Ear Tagging Gorillas

November 7, 2011 by Anonymous

Dear Magic Eight Ball -  I am a small business owner in North Carolina and am having a grand opening for my new high-end pet food store. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get more people to buy dog food so I can take the family to Majorca, Spain, on vacation this summer. 

Signed, Marty in NC.

Dear Marty,

That reminds of the time I was ear-tagging silver-backed mountain gorillas in Uganda in '62. We had been trekking all night  through the congo when I was struck with a terrible Tsi Tsi fly fever.  Zamunda, my faithful guide, stayed with me while the rest of the party pushed on. I remember him tenderly placing cold rags upon my brow, and spitting streams of cool, clean water into my mouth.

We had no buckets or gourds, so the ingenious fellow hiked to the river two miles away, scooped up the water between his cheeks and thusly delivered it to me. Three days later, I awoke to the smell of chewing tobbacco and jelly doughnuts (Zamunda lived on the things) only to find that Zamunda had carried me on his back for 20 miles, catching us up with the rest of the group. My sponsors were delighted I survived.  

We made camp and began our joyful task of wresting the mountain gorillas to the ground and clipping their ears with tags. It was a fine time. Until one night, a pride of hunger-crazed man-eating lions burst through the verdancy and pounced upon us. As the hell cats devoured us, one of the gorillas snatched me up into the trees, shuttling me to safety high among the canopy. 

Zamunda, poor, kind man, was not so fortunate. A powdered jelly donut to you my friend! The great ape leapt from vine to vine, as I clutched to his back, my hands aching from strain, the branches of the corkwood trees slashing at my face. We swung high into the mist-shrouded mountains, for what seemed like days. Until, suddenly, we stopped and he threw me down to the green earth, knocking me out cold.

When I awoke, the mist had lifted and I found myself placed upon a stone pedestal in the middle of a village of thatched huts.  I was surrounded by villagers in loin cloths. All around, the ground glimmered with  golden ingots as big as pig skulls. 

The Chief, a giant feather-plumed warrior with an elephant trunk for a hat, lifted me up and held me aloft, his hands jutting me toward the sky. He screamed and the villagers bowed, then danced around in what I could only describe as a wild frenzy. Over and over again they chanted "PInzoogla! Pinzoogla!" as the Chief had screamed. Later I learned Pinzoogla meant "One-eyed God!"

Ah, those were heady days -- being treated  as their deity, the festive atmosphere of Friday night sacrifices, skinny dipping with my concubines in the languid pools, fearing nothing but the 50-foot chameleon-like pythons and the poison-beaked Tewaku birds. I wanted to stay, but alas, the day came when they saw me using a shrunken head to pry a gold ingot from the ground. I fled, their angry spears and arrows and poisoned-tipped darts whipping past my ears. It was a grand time.

What was your question? Oh, yes: Ask again later.

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