face. When the ringmaster asked him what had happened, Miguel said “You should a seen de udder guy.”
Suspecting that his macho behaviour was related to his oversized gonads, the circus doctor gave him female sex hormones, telling him that the pills would keep his skin healthy. We knew the treatment was working when he praised Rock Hudson:
“Dat guy was better-lookin' den der womans he kissed,” said Miguel, after watching a re-run of McMillan and Wife.
You don’t say things like that about Rock Hudson unless the male and female aspects of your personality are in balance.
Miguel’s case history makes me wonder what happens to virile men when they grow old. Empirical evidence on this question is provided by a 74-year-old Brazilian man who is planning to marry a goat. Aparecido Castaldo has fathered eight children from four different wives, so we can reasonably surmise that his testicles have served him well and are probably in rude heath as we speak. However, Senor Castaldo has no intention of consummating his nuptials with the lovely Carmelita, who ate her first wedding dress and will be provided with another. He explains his intentions thus:
“Whenever someone says I am doing something wrong, I reply the goat does not speak, ask for money to go shopping, and doesn’t get pregnant – and she can’t talk.”
Fascinating that the qualities he most admires in his fiancé are things that she doesn’t do rather than does. He isn’t concerned that she won’t be able to make him a cup of tea, but maybe none of his previous wives did that either. The moral of the story seems to be that a former stud will fall in love with anyone who refrains from nagging him and eats all the leftovers.
Labels: bestiality, big balls, marriage, parenting
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Third time unlucky?
Call me a finicky ape, but I don’t like the look of Kate Winslet’s new husband. He reminds me of a baboon I once thrashed for making indecent suggestions to my females. Before you accuse me of being a bully, I gave that baboon a good hiding out of kindness. Had I not done so, my females would have taken the law into their own hands and crushed his testicles like almonds.
Now, back to Kate’s husband: he does not particularly resemble a baboon; nor, to my knowledge, are his gonads in danger of being pulverised. But there is something baboonish about the expression on his face. That gawping countenance suggests he’s easily distracted and lacks self-control. It makes me wonder whether he was ogling the bridesmaids when he uttered his marriage vows.
Perhaps Kate considered him a worthy suitor because he’s a nephew of Richard Branson, the British entrepreneur. If so, she ignored some fairly clear warning signs, the most obvious one being that he’d changed his name to Ned RocknRoll. What kind of arsehead would adopt such a name? My guess is that his brain stopped developing at the age of 15 and he still dreams of being the lead singer in a pop group. He no doubt fantasizes about being chased by delirious groupies, eager to make a lollipop of his todger.
But why I should care about the character of Kate’s latest husband? The manager of the safari camp made this point when I brought up the subject with him:
“You’re not her Hairy Godfather!” he jeered.
“We gorillas are avuncular,” I replied. “I don’t have to wait until she’s my bosom buddy before showing concern.”
“If Kate’s bosom and me were buddies, that joker she married would be sleeping on the couch!” quipped the manager.
An idle boast, to be sure, but I can’t fault his appreciation of Kate’s jahoobies. I myself have often expressed admiration for her luscious figure, so ideally suited to the task of making babies. She already has two children sired by different fathers, a clever reproductive strategy of putting each egg in a different soufflé. My worry is that soufflé No.3 will turn out to be a raspberry fool.
Now that she’s married the blighter one must wish her well, of course. Maybe she’ll train him like a dog, taking him for walks and giving him treats when he obeys her commands. Ned is actually the perfect name for a dim-witted mutt who isn’t sure where to bury his bone. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his mistress knows all the best hiding places.
As luck would have it, a new gadget has been invented for humans taking the canine path. It is a tail that wags to the pulse of the wearer when attached to his or her rump. This device could allow Kate to monitor her husband’s moods, and put him on a leash when the neighbourhood bitches were in heat. In this day and age, a happy marriage requires investment in the latest technology.
Labels: dog training, jahoobies, Kate Winslet, marriage, Tailly
Friday, November 23, 2012
Tongue penance
I was shocked to hear news of an Indian man who cut off his tongue in a futile attempt to persuade his wife to come back home. It seems he had abused her with insults so vile that she packed her bags and left with their young child. He then tried to make amends by removing the offensive organ, but his wife has yet to respond to his gesture of remorse. Let’s hope she does something more dignified than clapping her hands and dancing a jig.
I have to admit that I’ve never seen a living creature cut off its own tongue. It must be the damnedest thing. Can you imagine the willpower and dexterity required to keep your tongue stuck out while attempting to sever it with a sharp implement? Someone should invent a miniature guillotine that could slice it off cleanly without all the yanking and hacking of a manual excision.
As an act of atonement, what he did was worthless. There’s no point blaming your tongue for the sins of your mind. His wife must be less likely than ever to make up with him now. I don’t suppose they were into French kissing and oral sex in a big way, but there are other aggravations for a woman with a tongueless husband. Having to answer all the phone-calls and haggle with street vendors might test her patience. And interrogating her husband about his activities would be impossible unless they both learned sign language.
I hope this will be a lesson to all men who are abandoned by their wives for engaging in malicious banter. Amputating your tongue won’t win her back. If you want to show contrition, put on a gimp costume with a ball-gag and give your wife the key. Nothing says sorry like putting your fate in the hands of the person you offended.
As one marriage ends prematurely, another one continues beyond the grave. I refer to the Serbian woman who gave instructions for a likeness of her vagina to be carved on her grave to discourage her husband from pursuing other women. Before dismissing her as a crazy old bat, have a look at the engraving on her headstone (picture below). If it’s an accurate depiction, she had a remarkably handsome vulva with pleasing floral symmetry. I doubt her husband will find another woman with a coochie so cute.
The problem, of course, is that looks aren’t everything where sexual organs are concerned. No man ever satisfied his urges by admiring a beautiful vagina. This Serbian widower may have fond memories of his wife’s snatch, but when push comes to shove he’ll want something more inviting than an etching on a tombstone. Visiting the grave will just make him yearn for the real thing.
Is he worried that his wife will haunt him, as happened to the butcher in Fiddler on the Roof? He shouldn’t be. Ghosts can’t do a thing when a man and woman are horizontal. They just float around frustratedly, looking for something to blow on.
Labels: ghost, India, jealousy, marriage, tongue-cutting, vulva
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Love Butt
A story from Miami is making me happy and sad at the same time, which is quite an achievement for an everyday human tale of yearning and fulfilment. I don’t usually experience such a complex mix of emotions unless mating elephants are involved.
It concerns a 43-year-old divorcee called Jenny Fizgerald, who in spite of her name is a sultry, olive-skinned Latina (see picture). Believing that her flat backside was discouraging potential suitors, Jenny forked out 10,000 dollars for buttock-reshaping surgery, which gave her a delectably peachy rump, very ripe for the plucking (see picture). Shortly afterwards, she got engaged to a 42-year-old hombre called Carlos, who has the face of a compulsive booty-ogler.
“I know my new bum made this happen!” said Jenny delightedly. “And I know Carlos loves it too – he’s always staring.”
Is that all he does? Perhaps Jenny’s ladylike modesty prevented her from mentioning more tactile forms of appreciation.
"Her bottom is why I noticed her in the first place,” agreed Carlos. “Without it we might never have spoken."
He's got a point. A fabulous arse is a great ice-breaker. Whenever my old friend Smacker Ramrod saw an attractive woman at a party, he used to circumnavigate her discreetly before attempting to make conversation. A clear mental picture of her posterior helped him find the right words and focus on the task at hand. Some may call such behaviour sexist, but let us acknowledge a simple truth: most women would rather have their bottom admired than listen to a lot of guff about the price of oil or the G-12 summit. I’m sure that’s even true of female politicians like Hilldog and Frau Merkel.
So why did this story make me feel happy? I should hope it’s obvious. Gorilla Bananas cares about his human cousins and wants them to achieve their dreams. It tickles the cockles of my heart that Jenny has transformed her life by acquiring a pert behind.
“I finally feel great and sexy about myself,” she said.
I bet she does. Full marks to Jenny for realising that it’s never too late to boost your self-esteem by improving the texture of your tush. It thrills me that her delectable derrière solicited a marriage proposal from a man she deemed worthy of the honour. And although I’m not 100% certain about Carlos, I can’t fault his taste in tail, or deny the happiness his regard for the rear has brought. In the words of the Indian chief whose name I forget, my heart soars like a hawk!
And yet there is also sadness.
As a gorilla who lives in the wild, nestling snugly in the bosom of Mother Nature, I can’t condone artificially enhancing the bottom by cutting and sucking and pumping it. If Jenny had told me about her plans for cosmetic surgery, I would have invited her to stay with my tribe for a couple of months. There is no better way of getting your butt in shape than living like a gorilla – our tree-climbing, kick-dancing, flesh-massaging lifestyle goes hand-in-hand with a rock-solid rump. Some of us had buns of steel before steel was invented.
Labels: arse, bottom, marriage, rump, tush
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Another girl
I don’t feel snubbed because Paul McCartney didn’t invite me to his wedding. Paul knows full well that we gorillas find such occasions arse-scratchingly tedious, and didn’t want to put me in the awkward position of having to decline. The only wedding I’ve ever attended was that of my circus comrade, Smacker Ramrod, who needed a minder to stop his old school chums from de-bagging him at the reception. After the ceremony, his blushing bride combed the confetti out of my fur. A male gorilla will agree to most things after he’s been groomed by a female.
Now that Paul is happily hitched, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you about the counselling I gave him after his divorce from Heather “Moneybags” Mills.
“I dunno, GB,” he mused. “If only we could do things as simply as you gorillas.”
“Don’t be an ass, Paul, you belong to a different species,” I replied. “Just make sure the next one you marry has plenty of cash, so if it doesn’t work out you’ll agree to call it quits. And pick a woman who’s above child-bearing age. You’ve already sired a decent brood, and don’t want another baby selfishly hogging your wife’s udders.”
The new Lady McCartney could not have fulfilled my specifications more perfectly if I had picked her myself. Ms Nancy Shevell, aged 51, is the heiress of a road haulage empire. She is attractive; she is demure; her eyes do not have daggers in them. In short, she is the kind of woman who wouldn’t throw her hairdryer at you for saying her new hairstyle made her look like a yeti.
When I discussed Paul’s nuptials with the manager of the safari camp, he affected a sceptical tone:
“This Nancy woman sounds a bit bland to me,” he said. “Some men prefer a hot-headed wife who curses and bites before you pin her to the bed.”
“You’re confusing humans with apes,” I replied. “A man married to a dragon-lady can only fantasize about bed-pinning scenarios. Attempting such a manoeuvre in real life would most likely provoke a stiletto in the groin.”
Is it possible for a man to find happiness in the arms of a bad-tempered woman? Count Dracula’s wives were obviously crazy bitches from hell, yet they seemed quite devoted to their sinister and remorseless husband. They also got on tolerably well with each other, which doesn’t always happen in polygamous situations.
I would guess that the cornerstone of their relationship was the total absence of jealously. The Count was perfectly free to pursue any virgins her fancied, even if it meant going on extended vacations with limited opportunities for correspondence. And his feral spouses didn’t hesitate to sink their fangs into any stray man-flesh that wandered into the castle grounds. The Count, indeed, often played the pander to their grisly debaucheries.
Clearly there’s a lot wrong with vampires and their lifestyle wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. But you have to admire the mature way they dealt with their relationship issues.
Labels: bed-pinning scenarios, marriage, Paul McCartney, vampires
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, July 17, 2009
Crime of passion
News arrives of a man who is marrying a woman who stabbed him. He seems to be a pretty shrewd judge of character. When a female of the same species tries to kill you, she either loves you or hates you (unless you are a spider, when she’s just hungry). The problem for the male is deciding who is which and which is who. In this case, the man seems to have got it right. He and the woman were lovers before she caught him showing an old injury to her best friend, which required him to drop his pants. Misunderstanding what was going on, his jealous sweetheart bayoneted him from behind with a sharp instrument. She fortunately missed his vital organs and he made a full recovery.
You’ve got to respect a man who forgives his girlfriend for smiting him hip and thigh. Heaven knows why he wanted to expose a previous wound to another woman. Let’s hope he can keep his newest one to himself. We gorillas pick up a fair number of scrapes and scratches in the course of our jungle activities, but have no wish to draw attention to them unless we are seeking medical attention. Female gorillas simply aren’t interested in how many scars you’ve got beneath the fur.
I sincerely hope the man won’t regret his decision. To be on the safe side, I’d advise him to put on an army flak jacket before getting into the marital bed. The woman is clearly madly in love with him, but she may have unresolved issues floating around in her subconscious. Just one flashback of the pants-dropping incident might re-ignite old animosities and prompt her to reach for the scissors on the bedside table. Even so, the judge was surely right not to send her to prison. She obviously poses no danger to anyone but her fiancé, and he seems quite happy to take his chances.
“I don’t think this would ever happen again,” was his confident assertion after she walked free with a suspended gaol sentence.
His optimism does him credit, but he may have underestimated the stresses and strains that occur in the marriages of today. Even if he’s learned his lesson about exposing himself to other women, his future wife will still have to put up with his annoying habits, whether they be snoring, wheezing or the hawking of phlegm. The continual drip-feed of such provocations might cause her to snap no less violently than she did when she caught him with his pants down.
What the woman really needs is a way of releasing her pent-up anger regularly, so the pressure doesn’t build up until she erupts like a volcano. Smacking him on the head with a rolling pin is the traditional method, but his head is already a funny shape and she might not know when to stop. I would favour lending her an electric cattle prod once a week, so she can get it out of her system without maiming the man or exerting herself unduly. It won’t be much fun for her spouse, but it beats getting stabbed.
Labels: Cattle-prod, jealously, marriage, rolling pin
