Friday, April 27, 2007

The Penis Monologues

Whatever happened to that Australian duo who did on-stage origami with their willies? Their act was quite big in its day, but now seems to have shrivelled into obscurity. Apparently, their rubbery appendages could be twisted into most shapes with some dextrous handwork. I always wondered about the off-stage attention they got from their mostly female fans. How does having a celebrity penis affect a man’s sex life? Were girls thrilled at the prospect of being serviced by a famous dick? Or were they repelled by the idea of accommodating an organ they’d just seen impersonate Telly Savalas? I’m damned if I can guess how the sight of a man manipulating his member affects a woman’s libido.

The problem with acts like this is that they depend entirely on their novelty value. However much you dress it up, a penis will never be as versatile as a well-trained seal. It cannot slap its flippers together and bark, nor can it gulp down pieces of raw fish. Balancing a ball on its nose is fiendishly difficult. The public will eventually twig that a stick of rhubarb wearing a false beard could do it just as well.

When someone compared their act unfavourably with The Vagina Monologues, the Australian snake-handlers reacted scornfully.

"It's typical!” one of them sneered. “Women feel the need to talk about it and men just want to play with it!”

It’s a fair point. Unlike Vanessa Vagina, Peter Penis will never be admired for his conversational skills. He’s really a lot like a dog: arguably man’s best friend and certainly eager to please, but prone to overexcitement without proper training. There are said to be women who can make him stand to attention purely with their voices, but they never seem to boast about it. They’re too modest, if you ask me.

Of course, it’s easy to be negative and slate an act without suggesting a better alternative. As a former circus ape, I will admit to enjoying my work with midgets. I bounced them off trampolines, juggled them with my hands and feet, and hurled them at clowns. I loved to see them get the better of the clowns by running between their legs and head-butting their arses. The midgets and I got along like a house on fire, but woe betide any normal-sized human who treated those little terriers with disrespect!

In those days, the world’s number one midget was the Philippino film star Weng Weng. He used to play a spoof James Bond character in movies complete with
ravishing women and low-flying actions stunts. His favourite tactic for dealing with the bad guys was to stamp on their feet and shoot them while they were rubbing their toes. As for the ladies, they would surrender to his cruel lust whenever he gazed darkly into their navels. Being three feet in height, he never needed to go down on a woman because he was already there.

A lot of people worry about midgets being exploited for cheap laughs, but in human society it’s generally those with the healthiest bank balances who laugh loudest. I’d certainly rather watch Weng Weng bite a few ankles than a pair of deformed dongs from Down Under. If I’m going to be entertained by a little prick, I’ll take the one that can do his own dialogue. A montage of Weng Weng’s work is linked

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Monday, April 23, 2007

The needs of the spirit

I’ve never had much time for gurus, although a lot of humans swear by them, and I’m not the sort of ape to pour scorn on another fellow’s interests and hobbies. The Beatles, let’s not forget, spent the best part of a year at the Maharishi’s venerable feet, chanting mantras, practising deep-breathing exercises and oiling their guitar strings with ghee. Now aged 90, the sprightly old swami continues to do his stuff with aplomb, launching his yogic flyers from Holland to spread waves of bliss throughout the galaxy and beyond. I sent him a telegram wishing him every success. I’ve never been engulfed by a wave of bliss, but it sounds like the sort of thing one might develop a taste for after a hard day at the swamp.

I must admit having a soft spot for the Hare Krisnhnas though. Their music is a bit repetitive, it’s true, but we gorillas enjoy that type of thing. I always pack a tambourine in my hand luggage on the off chance of meeting one of their bands on my travels. The last time it happened was in Sydney, when I came across a trio consisting of two girls who were as cute as kittens and one male drum-beater who was as bald as an egg. Quick as a flash, I pulled the tambourine from my rucksack and got into the groove. They absolutely loved it, although I ducked when one of the girls tried to finger my bonce with a bindi. That red dot may symbolise a lot of potent things, but it looks like a ketchup stain on the forehead of a well-groomed gorilla.

I regret to say that my friend Dr Whipsnade is apt to be a little quick-tempered with proselytisers who dare to presume that his lofty soul is in need of salvation. We were walking together in Hyde Park, last time I was in London, when a vivacious young lady with braces on her teeth bounced up to greet us on the walkway.

“D’ya wanna know Jesus?” she asked, offering us a pamphlet.

“Not if he’s a friend of yours!” barked the doctor, marching off briskly before she could respond.

She looked a little crestfallen, but cheered up considerably when I took one of her circulars
and gave her a wink before re-joining my curmudgeonly companion. I skimmed over the document later that evening and found nothing particularly objectionable in it. Go to church, give generously to charity and stock up with tinned food before Armageddon were the main points emphasised in the text. Plain commonsense, I would have thought.

Now I’m aware that a lot of people are very antireligious, appalled by the guilt-mongering and the rabble-rousing and the wild-eyed characters with beards. What they forget is the vital role that religion plays in human recreation. A day out in Rome to watch the Pope address the multitude in St. Peter’s Square is the highlight of the social calendar for many. The trouble with today’s faith industry is that it’s dominated by men, thus getting caught up in the power games in which the male of the species is habitually engaged. Humanity needs to rediscover the old pagan festivals involving wood nymphs, priestesses and vestal virgins that made their ancient religious practices so exciting and enjoyable. I sense that the exposed female bosom may have an important role to play here.

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Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Becoming one of us

Humans often ask me how to become an honorary gorilla. “GB,” they say, “you’re such a cool, fun-loving ape. How do I get to join your gang? I just want to hang out with you guys, chase some baboons and go to all your python-swinging parties. What do I have to do? Do you want me to bring you cocktails in your hammock? No problem. I’ll even massage your toes while you’re relaxing.”

My reply is always the same: “Tempting me with bribes is not the answer. You’ve got to earn our respect by finding your inner ape. Eat plenty of fruit and vegetables. Buy all the Tom Jones CDs and shake your booty to the beat. Move to the rhythm of the jungle. If you’ve got what it takes, our scouts will notice your talent.”

Most humans wait patiently for our decision, but every now and again we get a pushy character who tries to strong-arm us. I recently got a call from Hugo Chavez, the president-cum-dictator of Venezuela.

Ai GB, when ju gonna make me a gorilla?” he demanded. “I doin’ everything like a gorilla. I beat my chest, I eat no meat, I tell that gringo chimpanzee Bush to go to hell. I even look like a gorilla!”

“Mr President, it’s not that simple,” I replied. “We can’t even consider you for membership while you hold high office. Gorillas must stand aloof from human politics.”

CHINGA TU MADRE!” he shouted. “You think I leavin’ El Palacio just to join your club? I give you my cojones first!”

He terminated our conversation with that defiant offer. Between you and me, El Presidente will never be admitted to our ranks. There’s more to being a gorilla than thumping your chest and telling gringo chimpanzees to go to hell. It may surprise you to learn that we gorillas are rather fond of irony and understatement. We admire the human who can get his message across by raising one eyebrow, like Roger Moore or ‘Bones’ of The Enterprise. A blustering oaf like Chavez will never master subtle skills like that.

I should stress that it’s entirely feasible for a woman to become an honorary gorilla. Daryl Hannah received the accolade after starring in the film Splash. We were hugely impressed by her ability to wiggle her caboose inside a skin-tight fish tail. That takes some doing. What’s more, her adornments north of the tail were wholly natural, which is something we insist upon. One who fell foul of this requirement was Miss Pamela Anderson, who put her case to me in person at the safari camp.

“I’ve been a vegetarian since I was a girl; I’m a member of PETA; I’ve campaigned against the fur trade,” she said earnestly, as if reciting from a memorised script.

“All of which is most commendable, Miss Anderson,” I replied, “but there are other pertinent issues.…tangible attributes must be composed entirely of organic matter,” I said, trying hard not to stare at her breasts.

She looked puzzled for a few seconds, but then her face brightened in apparent comprehension. “Oh sure!” she exclaimed. “I only eat organic food from ethical farms. They grow their food ethically and treat all their workers ethically. It’s all very ethical.”

I scratched my neck while pondering how to make the point tactfully (and ethically).

“Are your breasts made of organic food?” I asked.

The blonde beach babe put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Do you wanna eat my tits?” she asked saucily.

“Who wouldn’t, Pammy?” I replied. “But the problem is that we gorillas are incredibly allergic to silicone.”

“Oh,” said Pamela, looking disappointed.

“I’m sorry, Pam, but we can’t admit anyone with surgically-enhanced hooters. Our females would have a fit.”

“Oh well,” said Pamela sadly, “I’ll guess I’ll just have to throw my energy into bush conservation.”

It warms the cockles of my groin to report that Pamela continues to support our causes without the slightest hint of bitterness. What a pity that so many humans look down on her as an airhead and a harlot. Those who are wise know that brains aren’t everything and that sexual promiscuity is never a sin for the pure of heart. A woman may be the whore of Babylon, but if her character is sweet she should be treated like a lady. I only wish she hadn’t inflated her boobs will all that squishy stuff. How I long for a picture of Pamela before she succumbed to the surgeon’s knife, sporting a nice little pair of home-grown tomatoes, ripe for the plucking!

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Friday, April 13, 2007

Divorce, gorilla-style

“Is it possible to fart in your sleep?” asked a tourist the other day.

When humans ask me questions about farting, I expect them to make a joke about the gale-force blasts for which we gorillas are famed. But it turned out that this particular fellow was in earnest. He was going through a messy divorce, and breaking wind in bed was of one the many complaints levelled at him by his estranged wife. I told him that a forceful expulsion of flatulence was unlikely because sleep normally paralyses the muscles. Any gas building up in the bowels would probably leak out slowly, as if from a puncture. He thanked me for my opinion and jotted down a few notes in his diary. Much to my relief, he didn’t ask me to appear in court as an expert witness.

Is there such a thing as an amicable divorce? For gorillas, the answer is “yes”. If one of my females wants a change of scene, I find another alpha male willing to accept her and send her on her way with an affectionate pat on the rump. There is no question of divorcing a female without fixing her up with another mate – that sort of thing gets you blackballed from the local chest-thumping association. Human divorces would surely be less painful if the protagonists had to find new partners for their spouses before parting company.

This is not as far-fetched as it sounds. It’s more or less the plot being followed my Australian friend
Fatman and his long-suffering girlfriend Kitty. They never actually married, but were in a cohabiting relationship involving sporadic sexual contact. Fatman then went on a long solo vacation in Russia, where he penetrated the Slavic soul from the inside of a vodka bottle. When he returned to Melbourne, Kitty and he agreed that they were no longer an item. But as he was both penniless and homeless, Kitty happily gave him lodgings in her abode.

Now comes the interesting part. Fatman introduces Kitty to his cousin Jesse and they hit it off rather well. No, they hit it off much better than that, if you see what I mean. Fatman feels pangs of jealousy, baring his anguish
in his blog, but soon accepts that he has no real wish to stand in the way of Kitty’s happiness. Nor should he, indeed, for Kitty herself is making strenuous efforts to pair him off with one of her own circle of unattached females. As yet, Fatman has been reluctant to pursue these overtures for fear that Kitty and his new paramour would discuss him covertly, comparing notes and giggling at his peccadilloes.

This is where I can give Fatman some friendly ape-to-man advice. If females who have mated with you are on friendly terms, they will inevitably compare notes and laugh at your expense. You just have to get over it because it cannot be helped. It is a law of nature and a fait accompli.

I once had the misfortune to overhear two of my females discussing my sexual habits. One of them said: “You know when he’s finished because he grunts like a wart hog!” and they both hooted with glee.
I crept through the undergrowth to surprise them and said loudly: “Do I indeed?”. They were not the least bit embarrassed and laughed all the harder.

But I had my revenge. The next time I mated with one of those apettes, I cried “Oink! Oink!” while climaxing and walked off abruptly without so much as a peck on the cheek. I knew she was annoyed because I felt a stone strike the back of my head, but I just wiggled my posterior scornfully without turning round. There’s nothing like a bit of sarcasm when you’re ejaculating to put a female in her place.

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Monday, April 09, 2007

Aladdin and the Genie

The story of Aladdin is a classic – one of those inspiring tales that revolves around its leading character. I refer, of course, to the Genie of the Lamp. An invincible demigod with the booming voice of Brian Blessed, the Genie is built like a gorilla and capable of almost any feat. Yet he is devoted – utterly devoted – to the service of whichever buck-toothed yokel happens to polish his door knocker while he’s taking a nap. I suspect he was the role model for that stick-in-the-arse butler played by Tony Hopkins in Remains of the Day.

As for Aladdin, he has all the makings of a shrewd little tyke until he sees the Princess Badroulbadour and falls for her like a skittle in a bowling alley. These pubescent princesses are always irresistible to the fairytale hero, but any man of the world knows that getting hitched to a teenage girl is a dicey business. Hopefully, in the fullness of time, she will ripen into a lissom yet curvaceous beauty. But what if she eats like a hog and swells into something resembling a sumo wrestler? Frankly, the whole thing is a game of Russian roulette.

The evolution of her personality bears thinking about as well. A man may find the sweet giggly maiden who won his heart mutate into a frightful old battleaxe who throws saucepans at his head. According to Dr Whipsnade, you should never consider proposing to a woman until she’s at least 23, so you have an idea of how things are developing. The querulous tone of her voice, the pudginess of her face and neck, the rate at which her bottom is expanding – these are the metrics that must be closely monitored.

Aladdin marries the princess, nevertheless, wowing her dad with basins of jewels, and the newlyweds move into a stupendous Genie-built palace. The golden boy is promoted to commander of the king’s armies, while his wife stays at home and bakes cookies. The princess maintains her figure and everything seems to be going well. Then along comes the tricky old wizard, offering new lamps for old, and mayhem ensues with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. When people blame the princess for this debacle, I always thump my chest in annoyance. One thing I can’t abide is unfair criticism of the housewife. How was she to know that the lamp was a weapon of mass destruction in the wrong hands? More to the point, why did that bonehead Aladdin leave it lying around the palace instead of locking it up in his safe?

In Aladdin’s position, I would have simply forbidden the Genie from ever returning to his brass bolthole. “Genie,” I would have said, “it’s time you moved out of the studio apartment and into family accommodation. You’ve been a bachelor for too many centuries. Give Barbara Eden a call, take her to the pictures and pop the question. Build yourself a little cottage in the palace grounds and settle down to raise a brood of little genies. Patrol the estate and keep the gophers in their holes. And if you happen to see a tricky old wizard lurking about suspiciously, kick him in the nuts and send him on his way.”

Although the Genie changes his loyalties far too easily, he does teach us that there’s no shame in being a domestic. Gorilla Bananas is not too proud to serve drinks in the bar of the safari camp. I don’t need the money, but I do it anyway for the dignity of honest toil. All that matters is that you work for people of good character who won’t involve you in immoral or unnatural acts. Don’t whore yourself to any seedy old reprobate just because he rubs your lamp.

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Wednesday, April 04, 2007

A trip to the zoo

Well I expect you’ve all heard about the new “Gorilla Kingdom” that’s opened in London Zoo. A few weeks ago I got a call from David Field, the zoo’s earnest director, imploring me to visit the place and give it my seal of approval.

“Mr Bananas, you’d be our guest of honour!” he enthused. “We’re telling everyone our gorillas will be happier in their new surroundings, but why should they believe us without your endorsement?”

“Very well, Field,” I replied. “I’ll be along shortly after it opens, but don’t tart up the place just for my visit. I know a Potemkin village when I see one and I’ll be chatting to the gorillas to make sure everything’s on the level.”

So I flew into London last weekend, and after a good night’s rest at Dr Whipsnade’s, strolled gently down to Regent’s Park. A park attendant escorted me to the gorilla enclosure and I interviewed the residents, one male and two females. They seemed satisfied with their new lodgings but expressed concerns about the watching humans. I reassured them that the encircling moat would prevent any of the hairless throng from harassing them. The moat is no barrier to a gorilla, of course, and I proved as much by leaping over it to leave the enclosure. I could scarcely believe the panic this provoked among the human onlookers.

“Help! Help! A gorilla’s escaped!” they cried. I’m sorry to say it was the men who ran the fastest and the farthest – no thought of women and children to the lifeboats for them. The children, indeed, seemed quite amused by the whole escapade, while the women took cover behind the fixtures and eyed me apprehensively. One or two winked, but I ignored them. The situation calmed down when I climbed on top of a tree stump and sat there impassively. As the humans warily returned, I gave them a stern lecture on the importance of maintaining one’s composure and setting a good example for the infants, rather than raising a hullabaloo whenever a gorilla jumps over a moat.

I returned to Field’s office without further incident and he immediately quizzed me about the report I would be making. “Did you see all the trees and plants we put in?” he asked excitedly. “Isn’t it just like a real gorilla habitat?”

“The quarters were satisfactory, Field, but the behaviour of the humans was not,” I replied. “Too many of them were wearing tea shirts with vulgar innuendos on them. You may think this doesn’t matter to gorillas who cannot read, but I assure you they notice the indecent smirks. In addition, many of the humans were sucking lozenges as they watched. This is unacceptable. Sucking while making eye-contact is extremely bad manners in gorilla society.”

Field promised that he would attend to these matters.

I decided to spend the rest of my time visiting the other animals. When I got to the Asian lions, I was surprised and delighted to bump into no less a personage than
Daphne Wayne-Bough, looking radiant in her haute couture pink jacket and skirt. She was in London to inspect one of her properties and was in a congenial mood after getting a favourable valuation. We took tea together in a nearby café, and in a fit of good humour she told me a great deal about her extraordinary life. Far more than I’m going to reveal here, but I’ll give you a flavour by divulging some remarks I made in reply to her anecdotes:

“To be honest, ma’am, I’ve never understood why ladies are attracted to these uncouth biker types.”

“He didn’t! I hope you struck him on the nose with your handbag!”

“A small price to pay, milady. Those photos could have caused untold aggravation if they fell into the wrong hands.”

After we’d finished, not only did Lady Daphne insist on paying the bill, but she extravagantly over-tipped the young Corsican waiter who had been exchanging words with her in French. He then hailed a taxi, opened the door for her, and she handed him a note before the taxi sped away. It all happened so quickly that I wondered if I’d been daydreaming.

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