Wednesday, December 25, 2013
It’s Christmas morning in the jungle, and I awake to the sound of African songbirds chirping to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. On seeing me stir, the parrots flap their wings and greet me. “Give us some nuts!” they squawk, but I have no intention of obliging them. One does not reward creatures whose evocation of the Christmas spirit is to shit on your head while you’re sleeping.
In a few hours, I’ll be making my way to the safari camp with my customary gift of freshly-picked wild fruit. The manager, truth be told, is not a big fan of fruit, but his wife forces him to eat it as a palliative for his constipation. “I don’t want to hear you grunting and groaning in the bathroom,” she says in answer to his complaints.
Another yuletide tradition at the safari camp is the singing of our favourite Christmas songs. This year, my choice will be ‘Mrs Robinson’ by Simon and Garfunkel. For those who doubt its relevance to the most auspicious day in the Christian calendar, let me remind you the lyrics:
And here’s to you, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa whoa whoa.
God bless you please, Mrs Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, hey.
It’s a fine example of the Christmas message – peace and goodwill to all, including the shameless cougar. For Mrs Robinson was indeed a wicked woman, and seducing a fresh-faced college graduate was the least of her infractions. Her worst abomination occurred when young Ben Braddock repented of their lustful liaison and declared himself a suitor for the lovely Elaine. Rather than rejoicing that her daughter would have a husband with excellent prospects (and one that she had personally trained), she banned him from the family home and concocted a false story to make Elaine despise him.
If I saw Mrs Robinson in the jungle today, I would grab her by the waist, lift her off her feet (to stop her running away) and invite her to lunch at the safari camp. No doubt, she would snarl like a she-wolf and curse like a sailor, but I would maintain steady eye contact while bearing her kicks and punches with apely fortitude.
“Woman, cease thine evil beshrewing!” I would say. “Tis a day for even the most cussed harridan to repent of her sins and break bread with the virtuous.”
If that didn’t pacify her, I don’t know what would.
There’s more to Christmas than singing songs and making sinners repent, of course. At this holy time of year, humans are apt to hold drunken parties, which for some may lead to illicit groping and smooching. Having avoided this year’s “event” at the safari guesthouse, I have been spared the drudgery of disciplining the unruly and carrying the unconscious to a safe place of repose. This means I have no lurid tales to tell, which doesn’t bother me at all. Nor should it bother you. Christmas is not a time for gossip and tittle-tattle.
The Japing ape wishes his readers a Happy Christmas
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The high price is right
So what did the psychologists discover? It seems that women dislike sexual imagery in advertising unless the goods being promoted are very expensive, when they view the imagery as erotic rather than vulgar. I was so surprised by these findings that I rushed to the safari camp and interrupted the manager and his wife during tiffin.
“Oh GB, you big naïve gorilla!” exclaimed the manager’s wife after I told them about the study. “Of course it’s true! If a man offered me a hundred dollars for sex I would slap his face. But if he offered me a million dollars, I would giggle and poke his ribs.”
Far from being disgruntled by his wife’s confession, the manager nodded sagely. “I’d feel exactly the same way if a woman offered to pay me for sex,” he said.
“You wish and as if,” scoffed his wife.
On my way back to the jungle, I considered the matter logically. If a hundred dollars is an insult and a million dollars is a compliment, there must be an intermediate sum at which the issue is finely balanced. What would it be? Ten thousand dollars? Fifty thousand dollars? I suppose every woman has her own crossover price. How fascinating it would be to watch a woman waver between slapping the face and poking the ribs of a man who had offered her that price. The tension would be electric.
Some insults leave no room for ambiguity, of course. A man in Detroit was so angry with his ex-wife that he moved into the next door house and placed a sculpture of an erect middle finger on his patio. Heaven knows what the woman did to provoke such rancour. Maybe she let her lover wear his masonic apron when he was away on business. No end of bad blood can arise from symbolic acts of desecration.
I can’t say I approve of the sculpture, though. What are his other neighbours supposed to say when guests arrive for a dinner party? If you’re going to insult someone, make sure the target is clear to avoid aggravating third parties. If I saw something like that in the jungle, I would hire the chimpanzees to piss all over it.
Let me end with heart-warming news from China, where a lad called Qin Yu was hired to stand in a public square and pay 16 dollars to any woman who would kiss him. Far from taking umbrage at the small sum on offer, passing young ladies were quick to accept his proposition, and a few even gave him their phone number. It just goes to show that some women will be nice without it costing an arm and a leg.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Flat tummy mummy
Congratulations to Caroline Berg Ericksen, the “fitness blogger” who recently became a mother. Four days after giving birth, she proudly displayed a picture of her belly on Instagram. Everyone marvelled at how quickly it had reverted to a perfectly-toned “six-pack” once the ballast in her womb had been ejected.
Remarkable though her achievement is, one has to wonder how the baby fared in such a tight enclosure. Those powerful abdominal muscles would have squeezed its little head like a lemon every time its mother did her sit-up exercises. That wouldn’t have helped the development of its brain, which was probably already destined to be short of grey matter for hereditary reasons. No mammalian baby should be treated like the prey of a boa constrictor before taking its first breath.
Caroline’s post-natal pose has attracted negative comments from a number of women, who see it as an attempt to humiliate mothers who retain a natural roly-poly appearance after gestation. I doubt that was her intention. She was surely just expressing the boundless love she feels for her own body. Maybe she was also hoping to solicit a present from her fans. I personally think she deserves two – a pacifier for the baby and a gemstone for her belly button.
The miraculous compression of Caroline’s abdomen has diverted attention from her stupendous breasts. Maybe it’s just as well, given that they appear to contain more silicone than milk. It is fortunate for the baby that she probably has no intention of suckling it. An infant shouldn’t acquire a taste for synthetic substances that early in life.
Another problem with breast implants is that they might prevent the new smart bra from functioning properly. Microsoft created this product to monitor a woman’s moods and rhythms with electronic sensors. Perhaps a simple, sunny character like Caroline won’t need a smart bra because she is always in a good mood. Life can be a pleasant experience for those who get plenty of exercise and refrain from straining their brains.
While we’re on the subject of breasts, I was dismayed to hear that a woman working as a topless barber is being prosecuted in Colorado. The police say her arrest was for “practising cosmetology without a license” and had nothing to do with the exposure of her jahoobies. It sounds pretty fishy to me. Wasn’t Al Capone arrested for income tax evasion? If the state of Colorado has a problem with bare-breasted hairdressers, it ought to come clean instead of hiding behind legal technicalities.
The service she was offering doesn’t make a lot of sense in any case. Wouldn’t she be standing behind the customer with her breasts out of view for most of the haircut? It saddens me to think that men would fork out 45 bucks for the mere proximity of a woman’s naked bosom.
For my own part, I have never been groomed, nursed or otherwise obliged by a topless woman. I’ve got better things to do than waste my time on such tomfoolery.
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Does anyone know what happened to the Russian performance artist who nailed his scrotum to Red Square? I only became interested in his fate when the Russian authorities charged him with “hooliganism”. The injury to his nutsack is of no interest to me. When a man self-harms his genitalia, one has to assume that he’s weighed up the pros and cons. He’s no different, in principle, from Captain Dan, the circus dwarf who attached household appliances to his appendage.
I don’t know why the Russian government keeps over-reacting to these publicity stunts. I can’t think of a protest that would be easier to laugh off. Nor can I think of a crime that’s more obviously its own punishment. They should have hired a workman to extract the nail and sent the fellow a bill for labour and materials. No further action was required.
Some protests are no laughing matter, of course. I would never snigger at a woman who registered a complaint by taking off her clothes. Women are sensitive about their bodies and often have issues about being the wrong shape or size. If they choose to disrobe, for whatever reason, they should be ogled in respectful, sombre-faced silence. It is the height of bad manners to smirk at a naked woman.
An Egyptian maiden has caused a stir in her native land by baring her body in support of women’s rights. Alia al-Mahdi has mocked religious rituals by parodying them in the nude. The local turbans aren’t used to that sort of cheek and have reacted to her lampoons with outrage:
“This is pure heresy!” exclaimed Sheikh Nasser Radwan. “She should be tried for defaming religion and insulting the Divine Being!” he added.
Alia has wisely decamped to Stockholm, where she will be safe from the Divine Being and his vengeful minions. The colder climate has not discouraged her from further activism with her fellow feminudists in FEMEN. According to actress Amanda Banoub, she displays "genuine purity and modesty without a single layer of clothing". Having watched the video, I can almost see what she means.
The problem with stripping off, however, is that people might confuse your philosophy with exhibitionism. It’s an easy mistake for the unsophisticated to make. This explains why many humans prefer to blow a raspberry as a gesture of defiance. The aim is to imitate the noise of a fart, which can be highly unsettling if it catches you unawares. Oddly enough, a genuine fart is not considered to be an insult. However much it annoys the bystander, the farter is usually ashamed of the deed.
The good news for the flatulent is that a new type of underwear has been invented which filters out the pungent fart gases, so the discharge is completely odourless. It ought to be standard kit for humans of all races and creeds. I suppose a few sleazy types might miss smelling their own farts, but to hell with them. “Let them sniff cake,” as the Queen of France might have said.