Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Happy birthday Yoko!
Yoko Ono is 80! Her birthday was actually in February, so I’m offering her my belated best wishes. I hope she’ll understand how difficult it is to keep track of celebrity birthdays in the rainforest. I only really notice the passage of time when the crocodiles start humping.
What a fascinating human being Yoko is! People have often wondered how a demur, soft-spoken Japanese woman could be so barmy. I blame it on the American military occupation of Japan following World War 2. When a teenage girl used to a diet of steamed rice and vegetables suddenly starts binging on chocolates and Coca-cola, it has a similar effect on her brain to LSD. She later did take acid, of course, and her disordered mind began to make weird connections, such as noticing the humour in men’s private parts. Did she laugh at John Lennon’s dick? It wouldn’t surprise me, but I doubt it damaged their relationship.
I once made the mistake of discussing the break-up of the Beatles with the manager of the safari camp. I said it wasn’t Yoko’s fault because the lads had already grown apart and were following diverging paths. This provoked a furious response:
“Of course it was Yoko’s fault, you ignorant ape!” barked the manager. “You don’t have a clue what was going on behind the scenes! She put a hex on the band and made weird mewling noises when they were rehearsing. If it wasn’t for her interference, John would be alive today and the Beatles would be playing in the Cavern!”
There was no point arguing with an irrational outburst like that, so I turned my back on him and farted before returning to the jungle.
The good news is that Paul has settled the issue by stating that Yoko didn’t break up the Beatles. What a nice thing to say after all the spiteful words that ping-ponged between them. Paul must have realised that there were bitchier women than Yoko on the face of the Earth after his divorce from Heather Mills. Whatever nasty things Yoko said about him, she didn’t cost him 30 million bucks. Let’s hope he goes to watch her perform at this summer’s music festival in London, where she’ll be singing the songs that John recorded shortly before he was assassinated by the mad assassin.
Another person who ought to go to the concert is Bjorn Ulvaeus, who praised the Beatles in a recent interview. When asked whether the Abba girls got annoyed when their husbands were chased by groupies, Bjorn replied:
“You may find this unbelievable but we never really had them.”
It does surprise me that neither Bjorn nor Benny attracted a single groupie at the height of their fame in Abba. But “unbelievable” is a strong word, particularly after looking at old photos of the band. If Bjorn says there were no groupies, I will accept his statement as factual if he gives me his word as a gentleman and a Swede.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Croatian breast festival
Croatian feminists are furious about the breast festival held in their country, where the bosoms of nubile women were weighed, measured and graded like so many tomatoes or aubergines. They pooh-poohed the organisers’ point that the purpose of the event was to raise money for a terminally ill man.
“There are all sorts of other ways that they could have raised money for this man without insulting women," said Ruza Vukovic, a woman’s rights activist.
I suppose you’re wondering which side of the dispute I’m on. It seems that some of my readers don’t know what to think about the issues of the day until they’ve received my direction.
“I’m still waiting to hear whether you approve of the mankini,” wrote one correspondent in a recent email.
Well, it’s not my business to takes sides on such controversial issues. The Prime Jungle Directive forbids gorillas from interfering in the disputes of humanity. Rather than batting for one team, my role is to mediate by suggesting an honourable compromise that might be acceptable to both parties.
Is there a way this festival could have been made non-sexist? What if an equal number of male contestants had taken part, having their breasts examined and judged in the same way as the women? There is surely no question of demeaning women if the breasts of both genders are up for grabs.
It goes without saying that the women would win hands-down in a unisex event. I hope no one will accuse me of being sexist when I say that women have much nicer bosoms than men. Many are the occasions on which I have grunted in disgust on seeing an overweight man pull off his t-shirt to reveal a hideously blubbery pair of man-tits. The moob is an ugly freak of Nature, as offensive to primate eyes as the African Banana Slug.
In the tournament that actually took place, the title of most beautiful breasts went to Danijela Golubovic, a 23-year-old nurse:
"It was a bit strange but after all it is for charity, and I'm glad that I could take part in helping to raise cash," she said.
How fitting that a nurse, whose profession is to heal the sick, was willing to use her boobs to bring comfort to a dying man. I think I would love this woman if her chest were like William Shatner’s.
A lady’s jahoobies are not always a force for good, of course. A man in San Francisco was unable to give the police a useful description of the woman who rammed his car because he was distracted by her bosom.
"He was able to describe the suspect as having a low cut dress and gave a detailed description of her cleavage," explained police captain Greg Corrales.
It’s all too easy to mock the victim in such cases, while ignoring the infamous behaviour of the culprit. It would be a sad day for road safety if the perpetrator of a hit-and-run accident escaped justice because she had a vast pair of hooters.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
It’s common knowledge than women find men in uniforms attractive. Even we gorillas know that. But is it possible they prefer doctors to soldiers, sailors and firemen? That’s what a recent survey suggests, indicating that 61% of women go weak at the knees when they see a man in a white coat.
My regular readers will know that it’s my habit to ask the manager of the safari camp for his input on such conundrums. Unfortunately, he was out collecting narcotic toads when I arrived, so I asked his wife instead.
“The explanation is obvious, GB,” she said. “Doctors make the most money.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” I replied. “I had some cockamamie notion of women being turned on by arrogant men who can order them to undress and examine their bodies with impunity. But obviously that’s nonsense. Thanks for putting me straight.”
“Hmm, not so fast, GB,” said the manager’s wife. “Your idea is not a bad one if the doctor looks like George Clooney. My doctor looks like George Lucas so I never thought of it. Your intuition about women’s fantasies is very good for a gorilla. Do you know any other ones?”
“Madam, you are too kind.” I replied. “Regrettably, I don’t spend very much time thinking up arousing daydreams for women. There’s so little need for it in the jungle. But if such a fancy does occur to me, you’ll be the first to know.”
You’ll notice that I refrained from sniggering when she mentioned George Clooney, whose appearances in ER could be part of the reason for the survey results. What’s funny about George is that the affection women have for him appears to be largely unrequited. So great is his liking for the society of men that his big sister had to issue a statement denying he is gay. I personally never doubted George’s preference for carnal relations with women. It’s just their company he finds irksome. Maybe he was severely hen-pecked by his college sweetheart…or his big sister. These things can happen to the machoest of men.
I’m not convinced about the importance of the white coat, though. Clooney would clearly be attractive to women in any uniform apart from a clown’s costume. Dr McCoy, on the other hand, never wore one on the Enterprise and was far from being a hit with the babes. I can only remember him getting into one promising situation with a woman, and he gave her the following line:
“My dear girl, I’m a doctor. When I peek it’s in the line of duty!”
That’s not the sort of remark which makes a girl feel desirable. Wearing a white coat would not have helped with that level of seduction skills.
Of course, it’s reassuring for a woman to know she’s with a man who only peeks in a professional capacity. This could not be said of the two scoundrels who fell through the ceiling of a lady’s lavatory in Duluth. Star Trek might have been created to educate such brigands.
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Mars dick doodle
So the Mars Rover has drawn a penis on the surface of the red planet. The folks at NASA are stressing it was an accident:
“The image created was the unintended outcome of its exploratory manoeuvres,” announced a spokesman gravely.
Or in other words, one small cock-up by a machine, one giant cock on a planet.
I hope they don’t make the Rover scratch out its doodle. The Martian willy could be a major attraction for future space tourists, comparable in appeal to the horny chalk-man in Dorset. Perhaps the Rover should draw a giant vulva alongside it, to give equal emphasis to the male and female genitalia. Otherwise visitors might think 21st century humans were dick-obsessed maniacs like the ancient Romans, who considered the vagina a mere receptacle for the all-conquering cock.
It wasn’t just the Romans who were fond of phallic artefacts. The stiffy was venerated by most pagan civilisations until Christianity came along and told them it was embarrassing. The time has surely come for modern-day Christians to admit their forefathers made a mistake and reclaim this ancient custom. Obviously, there’s no point asking the Pope to rehabilitate the phallus – he would immediately suspect it was a trick to make him incriminate himself. It would have to be a leading Protestant, pure of body and spirit.
Do I have anyone in mind? Indeed I do. I nominate Sir Cliff Richard, one of the few world-famous Christians with no skeletons in his trousers. It wouldn’t be difficult to get him on board. I’d remind him of the psalm which says “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”, which is as phallic as it comes in Holy Scripture. I’m pretty confident this would spur Cliff into action – he’s the kind of guy who would glue his arse cheeks together if the Bible told him to.
Now I’m aware that Cliff has his fair share of detractors who think he’s the uncoolest person on the planet (Earth, not Mars). Some horticultural students recently jumped on the bandwagon by claiming that his music killed off the plants when they played it in a greenhouse. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought of this dubious experiment, he predictably expressed confidence in its results:
“Of course his music makes plants shrivel and die!” he declared. “It’s had the same effect on my erections on more than one occasion. You’re a mad hairy fool if you think he’s a suitable patron for the phallus!”
I dismissed his remarks as the ravings of a Satanist. It doesn’t really matter what Cliff’s music does to organic matter anyway. No one’s going to play it during the Festival of the Sacred Cucumber. The important thing is that he’s incredibly popular with Christians, who would follow his lead on the role of the todger in spiritual life. Imagine those pious, earnest faces offering prayers to a mighty dong made of marble and granite. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, nothing will.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
End of the bra?
A French scientist is claiming that bras are useless:
"Medically, physiologically, anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity,” declared Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon. “Instead, it languishes with a bra.”
So he says, but can a Frenchman be trusted on this delicate question? Devising compelling arguments for a woman to take off her bra is a celebrated diversion of French intellectual life. I believe Jean-Paul Satre devoted a chapter to it in his PhD thesis.
The Americans, by contrast, remain as resolutely pro-bra as ever:
“The first lady will not be changing her pectoral apparel in light of this development,” said a White House spokesman.
As a gorilla whose own experience on this subject is lacking, I have little data with which to assess these competing claims. On the one hand, the tribal women of Africa have never worn bras. On the other hand, many of these women have exceptionally droopy titties. Yet wearing bras may have made them even droopier.
If I were to study humans in the same way that Dian Fossey studied gorillas, I would go around the world with an inch tape asking women to let me take their measurements. I have no plans to do so, because subjecting women’s breasts to meticulous scrutiny would be undignified for a gorilla. Such tasks should be left to men, whose reputation on this issue is already in tatters.
One band of intrepid women who should welcome Professor Rouillon’s findings is FEMEN, the Ukrainian feminist group that specialises in bare-bosomed protests. Their latest exploit was to ambush President Putin at the Hanover Trade Fair while Frau Merkel was showing him the latest German equipment. Alexandra Shevchenko is the name of the FEMEN activist who managed to invade Mr Putin’s personal space and scream the slogan “Fuck dictator!” at him (which was inscribed on her breasts for good measure). Putin responded to this affront by puffing out his own chest and raising his eyebrows in an ironic grimace.
“It was a very intimate moment,” said Miss Shevchenko afterwards.
Undoubtedly this protest would have been less effective had Alexandra been wearing a bra, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly effective without one. President Putin seemed too intrigued by the messenger to notice the message, and no doubt laughed the whole thing off as a futile attempt to arouse him sexually. You can’t humiliate an ex-KGB man by showing him your jahoobies. Such displays are dismissed as decadent frippery in the official spy manual.
Sadly, the one dictator who might be cowed by naked breast-power is unlikely ever to face that ordeal. I refer to Kim Jong Un, whose baby cheeks would surely burn with shame if they were smothered between a pair of voluptuous boobies. This explains why the only females allowed in his presence are pubescent pom-pom girls and flat-chested army secretaries. I wonder if anyone could persuade Pamela Anderson to parachute behind enemy lines, so she could tit-slap some sense into the abominable little upstart?
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Russell Brand, the chirpy English comedian, has asked the Kardashian sisters to join him in a “threesome”. As there are three sisters, he must have meant a foursome. No matter. Errors in arithmetic are easy to make when the brain is befuddled with thoughts of debauchery. I once saw a baboon lose count of his kola nuts after a female flashed her red rump at him.
Brand was not put off by the fact that one of the Kardashians is with child and another is lactating. He admitted fantasizing about “limitless, foaming rivers of milk and orgasm”. Khloe Kardashian was quick to respond to this seductive cocktail of creamy juices:
“I heard that pregnant pussy is the best pussy,” she remarked.
I don’t know whether that’s true, but it looks like Russell is pushing at an open door.
As a gorilla, I am very wary of the idea of mating with more than one female at a time. Such disorderly tussles can lead to bickering and accidents if the roles are not clearly defined. It ruins the mood if two females clash heads when attempting the same manoeuvre. I would advise Brand and the K-sisters to hire a choreographer before attempting to enact their pageant of depravity. It’s better to invest in solid production values than put on a show that flops.
Is it my imagination, or have an unusually large number of actresses got knocked up recently? The latest was Halle Berry, who said that having a child at the age of 46 was the biggest surprise of her life:
“I thought I was past the point where this could be a reality for me,” she explained.
She obviously isn’t aware that menopausal ovaries hold a few eggs in reserve which can pop out at short notice when man-seed gets squirted upstream. Mother Nature is a sly old bird who can trick humans into reproducing just when they think it’s safe to go bareback. Mind you, I could probably have told her she was still fertile by giving her crotch a good sniff after her Kegel exercises. We jungle creatures have a good nose for reproductive hormones.
Now I don’t care what hanky panky humans get up to as long as they follow the golden rule: keep it in your own species. I was sorry to hear of another horrible case of bestiality in China, where a man was rushed to hospital after having butt sex with an eel. The eel was definitely not consenting, even though it took the active role. After getting trapped inside the man’s gut, it had to be extracted by surgeons. A member of the medical team described its tragic fate:
“It was still alive when we got it out but it died soon afterwards, which was probably a mercy.”
I wonder if this sort of thing is now happening in China because of the years of sexual repression they suffered in the days when everyone wore a Mao suit. The sooner they get it out of their system the better.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Did Justin Bieber abandon his monkey? Everyone seems to think so, but the facts look inconclusive to me. The monkey was taken away from him when he arrived in Germany because its papers weren’t in order. You could argue that Bieber should have put his foot down and threatened to leave the country, but the German authorities are responsible for instigating the estrangement. You can’t blame Bieber for not accompanying his monkey to its quarantine cell and living off nuts and berries. A growing boy needs milk and cookies to keep his chest fluff growing.
It was foolish of the Germans to act so high and mighty. They’re unpopular enough in Europe for squeezing the assets of the Greeks and Cypriots. At the very least, they should have found a good foster home for the monkey instead putting it in a cage. I would have given the creature to Lilo Wanders, the celebrity transsexual, whose lavish home is equipped with the latest restraining devices for monkeys and other stray beasts. I doubt such measures would have been necessary, though. The most agitated monkey would be soothed by resting its head on Miss Wanders' hormonally enhanced bosom.
One has to wonder whether things will ever be the same between Bieber and his simian pet. The monkey has no knowledge of German quarantine laws and probably thinks it was sent to boarding school. It may well be happy to return to Bieber, but it’s bound to feel resentment when it reflects on its ordeal. How will it avoid comparing Bieber with Michael Jackson, who treated Bubbles the chimp as an inseparable companion and bedmate until death did them part? Such reflections might incite it to take revenge by secretly scouring its anus with Bieber’s toothbrush. Monkeys have a gift for sly and sneaky sabotage.
In truth, it’s rarely a good idea for a human to have a pet monkey. The species are too similar to avoid unrealistic expectations. Even a confirmed pet lover like Paris Hilton couldn’t make it work. As she explained to her fans:
“My monkey was really cute but used to screech and go crazy whenever he saw me naked. I think he wanted to touch my boobs or something but was too confused to ask. I had to lock him in the closet whenever I wanted to watch TV in the nude. So I put him up for adoption and found him a new home in a zoo.”
The ironic thing is that Justin himself would make a much-loved pet – he seems to inspire the same feelings as a rabbit or a faun. Teenage girls can be very sentimental about shy delicate creatures that like to be stroked. Perhaps Paris Hilton should adopt him as her human pet and teach him how to handle all the negative publicity he’s been getting. One assumes Bieber is man enough to see her naked without freaking out like a monkey. He can always close his eyes if he gets too flustered.