Wednesday, August 02, 2017
Big Jobs
A few days ago, the manager of the safari camp invited me to inspect one of his turds.
“You’ve got to look at, GB, it’s massive!” he exclaimed. “I’d like to know whether a gorilla could shit out something like that! I purposely didn’t flush so you could authenticate it!”
“My dear manager,” I replied. “You are gravely mistaken in thinking I am qualified to pass judgement on your excrement. I suggest you take a picture of the toilet bowl and send it to experts in the field.”
“And who might they be?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and told him his guess was as good as mine. Maybe I should have given him the name of an elephant trainer. Or, indeed, an elephant.
Most humans, of course, have much greater inhibitions about discussing their solid waste. I don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing. Perhaps, on balance, it’s for the best. It would be very tedious if everyone left the toilet unflushed after producing a notable stool. But the other side of the coin is humans who hold it in because they’re too embarrassed to evacuate their bowels in an unfamiliar lavatory.
After doing my own research on the subject, I found an article claiming that 50% of women and 29% of men are worried about having to defecate in their place of work. Why more women suffer from this anxiety is an interesting question. Perhaps they think that shitting (and farting) is unladylike. It’s certainly difficult to imagine Audrey Hepburn or Julie Andrews having a dump – and yet we know they must have done it like everyone else. Perhaps they should have spoken more openly about their bowel movements – it might have dissipated the cloud of shame that hangs over the whole subject.
The article makes a number of helpful suggestions for how to lessen the angst of a workplace poop. Number one on the list is listening to music when sitting in the cubical. The idea is that you won’t worry about the noise you’re making if you can’t hear it yourself. This reminds me, somewhat, of an ostrich burying its head in the sand. But that doesn’t mean it’s ineffective in the circumstances. Anything that helps someone shit in peace has my blessing.
Number seven on the list is “Don’t be a dick to other office poo-ers”. I heartily endorse this. Heckling someone who’s having a difficult time in the lavatory is a prime example of boorish manners. No one who indulges in this sort of behaviour deserves any mercy when they’re parping and plopping themselves.
The most interesting point on the list concerns the financial implications – “when you poo at work, you’re getting paid to shit”. Although this is technically true, it also deprives you of a more leisurely poo in your own home. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, says that emptying your bowels on a day of leisure while reading a magazine is one of the great sensual pleasures of life. Is he wrong?
Labels: embarrassment, Poo-poo, shit, turds
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Legal issues
Can a gorilla be held in contempt of court? The manager of the safari camp warned me that a judge could send me to a zoo for a couple of weeks if I called him an idiot. He’d first have to find me, of course. There are regions of the dense Congo jungle that even witch doctors fear to tread. In any case, I have no intention of calling anyone names. There’s a big difference between denouncing a dubious decision and likening the fellow who made it to an ass or a donkey. A judge who refuses to tolerate such criticism is a judge that has grown too big for his boots.
I make these remarks because of a couple of legal rulings I feel obliged to comment on. The first one concerns Madonna, who went to court to prevent the auction of various “intimate items” she claims are hers. Apparently, she had an affair with a rapper and convicted felon called Tupac Shakur in the 1990s. Among the items for sale are a letter he wrote to her and some underwear he mysteriously obtained.
Madonna claims the items were stolen and I’m inclined to believe her regarding the letter. Unless Mr Shakur had forgot to post it, it must have been removed from her possession without her consent. But on the underwear, I’m not so sure. Even if she never gave them to the rapper, she might have carelessly left them in his house. Once you do that, it’s finders keepers. A woman can’t expect to retain control of her panties if she takes them off and neglects to retrieve them.
Madonna is no doubt worried that people will attempt to humiliate her by sniffing the panties and saying they smell like tuna fish, but a woman who has given her underwear to a gangster cannot credibly claim she has a reputation to protect.
The other legal judgement that piqued my interest concerns the Electoral Commissioner of Papua New Guinea, whose name is Mr Patilias Gamato. Mr Gamato got very upset when a blogger started calling him ‘Mr Tomato’ and published pictures of him with his head replaced by the said fruit.
“He made some defamatory statements and also called my surname 'tomato',” said Mr Gamato. "I don't look like a tomato, I'm a human being.”
The judge took pity on him and issued a court order preventing the blogger from making any more tomato gags.
As one who is named after a fruit, I have little sympathy for Mr Gamato. There is nothing wrong with being associated with a much-loved salad ingredient. I would have advised him to change his name to ‘Tomato’ to pre-empt any jokes.
I can see the judge was trying to be kind, but too much kindness can turn a man into a blithering ninny. Anyone that thin-skinned will be a target for wags until the cows come home. Mr Gamato, I fear, will soon discover that there are worse insults than being called ‘Tomato’.
Labels: asses, donkeys, judges, Madonna, tomatoes
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
King of the druids
A British tourist asks me to sign a petition on behalf of ‘King Arthur Pendragon’, a self-appointed 'druid elder', who is in dispute with an organisation that manages historical sites in England.
“My dear fellow,” I reply. “I could not possibly sign a document without knowing the particulars of the case.”
“English Heritage want to charge visitors £15 for parking their cars at Stonehenge,” he explains. “This violates the religious freedom of druids, who have been praying there for 5,000 years without parking charges.”
“Is that so?” I reply. “Well, worthy though this cause may be, a gorilla cannot take sides in a quarrel between humans. Nevertheless, you may tell King Arthur that I fully support his right to freedom of worship.”
“Hum,” says the man, frowning. “I’ll try my luck with the humans.”
I later find a newspaper report about the dispute, which clarifies a number of issues. It seems that the aggrieved druid changed his name to ‘King Arthur Pendragon’ because he thinks he is a reincarnation of the original King Arthur. However, the original King Arthur was a Christian, not a druid. And he wouldn’t have made a fuss about paying a parking charge of 15 pounds sterling. A king does not trouble himself about such trifling sums.
All of which suggests that this modern-day ‘King Arthur’ is a colossal ignoramus, who is more likely a reincarnation of Chico Marx or Meadowlark Lemon. I’m glad I didn’t sign the petition supporting his cause. Rather than being allowed to park free at Stonehenge, he should be banned from visiting the site altogether. The place is rapidly becoming a campsite for bearded charlatans and New Age cultists, which is spoiling the experience for bona fide tourists with cash in their pockets.
In truth, no one knows what Stonehenge really signifies. The prehistoric men who built it left no manuals or user guides. Everyone assumes it’s some kind of pagan religious site, but it actually looks like a pile of baby bricks assembled by a giant baby. Who is to say that it wasn’t used as a leisure facility? There are many games that humans could play at Stonehenge, including hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo. If baboons lived there, they would play a game called “pissing-down-on-people-from-the-top-of-a-boulder”. The neo-druids and baboons could contest their rival claims to the site in a sporting event. My money would be on the baboons.
Religion, of course, is a touchy subject for many humans. If any druids were to read this post, they might think I was mocking their faith, which could provoke them to leave a hostile comment. In reality, I know nothing about the neo-druidic religion. It must very different from the religion of the ancient druids, which included many practices that would now be illegal or grossly indecent. The modern druids may simply be harmless eccentrics who like wearing robes and chanting spells. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they should come out and make their case in a public forum. You won’t win anyone’s trust by lurking in the shadows like a thief.
Labels: Chico Marx, Druids, King Arthur, Meadowlark Lemon, parking charges, Stonehenge
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Snakebite
I’m no fan of snakes, but I confess to a sneaking admiration for the rattlesnake that bit a man from Florida in the face. This incomparable oaf had tried to kiss the rattler for reasons that remain mysterious. His neighbour claims that he had boasted he could “kiss the Devil” and get away with it. Evidently, the rattlesnake was made of sturdier stuff than Satan and sent the audacious nincompoop to hospital with a life-threatening dose of venom. He is no longer in critical condition, but his frontal lobes remain impaired.
Now we jungle apes have an inborn aversion to snakes, but it has to be admitted that the rattlesnake is a far more honourable foe than most of the crawly characters that infest my neighbourhood. For one thing, it advertises its presence with a sinister noise, giving you the chance to decline combat and make a hasty retreat. And the above-mentioned incident proves that it shows no mercy to lecherous men who attempt to seduce it with kisses. If Donald Trump had tried to grab a rattlesnake by the pussy, his tiny bitten hand would have quickly swollen to a medium-sized one.
Sadly, not all snakes are as brave and defiant as the resourceful rattler. Google images contains a surprising number of pictures of snakes being embraced by naked women. I think the images are supposed to be erotic, but the hapless serpents don’t look as if they’re enjoying themselves. What is the point of forcing them to pose in those unnatural positions? I don’t see anything sexy about a snake being fondled by a woman.
Snakes are not the only animals that have fallen prey to the deviant carnal appetites of humanity. Does anyone remember the man from Sudan who was forced to marry a goat he had taken advantage of? It was a shotgun wedding that punished the poor animal more severely that its abuser. The bearded bride died two years later from undisclosed causes. Maybe it committed suicide to end the agony of its marriage.
We gorillas, of course, are not immune from the attentions of infatuated humans. The King Kong syndrome is alive and well in giddy young ladies of a certain disposition. Back in my circus days, I received a number of requests from women who wanted me to shower them under a waterfall. I generally told them I was too busy and gave them a brochure about holidays in Niagara Falls. On one occasion I agreed to cool off a sweaty-looking girl with a garden hose. A few women attempted to grope me, but I never pressed charges – one has to make allowances for overexcited fans.
The hope for the future is that animal sex robots will satisfy humans with the urge for cross-species love. It shouldn’t be difficult to construct something that looks and sounds like a sheep or a goat. A replica gorilla would be a much greater challenge, though. I’d like to see the robot that can grab a pair of maracas with its toes.
Labels: bestiality, Rattlesnake, sex robot, snakes
Wednesday, July 05, 2017
Shaping up
The manager of the safari camp is away on a business trip, so his wife is advising me on what to blog about. She suggests I comment on an article about a scientific study investigating what type of breasts men prefer:
“They found that most men desire women with perky boobs,” she tells me. “As a gorilla, you know very well that the real test of a tit is how much milk it produces. Why don’t you educate your readers about the foolishness of men?”
“A most fascinating topic,” I reply. “But I try to avoid preaching sermons in my blog. You can’t really blame people for their likes and dislikes. A lot of people find it strange that I like unripe mangoes.”
“Are you telling me that you prefer perky boobs?” she asks suspiciously.
“No, not a bit of it!” I protest. “As you say, it’s their ability to produce gallons of fresh milk that matters. I’ll study the piece and see what I can make of it.”
After reading I the article, I manage to acquire a grasp of the underlying theory. The scientists argue that men are finely attuned to a woman’s fertility indicators, presumably because they can’t determine whether she is in oestrus by sniffing her coochie (as we apes do). They argue that fertile women have more attractive breasts:
This is supported by evidence showing that women with larger breasts tend to have higher estrogen levels; breast size may therefore serve as an indicator of potential fertility. However, breasts become less firm with age and parity, and breast shape could thus also serve as a marker of residual fertility.
Thus, the perky boob hypothesis postulates that women with pliant bosoms are likely to remain fertile for a longer period, which makes them more desirable. Even men who don’t want to make babies are attracted to such women because their brains are hardwired that way. This is why they lust after women like Sharon Stone rather than Dolly Parton (or Chesty Morgan).
This is an interesting theory, but there is one detail that looks fishy to men. The men whose opinions were surveyed were from four countries – Brazil, Cameroon, the Czech Republic and Namibia. Are those countries really representative of the global population? Call me a suspicious ape, but I wonder whether the men of those nations are obsessed about jahoobies to an unusual degree. Brazilian beaches are certainly a notorious haven for bosom oglers. If so, there may be places where men test the fertility of women in other ways. Sniffing and tasting is usually more reliable than staring and groping.
I’m not saying the study is definitely wrong, of course. Perhaps men from all parts of the world do appreciate a perky pair of titties. However, I know for a fact that many men are more interested in the thighs and the rump. So I’m keeping an open mind on this one. You can’t make sweeping generalisations until all the data are in.
Labels: Dolly Parton, female fertility, human titty, jahoobies
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Another internet scam
Have you ever taken Hatha Jodi? It’s a magical Indian root that will give you mellow thoughts and a tingling sensation in the toes. The Hatha Jodi plant is very rare, grown only in a handful of holy sites, but many online retailers are now offering the root at very reasonable prices. Suspecting a counterfeiting operation, the Indian police acquired samples of the merchandise to send to a laboratory for analysis. It was then discovered that the roots being sold online were actually dried lizard penises.
Before discussing the implications of this disturbing discovery, let’s pause to pay tribute to the scientists who determined what the fake roots really were. To identity a few scraps of dried flesh as lizard penises must have involved some fiendish detective work with microscopes and test tubes. Sceptics might wonder whether they could really tell the difference between a lizard penis and a crocodile clitoris, but the reliability of biological tests is not to be questioned. You can’t argue with science.
Now let’s get back to the substance of the matter. This fraud is clearly a serious crime on several different levels. We must face the appalling fact that millions of people have eaten dried lizard dicks on false pretences. This probably did them no physical harm, and might have even helped their digestion, but the psychological consequences should not be pooh-poohed. No one likes to be tricked into eating a penis – for a vegetarian, indeed, it could be a life-scarring event.
The most pitiable victims, of course, are the lizards. There’s something particularly horrible about being hunted for your todger. Even a reptile would have been driven insane with fear when contemplating such an ignoble fate. It’s also incredibly sexist that only male lizards were targeted. Removing so many of them from the ecosystem would have ruined the gender balance, resulting in an oversupply of females. The surviving males might have enjoyed this for a while, but the novelty would have worn off pretty quickly. Being surrounded by sex-starved females will sap the loins of the horniest stud.
Justice demands that the retailers who sold these lizard organs should pay damages to the victims. As well as giving full refunds to those who bought the goods, there should be compensation for every lizard penis eaten in ignorance. It’s difficult to assess what sum would be appropriate – I would start the bidding at ten US dollars per appendage consumed. As for the lizards, it’s sadly too late to help those that have perished, but fines could be paid into a fund to protect the survivors from poachers and give them the counselling they need.
The deeper question, however, is whether scams like this are inevitable when people think some species of plant has magical properties. I’ve eaten hundreds of roots in my time, and all they gave me was calories and wind. This Hatha Jodi sounds like a quack remedy cultivated by devious Indian Swamis to trick gullible Westerners into parting with their cash. Feed it to the baboons.
Labels: counterfeit, Hatha Jodi, lizards, scam, todger
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Big is bountiful
I’ve been reading a curiously defensive opinion piece written by a 25-stone prostitute. This anonymous call girl is upset that fat women never get kissed in films and TV shows, the implication being that no one wants to have sex with them. Given that men actually pay her for sex, she finds this supposition grossly insulting.
She insists that a woman of her size can do things for a man that the slimmer wench cannot. For example, her clients often ask her to assume positions in which they are crushed, smothered or otherwise compressed by her wobbly flesh. For some men, this is achieved by straight sex in the cowgirl position. Others require her to walk over their bodies in stiletto heels, which she can do without inflicting lethal injuries. The most common request she receives, however, is to sit on a client’s face:
“Men would want to lie under my glorious bottom for hours, doing what men do when they’re under a glorious bottom for hours,” she declared.
(In actual fact I’m not sure what men do do in that situation, but I don’t think it’s a critical issue at this juncture.)
When a number of her clients grew beards during the “Movember” challenge, she temporally withdrew the face-sitting service to prevent her lady parts getting scratched:
“It’s like sitting on a hedgehog that’s swallowed a football,” she explained.
After sharing this information with us, she insists that fat women can and do have amazing sex lives. Their coochies are not cavernous or bucket-like, as some people apparently believe:
“We are not to be pitied. We are not desperate and our genitals are no different to anyone else’s. If you think a vagina can be any bigger because of someone’s size, you have to equate that to every other one of their internal organs – which means I must have a brain twice as big as yours!”
I think it’s fair to conclude that Ms Anonymous Fat Hooker has a sizeable chip on her shoulder, but that doesn’t mean her assertions are untrue. Personally, I’ve never doubted that fat women have great sex lives. There are plenty of chubby-chasers out there to keep them satisfied, and they aren’t too dainty to enjoy a good shafting.
Nevertheless, I don’t approve of humans who are proud of carrying blubber that would befit a walrus. Homo Sapiens, let’s not forget, evolved as a fleet-footed hunter-gatherer on the African plains. There are no lard-butts among the Masai, whose colloquial term for fat humans is “lion food”. If you can’t keep up with the livestock, you’re less valuable than a cow and more vulnerable than a goat.
Instead of boasting about her sex life, Ms Tarty-Puff should get herself a hula-hoop and starting exercising that glorious bottom of hers. I would also recommend the gorilla diet of fresh salad and insects. If she loses a few hundred pounds, she might stop resenting all those slender models and actresses who hog the limelight.
Labels: beards, Face-sitting, fat women, prostitutes
