Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Pregnant pause
I’ve been studying a video clip of the pregnant woman who almost fainted during a speech of president Obama. She was standing right behind him, tottering like a skittle, before Obama sensed what was going on. Not wanting her to collapse at his feet like a devotee of Guru Baba Ramdev, he turned round and patted her. As every American knows, a pat from the president is like sniffing a bottle of smelling salts. She steadied on her feet and was led away to the White House gynaecology room.
The president’s detractors are now saying that the incident was a stage-managed hoax, to make Obama look like a messianic figure whose mere presence gives ladies the vapours. I personally doubt he would need to resort to such fakery. Women were always fainting on me in my circus days – something about being spoken to by a gorilla made them weak at the knees. Obama is no gorilla, but his voice is deep and the woman was pregnant. I can’t really blame her for feeling giddy in the circumstances.
The woman has since been interviewed and denied she was a stooge or shop dummy (as many have alleged). I hope this silences the president’s accusers, because the man has enough on his plate, what with Angela Merkel accusing him of listening in on her phonecalls. She’s making a big fuss about it, but you have to wonder whether she’s secretly flattered that Obama is so interested in her private affairs. He denied it when she called him, but maybe it would have been better for German-American relations if he’d confessed.
“Angela, I admit it all,” he might have said. “I just love hearing you chatter away in your sexy Oberschwester voice, especially when you use words like Wirtschaftlichen and Strumpfhosen. How about sending me a tape of you singing in the bath?”
I hope no one will say that Frau Merkel is incapable of such emotions because she’s German. For one thing, it would be an unpleasant example of national stereotyping. For another thing, a 24-year-old student called Niklaus Knecht has proved that Germans can be as romantic as Troy Tempest, the submariner who fell in love with a mute girl with gills.
What happened to young Knecht was this: Someone stole his mobile phone and sold it to a girl living in Morocco. This girl took pictures of herself with the phone, which somehow got sent to Knecht’s mailbox. The besotted boy then announced on his Facebook page that he’d let her keep the phone if she agreed to have a date with him. The girl has yet to respond to the offer and is no doubt weighing up her options as we speak.
If I were Angela Merkel, I would give Knecht an award for proving that Germans can be as goofy and love-struck as men from Moldova and Azerbaijan. I’ve just noticed that Knecht is Swiss rather than German. What of it? With a name like Knecht he must have German ancestry, right? Let’s not get hung up over nuances.
Labels: Angela Merkel, Barack Obama, Germans, love at first sight, phone-tapping, pregnancy
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Huggy Bear
I’ve been puzzling over why a Florida restaurant owner grabbed President Obama around his midriff and hoisted him above the ground. If he was one of the president’s supporters, as he claims, didn’t he realise that making the commander-in-chief flail about like a skewered insect would be bad for his image? Yet, I don’t believe he was a secret antagonist who intended to make Obama look like a sissy. An opponent of the president would not have had the stomach to embrace him in that peculiarly intimate way.
The manager of the safari camp has his own pet theory, believing that the incident was stage-managed by Obama as part of his re-election strategy.
“He was trying to win over swing voters by showing them his gay side,” he explained to me.
“Are you suggesting that swing voters are predominantly gay?” I asked incredulously.
“Bisexual,” corrected the manager. “They can’t make up their minds in either sex or politics.”
“I see you’re a disciple of the Groucho Marx school of political science,” I remarked. “I’ll mention your idea to any confused pundits I see wandering about in the jungle. It should give them food for thought before their heads explode.”
As a gorilla, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have first-hand knowledge of gay political preferences in America. Having said that, my gut instinct tells me that the gay vote is solidly behind the president, apart from a few bat-shit crazy lesbians who’ve been rabidly Republican since their first fisting experience. The reasons for this are fairly obvious. Like the gays, Barry is a member of a minority group. He sympathises with their history of having to hide their gayness, much as he had to hide his blackness when he was running for the US Senate. He also dresses well and has a moderately butch wife, which puts him on the gay side of the argument.
America has come a long way since the darks days of J Edgar Hoover, when homosexuality was firmly in the water closet. The nearest thing to a gay scene in the movies was when Laurence Olivier pontificated about snails and oysters in Spartacus. Only experts in Roman cuisine knew he was asking Tony Curtis for a hand job. How different things are now. Cinema audiences of today can happily watch a film in which cowboys have butt sex, as long as neither cowboy is Hoss from Bonanza, which would make everyone wince and bite their kneecaps.
The first openly gay American president is surely just a matter of time. Maybe 200 years’ time, but you can’t expect change to occur overnight. While we are waiting, President Obama should help things along by getting the nation accustomed to gay people in public life. If I were him, I would appoint some of those bat-shit crazy Republican lesbians as ambassadors to volatile middle-eastern countries. If anyone knows how to deal with mobs of rioting madmen, they will. Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire.
Labels: Barack Obama, bat-shit crazy Republican lesbians, gay vote, gays
Friday, November 25, 2011
Sealed with a kiss
An Italian fashion house has launched an advertising campaign promoting the idea that enemies should kiss and make-up. A huge picture of President Obama and Hugo Chavez pressing lips recently appeared on a billboard outside the Brazzaville YMCA. Everyone knows the photo is a fake, so it generated very little excitement, even among the residents of the YMCA.
It’s just as well that Obama is secure enough in his sexuality not to blast the poster to kingdom come with a Cruise missile. He’s recently been proving his heterosexual credentials by canoodling with Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who rules the roost in Australia. After greeting Ms Gillard with a moist-looking peck on the cheek, he patted her receptive tush right into the White House. I hope Michelle was mature enough not to give him hell afterwards – there’s no such thing as cheating when you’re making political alliances.
The only person complaining about the poster campaign is Pope Benedict, who was depicted smooching an Egyptian holy man. A Vatican spokesman denounced it as a violation of the Holy Father’s chastity, but I suspect what really upset Benny was the lack of passion in the kiss. No one ever got to be Pope without sticking his tongue down a few throats. The fashion house withdrew the Papal poster under threat of legal action, but there must be a few thousand stashed away in a warehouse. They'll become a collector’s item after Benny has his sex-change operation.
The most puzzling poster is the one of Sarkozy kissing Frau Merkel. The couple were bosom allies the last time I checked, so why show them kissing? Could Sarko have bribed the fashion house to do it because he wanted to make his wife jealous? A new mother is often so infatuated with her baby that she neglects her husband’s needs. Maybe the poster will prompt Carla to accelerate her programme of coochie exercises so she can wrap her luscious thighs around Sarko the next time he ventures into the marital bed. If he keeps on fantasizing about getting into Frau Merkel's pants it might damage the French national interest. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who’ll give it away for nothing.
Now, this advertising campaign is a clever gimmick, but its premise looks flawed to me. There is no evidence from human history that kissing is a reliable indicator of benign intentions. Delilah kissed Sampson; Judas kissed Jesus; J Edgar Hoover kissed Dillinger and a dozen other gangsters. It’s the oldest trick in the book to butter up your victim with a smooch before giving him the big shaft. As Shirley Bassey said, it’s the kiss of death from Mr Goldfinger.
Instead of kissing, humans who want to make peace should do what we gorillas do: bring about a controlled collision between their rumps. It takes real courage to turn your back on a rival and stick out your behind, trusting that he will do the same rather than kicking your arse or attempting some other unspeakable act. If President Obama started booty-bumping all the hostile characters who show up in the UN building, the Age of Universal Love might finally dawn.
Labels: Angela Merkel, Barack Obama, booty-bumping, Julia Gillard, kissy-face, Pope Benedict, Sarkozy
Friday, August 05, 2011
Dreaming of Obama
A correspondent has sent me a blog post written by a strange young man who dreamt he had been raped by President Obama. If you read the post, you'll discover that the Obama of his dreams drugged his drink, raped him violently and then pinched his cheeks for good measure. What I find odd is that the fellow seems to think his dream is something to be proud of, and his readers, judging by their comments, appear to concur. Anyone would think that he’d been invited to the White House for a game of checkers and a hot dog.
My own view is that dreaming you've been raped by the President of the United States is nothing to boast about. Men have suffered greater calamities in their sleep, and in their waking hours too. I should imagine that most people could easily replicate the dream by gazing at pictures of Obama during the day and inserting a butt plug before turning in for the night. I'm not suggesting anyone should do that, of course. Any US citizen who intentionally generates a nightmare of being buggered by the president is arguably guilty of sedition. I believe there's a legal precedent involving President Ulysses Grant and the owner of the Fancy Britches Saloon in Tennessee.
I dare say this fellow's confession is the tip of the iceberg - millions of men all over the world are probably having similar rape fantasies. If Village People were re-forming today, one of the band members would certainly be an Obama lookalike. When a good-looking black man gets his finger on the nuclear button, men of ambiguous tendencies discover their inner catamite.
Anyway, I mentioned this blog post to an American man staying at the safari guesthouse in the hope of making light conversation during the rainy season. His eyebrows didn't move a millimetre.
“There's a guy in Washington DC who claims Obama raped him in real life,” he said. “He sits under a sign with the words “OBAMA RAPED ME” on it, and below the headline is a story about how Obama drugged his drink and crept into his bed on a dark and stormy night. He says he told Obama's bodyguards what happened, but they didn’t do anything.”
“What a fool!” I exclaimed. “As if it’s the job of Obama's bodyguards to console his rape victims. Alleged rape victims, I should say. He sounds like another bi-curious white boy, fantasizing about being ravished by the black commander-in-chief.”
“Actually, the man was black,” corrected the guest.
“Was he indeed?” I remarked. “The plot thickens.”
Whatever the colour of his complexion, the behaviour of this fellow annoys me. America may be the land of free speech, but you shouldn’t be allowed to accuse the president of rape without substantiating the accusation. Where is the proctologist's report? Where are the cotton swabs?
If you happen to encounter this lamentable guttersnipe on a visit to Washington DC, please pass on the following message:
Gorilla Bananas says “Put up or shut up!”
Labels: Barack Obama, Buggery, Dreams, Village People
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
American Pie
I hear that little Jimmy Oliver has been making waves in the USA. Schools in California have banned him from their kitchens for fear of being shamed into feeding their children his “pukka” recipes. Someone should tell them that celebrity chefs like Jimmy are basically entertainers. You can watch them sprinkle and toss over a hot stove without the slightest intention of attempting to emulate their culinary feats. Jimmy is a sprinkler and a tosser par excellence, but British fans who want to taste his food just go to his restaurant.
The nature of Jimmy’s true calling should have been obvious when he appeared on the Letterman show and beguiled the audience with his cheeky cockney banter. His most memorable quip was that vanilla ice-cream contains an ingredient found in a beaver’s anal gland. Full marks to Jimmy for doing his homework and knowing that “beaver” is a rude word in America. There are no beavers in England, of course, only otters and ferrets, which are not particularly rude unless you put them down a man’s trousers.
I’m sure Jimmy means well in promoting healthy eating across the USA, but the premise of his transatlantic odyssey seems flawed to me. The problem with food in America is not its quality but its quantity. On my first visit to the country, I was surprised to discover that the restaurants served portions large enough for my appetite. While this was excellent news for me and other 500-pound gorillas, watching humans gorge themselves on this abundance made me feel queasy. When I noticed the overfed diners trying to squeeze their wobbly behinds into their capacious motor vehicles, my queasiness turned to revulsion. The USA, it seemed, was the Land of the Fat and the Home of the Bulbous.
Not everyone in America is overweight, of course. President Obama cuts a particularly pantherine figure as he prowls across the prairies, announcing his intention to run for re-election. I can’t help wondering whether the lardish folk of middle America resent being governed by such a svelte figure. Maybe Barry could win them over by promising to give them the secret of his slim waistline, which I suspect has something to do with sleeping with a black woman. His new campaign slogan might be “Vote Obama if you want to see your genitals without the aid of a mirror”.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I will be strictly neutral in next year’s presidential election. A gorilla does not meddle in human politics or hand-out endorsements willy-nilly. I have no idea who the Republican candidate will be, but I’m sure he’ll measure up to Barry in his vital-statistics – or her vital-statistics, for that matter. Let’s not forget Sarah Palin, still wowing her supporters and keeping in shape with her dumbbell exercises. If she wins the nomination, she’d be a much stronger candidate if she divorced her husband and persuaded Hilldog to be her running mate. The thought of two ladies cohabiting in the White House might be just the kind of gimmick that voters find irresistible.
Labels: Barack Obama, beaver, Hillary Clinton, Jimmy Oliver, Sarah Palin
Friday, August 20, 2010
Chelsea's wedding
I overheard the tourists at the safari guesthouse discussing whether the Clintons had snubbed president Obama by not inviting him to Chelsea’s wedding. It was a topic on which I could not hold my peace:
“Not getting an invitation was the best piece of luck he’s had since the Republican phone sex scandal!” I exclaimed. “If he’d gone to the wedding, protocol would have required him to give a speech praising Chelsea. Flattering a girl he’s never given a second look would have made him look like a chicken-greaser!”
“I dunno,” said one of the guests. “Lying convincingly shouldn’t be so difficult for a politician.”
He had a point. I later pondered the words that Barry might have chosen for the occasion. Perhaps he would have said something like this:
When I saw Chelsea at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, I thought: “Man, that white chick’s got a great ass!” If I hadn’t been married to my lovely wife Michelle, I would have definitely asked Chelsea to be my date at The Detroit Gospel Choir’s Annual Karaoke Dinner.
A touching tribute like that would have surely transformed Chelsea into the perfect blushing bride. But it might not have impressed the guests all that much. They would have known that a woman always gets compliments on her wedding day, no matter how frumpy or boney-assed she is. Barry is pretty good at sounding sincere, but even his majestic oratory has its limits.
He could have given another type of speech, of course – one harking back to all the fond memories he had of Chelsea since she was a tiny tot:
When Bill Clinton was running for governor of Arkansas in 1982, I was privileged to be a junior staffer on his campaign team. One of my most important jobs was baby-sitting little Chelsea when her mom and dad were on the campaign trail. Now people: I can tell you her poop smelt just as bad as the possum shit I accidentally trod on when stuffing “Vote for Bill” flyers into mail boxes. But when she started hollering I said: “You wait ‘til your folks get home, Missy, changing your diapers is a task way above my pay grade!”
This sort of reminiscence would certainly go down well with wedding guests. The one allegation that humans will always believe is that someone else’s shit smells bad. If I announced that Queen Rania of Jordan produced turds that smelt of buffalo crap, people would assume I’d worked as a lavatory cleaner at the Royal Palace in Amman.
The downside of delivering such an anecdote is the risk of alienating the president’s core constituencies, who might think that smelling the poop of a white baby had taken him into Uncle Tom territory. Hilldog might then have to reciprocate by saying she’d smelled the poop of the president’s daughters, a confession which would make her surly and irritable. Much muttering and scowling would occur in the corridors of power.
So all things considered, I think the Clintons did the president a favour by not inviting him to their daughter’s wedding. But they should have invited Monica Lewinsky – leaving her off the guest list was just petty.
Labels: Barack Obama, Chelsea Clinton, Hilldog, Monica Lewinsky, smelling poop
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Italian Knob
An Italian visitor declares that Silvio Berlusconi is the biggest “pezzo di merda” in Western Europe. I feel obliged to reprimand him for his intemperate outburst.
“Sir, your remark is uncharitable for the Christmas season. Western Europe is full of enormous pezzi di merda. Perhaps Signor Berlusconi is the biggest one in Italy, although he has tough competition, what with the Mafia and Lapo Elkann.”
There follows a civil exchange of views in which our guest cites the following examples of objectionable conduct by the Italian prime minister:
1) He wore a headscarf following a hair transplant operation, giving the excuse that he had whimsically decided to dress like a pirate.
2) He discussed his wife’s extramarital affairs with other European politicians.
3) He complimented the American president-elect on his tan.
I offer no mitigation for the first complaint. The leader of a civilised nation should never give succour to pirates, even if it is limited to copying their sartorial habits. We quickly dismiss the possibility that he had converted to Islam and was wearing the hijab. A hedonistic fellow like Berlusconi would never give up wine purely to adopt a particular form of headdress.
On the second allegation, I am far more inclined to leniency. Frankly, I can’t see much wrong in gossiping about your estranged wife’s sex life, even if the aim is to divert attention from your own debaucheries. A cuckold has his rights, and it wasn’t as if he was kissing-and-telling or revealing bedroom secrets. Indeed, his behaviour may have done much to dispel the unpleasant stereotype of the jealous Latin lover, chasing his rival with a meat cleaver.
On the third point, I am not sure what to think. Barry Obama certainly has a fine-looking tan, but drawing attention to it may be tactless. I know enough about humans to be aware that a hue obtained from a visit to the tropics is crucially different from a congenital complexion. All the same, I sense that Barry is the kind of man to take such remarks in his stride and give the wag making them a smack on the back for his impudence. He certainly has the sun-tanned look of a coffee-commercial actor. Perhaps he should star in such an advertisement with the Secretary of State presumptive, to help her pay off her campaign debts. Imagine them together on a yacht, Barry loitering on deck with his shirt unbuttoned as Hillary brings him light refreshment in a bikini:
“Mmm-hmm! You sure make a mean cup of coffee, Hilldog!” he might say after savouring a long sip with his eyes closed.
I hear that the hotels in DC are fully booked for Barry’s inauguration in January. I expect they’re all terribly excited about the speech he is going to make. I hope he comes up with some new material rather than rehashing all the old stuff about “change, we can do it, yes we can”. If I were his speech writer, I’d make sure Britney Spears got a mention after all the trouble she’s been through. It’s very easy to criticise a woman for exposing her shaven cha-cha to photographers, but don’t forget that she was driven to it by her ex-husband, a worm so disreputable that even other worms find him slimy.
Never have I witnessed a celebrity divorce where the blame was so much on one side. Had I been the presiding judge, I would have sternly rebuked the repulsive rapster before plucking him like a Christmas fowl.
“Federline,” I would have said, “you are a talentless bounder! I hereby give full custody of the children to Miss Spears. You must also give her all your assets, including the clothes you are wearing. Officer of the court, strip this man at once! Leave his briefs on, though, he has caused enough offence for one day.”
Anyway, I hope that President Obama finds a job for Britney in his administration. Nothing too important, just a little something to allow her to regain her pride and present the middle finger to her critics. Given the state of her nether regions, ambassador to Brazil might be a good post.
The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return in one week.
Labels: Barack Obama, Britney Spears, Silvio Berlusconi
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
A new era?
I am surprised to see a white-haired, white-suited American gentleman at the safari guesthouse. I ask him whether he has submitted his ballot by post.
“No member of my family has participated in a presidential election since Mr Lincoln ran for office in 1860,” he declares in a wheezy Southern drawl. “Any poll that could make that long-legged Yankee jackanape its winner is no better than a pig-in-the-poke auction at a carnival.”
I suck my teeth and nod, as if his views were widely held among the gorillas of the
So it looks like Mr Obama has won. Call me a sentimental ape, but I’d always rather hoped that Sidney Poitier would be
I can’t help sighing wistfully at all these fresh-faced young Americans who expect the world to love their country now that Morgan Freeman Junior is headed for the White House. If only life were that simple! They should consider what would have happened if Dirty Harry had started sweet-talking everyone and inviting them to settle their differences with him amicably. He might have initially impressed a few wishy-washy types in the DA’s office, but the carping would have resumed the very next time he fired his 44-Magnum in anger. As for the hoodlums and assassins, they would have hated him all the more for behaving like a pussy.
I’m not saying that President Obama has to punk anyone out himself to prove a point – that would be undignified. But he ought to make a few strong appointments to send the right signals. My recommendation for the top job at the Pentagon would be Oscar ‘Mad Coyote’ Johnson, the big cat trainer from
Yet when all is said and done, the fate of a great nation lies not in the palm of any one man, nor even in his navel or armpit. From sea to shining sea shall the people renew the cryptic chords of union. The granite-faced farmer of Vermont; the powder-faced hoochie of LA; the folks in between with the big, wobbly bottoms – together they shall bring forth a new birth of shopping malls and condos for the honest real estate speculator to chance his remaining dollars on. And given the current state of the market, that would be no bad thing. E pluribus unum poonam bajwa as we say in the
Labels: Abraham Lincoln, Barack Obama, Sidney Poitier
