I married a talking gorilla

A true great ape of the nonhuman variety, but he’s not without his charms. The conversation, for instance. He’ll talk engagingly about politics, economics, sociology, fine art. When the mood strikes him, usually in bed late at night, he’ll wax existential. His simian mind is easily captivated by computers, to our mutual profit and thank god. In a room full of such machines, my husband is kept occupied for hours. During these precious times I almost forget he’s not Hominidae.

Upon rising from the screens and keyboards, however, my spouse’s unrulier primate qualities come tumbling to the hairy fore. Civilized meals are a challenge when one is indifferent to the percentage of food making it into the mouth – and his percentages are not particularly high. Particles adorn his breast and decorate the floor beneath him; he leaves them undisturbed, generous gifts for the ants and flies. Often my husband will take to flinging meat about the kitchen. I used to think gorillas were herbivorous creatures, but mine is curiously well-adapted to beef and pork. (He will consume the occasional bushel of kale, provided its leaves are heavily seasoned with garlic and salt.)

Grunting and chest-beating are not uncommon occurrences in our household. In fact, I would say my other half indulges in displays of dominance and aggression towards hypothetical male rivals at least once a day. Most pleasing to him, though, are the acts of farting and shitting. Every time matter leaves his asshole – be it solid, liquid, or gas – he chuckles like a retarded child. Poop is a subject of infinite enjoyment. Who could argue otherwise? he opines.

So why did I marry a talking gorilla? Why do I love him like I do? When he wraps me in his vast gorilla arms, I know he’ll protect me from the dangers of the jungle. Enfolded in his animal musk, I think he smells just like a real man should.

~ by kingzoko on July 30, 2014.

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