Wednesday, February 25, 2015
The British TV adventurer, Bear Grylls, has said he would order his son to eat him if they were stranded in the jungle without food. For this statement alone, he should be banished from the rainforests of the world and forced to live on milk and cookies for the rest of his life. A self-described “survival expert” who cannot find food in the jungle is a worthless humbug. We gorillas think of our habitat as a giant salad with plenty of protein snacks available if you don’t mind putting wriggly things in your mouth.
One has to pity his son, of course. I don’t know how old he is, but the thought that he might one day have to chomp on his daddy’s carcass must be giving him nightmares. I dare say it’s also ruined his appetite. A big-headed TV personality like Grylls no doubt believes that his flesh is tasty, but its flavour is probably no better than porcupine or wart hog. If he’s really serious about the whole thing, he ought to cut a piece of meat from his rump and try it himself. Don’t ask your child to eat something you wouldn’t touch yourself.
Now cannibalism is a dark dietary practice from man’s primeval past, so far removed from the experience of modern humans that one rarely finds it discussed. My friend Harry Hutton, the roving English teacher, explored the topic in one of his early blog posts by posing the following question:
You are trapped on a desert island with the Spice Girls. Food and rum have run out. You are weak from hunger and there is no hope of rescue. Which Spice Girl would you eat first? (Scroll down to vote).
As a vegetarian gorilla I abstained from the vote on principle. My favourite Spice Girl is Ginger, and she’s certainly the one I’d prefer to nibble if someone put a gun to my head. But eating her flesh would be out of the question. The problem with polls of this sort is that they involve a moral paradox. The Spice Girl you’d most like to bite should the last one you’d actually want to devour if you’re not utterly devoid of sentiment in confronting such dilemmas.
Scenes involving cannibalism are mercifully rare in the movies. The only example I can think of is the ending of a film called The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Helen Mirren’s lover has been murdered by the gangster who owns her, so she takes revenge by forcing him to eat her lover’s body, expertly cooked by a gourmet chef. As the gangster feels the vomit rising in his throat, she encourages him to sample the dish by saying:
“Try the cock – it’s a delicacy. And you know where it’s been.”
There should have been a warning before the closing credits that this remark was facetious and not based on culinary research. A man’s todger contains no muscle tissue and doesn’t even qualify as offal. You’d be a fool to try it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Charlie Sheen’s announcement that he intends to run for president has been greeted with hoots of delight in the Congo. The parrots are squawking, the crocodiles are grinning and the baboons are displaying their rumps.
“I wish I could vote for him,” said an excited chimpanzee. “It’s about time the humans had a leader who’s a bigger fool than the commander of the ape brigade.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I replied. “And he won’t be the leader of all the humans anyway, only the richest and fattest of them.”
There’s a long way to go before Charlie gets elected, of course. The road to the White House is snaky and strewn with potholes. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into his “truth and transparency” platform, but it remains to be seen whether it impresses the voters. I’m not a fan of transparency myself – if nothing is opaque, where is the shade to shelter from the sun? The only transparent creatures are jellyfish and the like, whose internal organs are visible to the naked eye. If humans could see their own insides it would give them the collywobbles.
As for truth, it sounds good in principle, but didn’t an American general say “You can’t handle the truth”? He had a good point. How many Americans know that Yellowstone Park is a giant volcano that could erupt at any minute, cooking their country in a pile of superheated ash? As the Bard once wrote, “Tis better to live in ignorance than piss your pants to no purpose”.
Now, I’m not saying that Charlie would be a bad president – high-minded campaign slogans can quickly be shelved after the battle is won. Yet he must be stopped for one overwhelming reason: his election would further delay the historical necessity of a lady president. My ears are still burning from Gloria Steinem’s bitter remarks after Hillary lost the nomination to Obama. Surely no one in America wants to hear that again.
Is Mrs Clinton girding her luscious loins for another shot at the top job? I confess it’s very difficult for a gorilla like me to read her body language. Although I’d be happy for Hillary to win, I don’t think she would beat Charlie. A Washington insider has no chance against a Hollywood pro – Ronald Reagan proved that. Charlie could only be defeated by a woman who’s a bigger exhibitionist than he is.
You can probably guess the candidate I have in mind. She recently displayed her talent for political theatre by exposing her butt cheeks at the Grammy Awards:
"I wasn't mooning, I just lifted my dress up,” she explained. “Mooning is like naked butt. Everyone's seen my naked butt.”
Does anyone doubt that Madonna’s version of “truth and transparency” would kick Charlie’s campaign into the quicksand? It would also breathe new life into the American system of representative government. No country can call itself a true democracy until the people have seen their leader’s naked butt.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, sent me a video which was made to raise money for a worthy charity. Apparently it earns a few pennies every time someone views it.
“If you pass it on to ten other bloggers, who each pass it on to ten more, it will soon get millions of hits,” he explained.
His calculations may be inaccurate, but I’m happy to get the ball rolling. The greatest landslide on Earth could be triggered by a dung beetle kicking some poo downhill.
The video begins with an earnest male college student asking random women whether they will raise money for charity by riding a “Sybian”. This contraption is a vibrating saddle designed for the purpose of pleasuring a lady’s nubbin. (If you already knew what it was, I take off my imaginary hat to you – I only found out after watching the video.)
It would be wrong to suggest that the women who agreed to mount the machine should be celebrated in the annals of hoochiedom. They remained fully clothed and seemed genuinely surprised that the device was so effective at stimulating their nether regions.
“I hope my boyfriend doesn’t see this!” gasped one young belle. “I may not need to have a date tonight,” quipped another.
All but one of them jumped off the Sybian before it could shift the San Andreas fault. Most of them laughed in embarrassment as they did so, which I thought was a sweet and ladylike response. The one woman who permitted her pantyworks to explode made the on-lookers feel like unwilling participants in a peep show.
Be that as it may, I consider the video to be first-rate entertainment. Far superior, to be sure, than the atrocious Fifty Shades of Grey that will soon be appearing in a cinema near you.
“I’d like to wipe the movie poster on my butthole and call it ‘Fifty Shades of Brown’!” exclaimed one disgusted film buff.
The actress who plays the female lead has described the elaborate preparations she made for the part:
“I was going to be naked, so I wanted to look good,” explained 25-year-old Dakota Johnson. “I did a lot of working out and had more waxing than any woman should have.”
A crash program of yoga would have been more helpful for a role which involves getting tied up in a variety of positions. Smooth skin is no substitute for supple limbs when you’re being toyed with by a fiend who likes to immobilise his victims before pouncing. Maybe Mr Grey was a spider in a previous life – it would explain why “I don’t do romance” was one of the brilliant lines he used to seduce women. Spiders never do romance, but they’re very adept at preparing their partners for the kill.
Where does Miss Johnson’s career go from here? A sensitive drama about a couple who make love in a straitjacket? An erotic thriller about a woman tied to a railway line? If I were her agent I’d advise her to get on a Sybian.
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Pride and cowardice
So Colin Farrell is saying that Ewan McGregor should be proud of his prodigious todger without specifying what Ewan should say or do. He’s already displayed the impressive organ in three highly acclaimed movies, although I have to admit I have no recollection of seeing it. Is it possible for a masculine appendage to be enormous and self-effacing at the same time? It sounds unlikely, but we who live in the jungle know that unlikely things are possible. I once heard a parrot squawk the Hare Krishna mantra.
Be that as it may, I hope Ewan McGregor does not heed the advice of his fellow thespian. The last public figure who boasted about the size of his penis was Clarence Thomas, the US Supreme Court justice. He quickly became a laughing stock, and few Americans can now hear his name without smirking or rolling their eyes. An actor would fare no better: Nick the Dick’s career nosedived after the infamous hot dog prank. In light of such events, Ewan has been wise not to blow his own trumpet.
There are more important issues regarding the male genitalia in any case. A team of Brazilian doctors recently published a report on dangerous sex positions and arrived at this startling conclusion:
“Our study supports the fact that sexual intercourse with ‘woman on top’ is the potentially riskiest sexual position related to penile fracture.”
When I mentioned these findings to the manager of the safari camp, he reflexively lowered his hands to shield his private parts.
“No more cowgirl positions for my wife,” he said grimly. “How the hell can a penis get fractured anyway?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, manager,” I replied. “The article says it’s only the foreskin that gets ruptured in such cases. You’ve got nothing to worry about if you’re circumcised.”
“Well I’m not!” snapped the manager. “And it’s every bit as bad as it sounds!”
I shook my head wearily and ambled to the gift shop to inspect the voodoo artefacts. There’s no point trying to reassure someone who thinks every cloud has a clap of thunder in it.
It goes without saying that sex is far more dangerous for women than for men. As well as the risks involved in getting pounded by the Ewan McGregors of the world, they have to endure the ordeal of childbirth. I have only once seen a woman give birth and it is not an event I would like to witness for a second time. The exertions involved made me think of a hen trying to lay an ostrich egg.
I hope the manager of the safari camp will come to realise that his foreskin is an insignificant scrap of flesh in the greater scheme of things. Its petty injuries are mere flesh wounds in the great writhing body of human suffering and self-sacrifice. Maybe his wife will help him to put things in perspective. I should imagine she’ll have something to say when he refuses to lie on his back.