Written by Kenneth Manboobs
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Wednesday, 23 June 2004

image for Excerpts from the memoirs of John Devonshire, Esq.

Chapter III – Never Trust a Big Butt and a Smile

June 23, 1892 (Friday)
Locality: South of Lake Victoria

This morning we came upon a number of red-assed monkeys. They have been plentiful on our journey as my documentation bears out in earlier entries. I have only shot two of the beasts today. One fell dead on the spot while the other managed to scamper off into the overgrown jungle.

We also had a terrible brush with some six or seven hippopotami in shallow water. I would have shot several of them but I have been advised against doing so by our guide, Mutubu, as I have previously ruined three of our watercraft trying to accomplish the very same thing. I am quite sure that these beasts communicate telepathically. The brood this morning knew we had taken shots at their kind earlier in the week, so they waited for us today, lurking in the shallow waters.

Last week, the 15th I believe, we ran into a pack of native women in Ekaturaka, a large town on the left bank of the river. It was here I was to face my biggest challenge of the excursion to this point.

Our boat needed repairs after a chance meeting with African crocodiles (another animal Mutubu has since forbade me to shoot at). While in port we happened upon a supply of native intoxicants (we also found alcohol). These ravishing specimens captured my attention with their smooth ebony skin, massive ocular ports, and the largest, firmest bottoms I have ever been witness to.

I fancied one of the natives in particular, she did not have a discernable name so christened her Gluconia. If there ever was a name for a country that was overrun with ample-cheeked women it would be named Gluconia, I am sure of it.

That night a feast was held in our honor. We partook of large brownish green tree-frogs (Rana albolabris) and red-assed monkey testicles. Our libation was a rather interesting concoction; apparently it is produced by crushing native berries in a water-tight container, then many of the aforementioned women expectorate saliva into the basket until the container is nearly full. At that point the villagers seal the whole thing up and let it ferment for a period of weeks. The end result is not pleasing to the eye but it makes for a tremendous ice-breaker.

Gluconia and I spent the night swapping tales, mine of blowing holes in things while hers tended to be a series of clicks and pops, much like Morse code. I nodded politely, all the while waiting to steal a glimpse of her ginormous posterior.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen I did a good bit more than steal a glimpse that night. When I awoke, not only did I apparently wrestle with a red-assed monkey I also found out that I was betrothed.

The entire ceremony the previous night was intended to marry off Gluconia and I took the bate like a fool. Not even Mutubu could talk the tribe’s elders out of the decision.

Once our fate was sealed, we headed on our way, one load heavier and one more thing on Mutubu’s list of things I am not allowed to open up both barrels on.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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