Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A voluptuous English woman at the safari guesthouse reveals the secret of her sex appeal.
“It all about balance, GB.” she explains. “I’ve got a huge arse, but it doesn’t matter because my boobs are equally enormous. My top and bottom parts balance each other out and make my waist look smaller.”
I nod in agreement.
“Yes, you’ve got to look at body shape in a holistic way,” I say. “Look at elephants. Their arses are absolutely massive but you never hear them complaining about it. There’s nothing wrong with a big behind if the rest of the body is in good proportion. I’m glad you’re not one of those women who hate their bums.”
“If I did hate my bum I’d ask you to spank it for me!” she says saucily.
“And I would be glad to oblige,” I reply. “However given that my paw would only cover a small portion of your hindquarters, the punishment inflicted may be slight.”
“On the contrary, GB, my naughty bottom would be chastened by your long-armed follow through!” she insists.
I thank her for the compliment and study the object in question as she saunters off. It wobbles a certain amount, and yet I wouldn’t change a morsel of it. There is something very engaging about a woman who is comfortable in her own body. As she approaches the end of her stay, I begin to harbour squalid thoughts of giving her juicy buns a good squeeze. It is fortunate that I possess a high degree of self-discipline in such matters.
Anyway, this full-bottomed female reminds me of a fortune teller I met in my circus days. He claimed he could foretell a person’s fate by examining their buttocks.
“Every crease, crevice and crater is imbued with prognosticative significance!” he declared grandly. “I have just examined the ringmaster and he has a cleft rump!”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone has a vertical cleft, my dear ape, but few are privileged to have a horizontal one as well. In essence, there were four buttocks rather than two. The vulgar members of my profession call it the ‘hot cross bum’.”
“Well I never!” I exclaimed, amused at the ringmaster’s peculiar deformity. “Whatever does it mean?”
“The number four is generally thought to be unlucky in China, but in some dialects it sounds like ‘get fortune’. So the ringmaster is probably destined to have bad luck, with an outside chance of acquiring great riches.”
“That should keep him on tenterhooks,” I said. “However his only connection with China is his weekly noodle-fest at the Chu Chin Chow.”
“The wisdom of the Yellow Emperor is universal.” explained the rump-reader. “Would you like a quick appraisal on the house?”
“If it’s on the house, why not?” I replied, turning round and bending over.
“Hmm,” he mused. “Based on the thick covering of hair, I would say that you were a gorilla. Am I close?”
“Spot on!” I confirmed. “And to think I was sceptical about your powers!…phut… Oh I say, I’m sorry! It must have been the lentils I ate for lunch!”
“Fresh air, fresh air!” he gasped, staggering away. “Damn you, Bananas, open the door! You poisonous effusion is killing me!”
He survived to read more rumps, but was careful to inquire after his subject’s recent diet before future examinations.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Meat for sex
Female chimpanzees will let you mount them if you feed them fresh meat. We jungle-dwellers have known this for ages, but it seems that human zoologists have only just twigged. One day they’ll discover something that hasn’t been going on since the last Ice Age. Media pundits have latched onto this revelation, believing it has far-reaching implications for homo sapiens. Men on the pull will doubtless soon be telling women about their meat-packed freezer compartments. They should note, however, that chimps do a lot of things that only work for chimps. Scratching your arse is a way of showing respect in their society.
The only man I know who has used meat as a seduction tool is Trevor Bumphries-Maddocks, the mercurial Welsh actor. He used to take supermarket checkout girls in Bridgend to Taffy Edwards’ Economy Steakhouse (motto: fresh meat from four-legged animals). He claims the food there “brought out the vixen in them”, which was apparently a euphemism for something sexual. The Welsh, however, are a law unto themselves in most respects. I doubt that meat consumption does anything to enhance the libido of women who prefer to couple in a horizontal position.
You certainly won’t get a female gorilla into bed by offering her meat. As well as being vegetarian, they are almost impossible to tempt with bribes. Male gorillas who beg or cajole them for sex are treated like bacteria. The safest method of having your way with them is to wait until they’re in season and flex your pecs suggestively. They’ll unusually initiate the mating sequence without any prompting. Trying to mount them in other circumstances is a dangerous game. Do anything they don’t like and they’ll squash your testicles like berries.
So what does Gorilla Bananas do if he’s feeling horny and none of his females has an engorged vulva? “He has a hand party!” I hear you cry. Not a bit of it! There is one infallible method of getting my ladies in the mood. In a word, it’s humour. When female gorillas start guffawing you can do whatever you want with them. It exercises the same muscles used in the sexual act and destroys their capacity to resist. As they lie on the ground cackling, it is the easiest thing in the world to turn them over and slip one in. I should emphasize that they don’t seem to mind this at all – indeed, I’m not actually sure they notice.
You must be wondering what I do to make them laugh. Do I tickle their sense of irony with my dry wit? Do I blow enormous raspberries and hop about like a frog? Do I tell them jokes about actresses and baboons? No, it’s a lot more straightforward that that. There is nothing funnier to a female gorilla than an outrageously camp gay man. The screaming queen, or a skilled impersonation of one, never fails to crack them up. So after putting on a flowery hat and red lipstick, I address them in the voice of the late John Inman, ejaculating utterances such as:
“Ooh, there’s never a man around when you need one!”
Not very dignified, I’ll admit, but far sillier things have been said in the hope of getting females to spread their legs. If it works, don’t knock it.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Life on the Edge
A diver has described his long duel of death with a hungry tiger shark.
“I speared it in the gills and even tried to drown it, but it still wouldn’t die,” said Craig Clasen.
He tried to drown it? Didn’t he know that sharks can breathe underwater? I suppose he must have been playing hooky during that biology class. He also fired his spear gun at the wrong place. Shoot a shark in the gills and it just gets angry – to kill it instantly you’ve got to shoot it in the anus.
After finally putting a knife through its skull, he claims he was full of remorse. That didn’t discourage him from slicing a hunk of meat off the carcass to make shark sandwiches for his next maritime adventure.
“Having made a meal of killing it, I made a meal of its flesh,” he would have said if he’d been more witty.
Remorseful or not, our harpoon hero will surely remember his epic victory over Jaws Junior as one of the highlights of his career. There’s nothing like danger to make the pulse race and the brain switch to record. The boxer who floored Mike Tyson for the first time must have re-lived that moment a thousand times, quite possibly while servicing his missus. Emerging unharmed and victorious from a life-threatening challenge produces a feeling of elation. I once saw a photo of a Masai hunting party after killing a full-maned lion. They looked elated.
Can pacifists get the same feeling without actually killing anything? The happiest humans I ever saw in my circus days were the high wire performers. Mad as baboons, but quite literally high on life. After walking the tightrope, their faces glowed like light bulbs. I asked one of them whether he felt any fear when practising his trade. He said that accomplished tightrope walkers believe they have conquered gravity and can float on air. I asked him if he had any advice for beginners. He said they should write a will leaving their money to the High Wire Artists’ Benevolent Fund. He obviously wasn’t as crazy as he looked.
The drawback of dangerous pastimes is the risk of a violent death, leaving a nasty mess for people to clean up. But that’s usually a better way to go than dying from a disease. George Orwell said that getting shot in the neck in Spain was a lot more fun than consumption. The manager of the safari camp has asked one of the park rangers to shoot him like a rabid dog if he ever contracts owl flu. He thinks it would be preferable to getting the hoots and expiring with a constipated stare on his face.
So should you take up an extreme sport? On balance, I would advise against it. Humans who feel euphoric after a parachute jump are not really euphoric – they just think they are. The brain is basically a penis in the skull which releases a lot of endorphins when it’s stimulated in the right way. The secret of a contented life is to feel pleasure without doing anything pleasurable. As Master Kan said to Grasshopper, “When you can walk its length and leave no trace, you will have learned.”
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
There is no bigger imbecile than the football referee. The latest moral outrage perpetrated by one of these nincompoops was to caution a player for breaking wind. Someone should teach these card-waving clowns the ABC of human flatulence. Men, unlike apes, cannot conjure up farts at will (although quite a few have mastered the art of sneaking them out inaudibly). The idea that a footballer deliberately tooted his arse-trumpet to distract an opponent is absurd. Not even one of the beer-bellied yokels who play for Burridge United would be capable of that.
I am sorry to say that the vulgar sport of football continues to attract followers in Africa. Even women, who ought to know better, were among the spectators at a recent match in the Congo. Their ululating and hip-wiggling goaded the players into ever more bodacious acts of ball juggling. The one good thing about the African game is that the referee is always bribed by the hosts. This allows the match to proceed in an orderly fashion with very little of the swearing and gesticulating than bedevils the sport in England. If everyone expects the ref to be biased, no one is disappointed by his decisions. It is regarded as a legitimate part of home advantage.
Now you’re probably thinking that Gorilla Bananas spends a lot of time talking to people about farts. I certainly know more about them than Professor ‘Whoopee’ Cox of Salford University, who thinks he’s an expert in the field because he owns a cushion that makes six different varieties of lavatory noise. Yet we gorillas have no need to flaunt our knowledge of digestive gases, gained through patient years of guffing from a diet rich in fruit and vegetables. I never mention the subject at the safari guesthouse unless our visitors first bring it up, in which case I’m happy to deal with their queries and problems.
I was briefly lost for words, however, when a cross-eyed man with dandruff asked me if my females were any good at queefing. I pursed my lips and scratched my nipples before answering.
“The coochie of a female gorilla is as tight as a drum,” I said. “No air will come out unless you first put some in.”
“Do you think they’d let me have a go with a bicycle pump?” he asked.
“You’re welcome to try,” I said. “But I couldn’t guarantee that you’d leave the jungle with both testicles intact.”
He decided, on reflection, to experiment with his sex doll instead.
You’d be amazed at the number of e-mails I get from men with bizarre fantasies involving female gorillas. A lot of them complain that women aren’t able to squeeze them as tightly as they want.
“Female gorillas are moody beasts,” I explain. “If you ask them to squeeze you they might hang you upside down and watch you squirm. First try your luck with female body-builders.”
Women with bodies like the young Arnold Schwarzenegger (give or take a penis) should be capable of giving them what they crave. The fly in the ointment is that most of these ladies probably want to be dominated in bed, like any normal woman. Whether they're humans or apes, getting female primates to do what you want is always a challenge.
Friday, April 10, 2009
An invitation from Oxford
Dr Whipsnade’s studious nephew has invited me to speak at the Oxford Union. At his suggestion, the committee have agreed to a debate on the following motion:
This house believes that apes have human rights
He wants me to propose the motion and has found a zoologist called Professor Fitzgibbon to second it – I believe he is human in spite of his name. Much as I hate to disappoint the extended family of my benefactor, I will have to decline. For one thing, I’m not actually sure I agree with the proposition. Apes do indeed have rights, but not necessarily human ones. Our value system has a number of important differences with that of our upright cousins. Where in the Rights of Man would you find anything about thrashing cheeky baboons or debagging nosey wildlife photographers? There are many rights in common, of course, but I don’t see why we should have to level down.
The other problem with these contests is that they are rarely decided by force of argument. Back in my circus days, I agreed to participate in a debate weighing the merits of the following highly dubious proposition:
The promiscuous man is a gorilla shaved of hair
Naturally I argued against the motion, which is pretty disparaging to gorillas when you consider it. I don’t know why humans have to bring us into their petty squabbles. If you must insult each other, point out your faults rather than making bogus comparisons with your primate cousins. These gratuitous references are deeply resented in the jungle.
Arguing in favour of the motion was an irritable young lady who obviously wasn’t keen on promiscuous men. She mentioned an occasion when a lecherous co-worker had indecently propositioned her after she had unwisely agreed to share a taxi with him.
“When we stopped outside my flat he put his hand on my knee and asked me how I liked my eggs!” she huffed in righteous indignation.
“You should have said 'unfertilised'!” I declared.
The women in the audience booed and hissed me, thinking that I’d made light of a serious incident. Yet had she uttered that one-word riposte in the voice of a petulant Joan Collins, the frisky fellow bothering her would have surely been thoroughly de-frisked. I should imagine the lead in his pencil would have gone from 4H to 3B in the blink of an eye. Such nuances, however, were lost on these angry females. All my subsequent attempts to mollify them proved futile, even though what happened in the taxi cab bore no resemblance whatever to the conduct of male gorillas. As far as they were concerned, I was a big hairy sexist ape.
It is possible, of course, that the students of Oxford University would give me a fairer hearing. Many of the females in the audience would be recently deflowered virgins, with the dreamy, slightly embarrassed eyes that distinguish such damsels. That ought to make them more receptive to my apish repartee. But any such enticement would be nullified by the inevitable presence of their smug, conceited boyfriends. Gorilla Bananas will not take his case to that overrated arena.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Britney and Mel
Isn’t it wonderful to see Britney Spears back to her old self ? It warms the cockles of my groin to view pictures of her squatting on stage in a ring-mistress costume. I wish I could have been there to listen to her miming to her greatest hits. The audience supposedly lapped it up like cream from a freshly-milked cow.
As a former circus ape, I have to point out that calling her act “The Circus” wasn’t technically correct. You simply can’t have a proper circus without clowns. Dwarves and gimps are fine in their place, but they aren’t trained to make the right facial expressions when you kick them in the arse or pour custard down their pants. It’s a pity, really, because I’m sure there are many clowns who would have loved Britney to work them over.
Here’s a snippet of gossip you may not know: Britney owes her recovery to the tender loving care of Mel Gibson. The A-list actor and family man has confirmed that he took Britney under his wing when her fortunes were at a low ebb and she was apparently off her rocker. His many acts of kindness included inviting her to his villa in Costa Rica and watching her frolic on the beach.
The manager of the safari camp, being a cynical old vulture, suggested that Mel’s avuncular concern sprung primarily from a desire to pat Britney repeatedly on the bum. I, for one, don’t buy it. Why would a film star who has enjoyed simulated sexual intercourse with the most beautiful actresses in the world (including contact between opposing pairs of nipples) be remotely interested in Britney’s behind? Only people who don’t work in show business think there is anything special about a famous starlet’s tush. The manager was obviously projecting his own squalid fantasies onto Mr Gibson.
Is it possible for the human male to pat a woman’s bottom affectionately without being vulgar or suggestive? I think not. He simply cannot avoid leering indecently or making an off-colour remark – it is hardwired into his DNA. A male gorilla, on the other hand, presses the flesh of his females with great dignity. Paw-on-rump from a silverback is an act of pure physicality that would make any female feel special.
Yet bottoms are not the main issue here. The questions that confront us are: (i) Has Britney Spears permanently recovered from her breakdown? and (ii) Is Mel Gibson really a nice guy rather than a papist nutter who made a film depicting a man being tortured for 100 minutes?
The answer to the first question is “time will tell”. For the moment she looks like the bouncy Britney of old, but who knows when a relapse might occur? Much will depend on the quality of her underwear – and whether she chooses to wear it. The answer to the second question is “both personalities co-exist within the same tortured soul”. Mel’s desire to help flighty damsels in distress goes hand-in-hand with his tendency to fly off the handle and take things to extremes. He may well have been playing himself in the Mad Max movies.
I shall ask the local witch doctor to put a calming spell of soothement on both of them.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The Pope in Africa
A reader has asked me to comment on Pope Benny’s recent visit to Africa. I admit I’ve been avoiding the subject for fear of stirring ill-will among my human cousins. Rancour is an emotion that should be kept a safe distance from the bosom. I certainly wasn’t one of those who hooted and heckled the high pontiff when he announced his opposition to condoms. To my way of thinking, a man’s sexual habits are his own private affair. If Benny is happy for his todger to take a dip without a life jacket, who am I to interfere? The nuns who visit him are surely capable of asking to see the results of his latest STD check-up before accepting his blessing.
A pair of American women staying at the safari guesthouse told me they would be joining a feminist protest against the Pope and his reactionary views. They showed me a box of custom-made condoms, each with a picture of Benny’s head on it. After inflating them like balloons at a papal rally, their intention was to burst them shouting “Pop the Pope!”
“My dear ladies!” I exclaimed. “Blowing and popping is not even recognised as an insult in Africa. People would assume you were celebrating someone’s birthday. In this part of the world, humans express strong feelings either by dancing or throwing spears. Since you lack javelin expertise, I suggest you shake your bottoms disdainfully at the Pope during his sermon.”
“What shall we do with the condoms?” they asked.
It was a fair question. Leaving them in the box would have been a waste of good rubber.
“Why not insert peeled bananas inside them before your protest?” I suggested. “You could hold one in either hand and crush them in your fists at a climactic point in the dance. The symbolism would be obvious to everyone. Benny would have to double his dosage of Viagra after seeing that.”
They seemed satisfied with my advice and gave me a book to read called Postmodernism and Gender Relations in Feminist Theory. I promised to study it carefully.
Far more troubling to me was the Pope’s insidious attempt to convert witches to Roman Catholicism. The witch doctor is a friendly neighbourhood apothecary in Africa. Some are nefarious frauds and impostors, but to condemn an entire profession because of a few bad apples isn’t playing fair. How would Benny like it if I said all Catholic priests were pederasts?
I had very good relations with the English witch community back in my circus days. Nowadays they are all good witches, the bad ones having been burned a long time ago. I would describe those I knew as boisterous ladies with an aptitude for handicrafts, herbal medicine and naked outdoor dancing. It would be no exaggeration to say that we got on like a house on fire. Convinced that I was some sort of hairy wizard, they invited me to one of their outdoor dances. I went there purely as an observer, of course. Gorillas do not boogie with naked women.
On returning to the circus, my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, asked me where I had been. I immediately told him of the wondrous spectacle I had witnessed.
“I bet most of them were hairy old lesbians,” he sniffed.
He was obviously jealous.
“They were not, Smacker,” I replied haughtily. “And since you have attempted to demean them, I would point out that: (a) there is nothing wrong with being hairy; (b) the elderly do not participate in such events, which might be injurious to their heath; and (c) you are the last person who should use the word “lesbian” in a derogatory sense given your own taste in erotic entertainment.”
He graciously withdrew his remark and I promised to introduce him to the foxier witches in my acquaintance.