Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Beatle for Sale

So the manager of the safari camp told me that Paul McCartney was paid a million dollars to perform at a billionaire’s investment conference:

“Money can’t buy you love, but it sure can buy you a Beatle,” he remarked wryly.

“Paul is a vegetarian and a friend of the gorilla nation,” I replied haughtily. “I will not believe gossip about him until I have researched the matter to my own satisfaction.”

My investigations have since confirmed that the story is well-founded, although there are several qualifications to add. A million dollars is pocket money for Paul, so he was clearly there to network and promote his own investment ideas. Many of those fund managers will soon be putting money into sea cucumber farms. They were also ardent fans of his music:

“I love you Paul!” screamed one investor, jumping up from her seat the moment he appeared.

I’m not the least bit envious of these people. The truly lucky ones were those who heard the Beatles rehearse in the studio. The Beatles themselves were incredibly lucky to have heard themselves play when they were playing.

Although I did not attend the famous rooftop concert at Savile Row, I am proud to reveal that a couple of chimpanzees were among the onlookers. Having been hired to appear in a TV commercial, they were being measured for suits in a nearby couturier when the music started. Quick as a flash, the scarpered out of the shop and bounded up the tallest building in the street to get a panoramic view of the action. The Fab Four’s hirsute appearance affected them as deeply as the music, which they danced to in the traditional arms-forward-bum-backwards style.

People often wonder why it took the police over 40 minutes to end the concert, which was causing major traffic jams as well as annoying several old farts in the vicinity. I can now clear up this mystery. When the Beatles started playing, a retired army colonel phoned the police to demand that they “stop that bloody din” coming from the roof of a nearby building. He put his phone receiver outside his window so the duty sergeant could hear it for himself, and this witless Plod, being no aficionado of pop music, told a couple of fresh-faced constables to “get the Monkees off the roof”. This caused the hapless Bobbies to waste half an hour trying to evict the chimps from their vantage point (an impossible task given the comparative gymnastic abilities of humans and chimps). It took another phone call from the irate colonel to make the sergeant realise his error and redirect his troops to the Apple studios.

To be honest, I don’t blame Paul for preferring to hang out with rich people like himself. His fingers and toes got badly burned by Heather Millstone, who not only fleeced him for 30 million bucks but aired a lot of dirty linen that should have remained in the laundry basket. As we say in the jungle, if you swim with the crocodiles it might cost you an arm and a leg. 

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Wednesday, November 12, 2014

A spicy confession

Mel B, the Scary Spice Girl, has said she is no longer a lesbian:

“I was one of those for a few years but that was years ago,” she confessed on a chat show.

Call me an innocent ape, but I never knew she was ever “one of those”. Now that I do know, I don’t approve of her dismissing it as a bad habit she managed to kick. Being a lesbian is not like a fad for wearing Velcro underwear – there are serious issues to be pondered and important commitments to be made. The good lesbian is a pillar of her community, test-driving motorbikes and organising ladies’ bowling nights. If she is a famous diva, she should sing audacious songs to gee up the rank-and-file. The lesbian who only feathers her own nest is a freeloader at the party – the girl who eats all the cupcakes without helping to wash the dishes.

The ironic aspect of Miss Scary’s renunciation is that she was, by all accounts, a virtuoso in the Sapphic arts. Her debaucheries were astounding in their impudence and opportunism. A former playboy model called Luann Lee recalls how Mel followed her into a disabled toilet:

“I went into the handicapped stall because it’s bigger and I wanted to put my purse down and she just popped in with me. She said, ‘Do you mind?’ and came right in. She was a good kisser. Her lips are very soft and full and she has a tender touch. It was maybe a five-minute kiss and after that she started going for other areas.”

Would it be wrong to conclude from this that Miss Scary is a natural-born lesbian? I don’t claim to be an expert on such matters, but I can’t imagine a more flattering testimony.

The most startling revelation of all is that Miss Scary may have fondled her fellow Spice Girls. The precise nature of these intimacies has not been disclosed, although where lesbian acts are concerned, a little touching goes a long way. She did nevertheless claim to have kissed all four of them:

“Back in the day I had fun,” she told a goggle-eyed Howerd Stern. “I got my tongue pierced and I wanted to try out my tongue piercing and so I kissed them all.”

She did not say which of her bandmates was affected most deeply by her erotic advances. I would like to think she had the strongest designs on Miss Ginger, who would have surely reciprocated warmly. The thought of her dark limbs enwrapping Miss Ginger’s fleshy white body is a pleasing conjecture for primates of all species.

All in all, the record shows that Miss Scary was an enthusiastic dabbler in lesbian pursuits and took many positives from the experience. She should not have brushed off this important episode in her life as a youthful indiscretion. I would urge her to book an appointment with Ellen Degeneres to apologise and do penance. Even an ex-lesbian should sometimes be willing to eat humble pie.

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Wednesday, November 05, 2014

My momma done tol' me

Halle Berry says her mother told her to always wear a bra, even in bed. While it’s nice to hear of a mother giving her daughter sartorial advice, she shouldn’t have made it public. According to Halle, following this dictum has kept her breasts perky at the age of 48, which suggests it was a valuable trade secret, like an old family recipe for pumpkin pie. Now that the cat is out of the bag, women the world over will be keeping their boobs permanently encased in the hope of replicating the Berry bust. This is unlikely to increase the sum of human happiness.

Let us consider the issues arising. There are women, I believe, who take great pleasure in removing their chest cups after returning home from a hard day at the souk. What will become of them now? Will they unhappily conform to the new orthodoxy or live with the guilt of allowing their breasts to swing freely? This painful dilemma would not have arisen if Halle had kept her trap shut.

Then there are other women, like my friend Kola Boof, who believe that liberating the jahoobies from their unnatural confinement is a revolutionary act of self-empowerment. If her comradely sisters suddenly started wearing bras, the consequences would be dire. I have visions of her wandering from hamlet to hamlet with her hair unkempt and her breasts smeared with soot, wailing and cursing like a vengeful priestess. Only those with nerves of steel would be unperturbed by her prophecies of doom.

As for the menfolk, one imagines they would approve of the greater quantity of shapely bosoms on display, although constantly turning their heads might strain their necks. But the realisation would soon dawn that these delightfully-packaged dumplings would never be available to play with in their denuded state. This would make them feel like boys in a sweet shop fully of juicy bonbons whose brightly-coloured wrappers they weren’t allowed to remove. The frustration would be intense and might drive many of them mad.

After painting such a grim prognosis, I should lighten the gloom with some cheerier news. Cameron Diaz has announced that she would be happy to “strip completely” in a film role, as long as it was in good taste and befitted the script. Even those who have no wish to see her naked should appreciate her willingness to go the extra mile for her art and her public. It remains to be seen whether the movie moguls will find a tasteful part for her to display her tasty parts.

I reckon the best way of holding her to her word would be to offer her the female lead in a big screen version of the Adam and Eve story. The early part of the film would have all the nudity, with Cameron frolicking unashamedly in glistening pastures and cavorting energetically with the furry creatures of Paradise. There would also be nude scenes with Adam, where they innocently play the humpy-pumpy game God taught them for the purpose of begetting. The biggest headache might be finding a convincing snake.

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Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The invention of sex

Scientists have discovered that the first sexual act was performed 385 million years ago by a pair of fish. It makes perfect sense to me. Fish are slippery, wiggly creatures that congregate in vast shoals. They could easily have sex with each other by accident. Furthermore, the fish tail is sexy enough to make mermaids attractive to men. Wrestling with a thrashing tail fin isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but there are macho types who get turned on by such challenges. The danger to the gonads is part of the thrill.

The discovery of piscine coitus was made by an eminent biologist who examined an ancient fossil of the species Microbrachius dicki.

"The male has large bony claspers. These are the grooves that they use to transfer sperm into the female," explained Professor John Long of Flinders University.

Full marks to the professor for his keen-eyed observation, but couldn’t he have inferred the existence of a sexual appendage from the creature’s name? If the Romans went to the trouble of giving a fish a Latin appellation, it’s likely that they intended to provide an anatomical hint.

Another interesting point is that the dickies did it side-to-side rather than in the missionary position (or doggie-style):

"The very first act of copulation was done sideways, square-dance style," declared Professor Long.

That’s just how I’d want to do it if I were a fish. In an ocean full of sharks, you’ve got to keep on swimming rather than lying on your back and dreaming of Mr Pouty. Maybe they had orgies with ten or twenty fishes swimming alongside each other –  a wonder of Nature that would have curled the flippers of Jacques Cousteau.

However these ancient fish made love, I bet they were more dignified than Miss Daniele Watts. The B-list actress was recently arrested for pleasuring her boyfriend in a parked car. When the policeman turned up, she refused to show him her ID and accused him of picking on her because she was black. This couldn’t have been true because the officer was responding to a complaint. If she’d been smarter, she would have accused the person who snitched on her of racism. I should imagine he was a grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, whose nostrils twitched in fury as she straddled her white boyfriend.

What settles the issue for me is the fact that Miss Watts got her break in show business by appearing in a movie directed by Quentin Tarentino. We can therefore take it as read that one or more of her toes has been sucked by Tarentino. He would not give an unknown actress a part in one of his films unless she consented to his favourite perversion.

A woman whose toe has been sucked by Tarentino will have no sense of propriety. Having sex with her boyfriend in a public place would probably seem quite normal to her. If I were the judge, I would sentence her to a hundred hours of therapy with a pedicure specialist. We gorillas are merciful.

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Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Boob Jam

I recently got an email from someone called ‘Mo Terboter’. I was inclined not to open it after reading that ridiculous name in my inbox. But curiosity never killed the gorilla’s cat, so I decided to have a peek at what this obvious mountebank had to say. For good or ill, his message his printed below:

Dear Bananas
Do you like playing computer games? There are some new ones you ought to have a look at in a site called Boob Jam. They put you in the position of a woman who’s tending to her titties. I did a google search for blogs about breasts and yours came up on page 1. You’re almost as obsessed about them as I am! Would you be interested in reviewing these games in your blog? More information about Boob Jam is in this BBC link.

He was lying about the google search. He probably found this blog inappropriately linked in some ape fetish site. I sent him the following curt reply:

Dear Mr Terboter
The answer to both your questions is ‘No’. I will not chide you for the lack of decorum in your message, as you obviously have no grasp of such niceties. I should be grateful, nonetheless, if you would refrain from further correspondence.
Yours etc
G Bananas

Although I certainly won’t be reviewing any of these eccentric computer games, the concept behind them is of anthropological interest. According to the BBC site, ‘Boob Jam’ was an on-line conference at which people swapped ideas for games about breasts. However nothing bawdy was allowed. They had to focus on everyday issues of bosom-maintenance rather than anything related to hanky-panky.

The originator of this concept is Ms Jenn Frenk, a “scholar of videogame culture and history”. She lamented the fact that breasts in video games were treated purely as sexual objects for people who did not have them, i.e. men.

“Accuracy in this context means better jiggle physics,” she asserted.

I have much admiration for Ms Frenk and her jiggle physics. She has every right to remind us that the female bosom came into being for reasons other than the rendition of cheap thrills. The vested interests that profit from the depiction of breasts as bouncy, globular fun pillows don’t want people to know what a burden they can be for their owners. Such problems are especially aggravating for bustier ladies like Dolly Parton, who suffered from back strain before her reduction surgery.

Yet, much as I sympathise with the difficulties women encounter in attending to their jahoobies, I can’t see the point of recreating them in a computer game. It is entirely feasible to provide succour to the afflicted without experiencing the affliction yourself. If a well-stacked lady told me how hard it was to find a comfortable bra, I would nod gravely and massage my thighs. My empathy for her predicament would not be enhanced by controlling a pair of computer-generated jugs. As far as I’m concerned, these booby games deserve the booby prize.

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Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Facebook fiasco

Facebook has been forced to apologise to the drag queens it mindlessly evicted from its community. The networking site recently adopted a policy of banning users with “assumed names”, causing it to delete the accounts of artistes such as Paula Pantyhose and Selina Sugartits. The wronged ladies were reinstated after they formed a pressure group to protest against this blatant persecution. You can’t get away with tranny-bashing in this day and age.

Some of you must be wondering whether I have a Facebook account which fell foul of this odious regulation. Yes and yes. Fortunately, I managed to confuse their Gestapo-like detection software by changing the spelling of my noble name. A gorilla who knows how to evade deadly snakes isn’t going to be outwitted by a soulless computer robot. I am nevertheless livid about being forced into this undignified subterfuge. That snot-nosed boy Zuckerberg may think he’s a clever dick, but I’ll make him regret the day he tangled with a jungle ape. The House of Bananas will avenge this insult.

I’d better return to the subject of drag queens before I start thumping my chest. They’ve been popular in Europe for many decades, but most Americans don’t see the point of them. Was there ever a famous drag queen from the USA? My memory may be faulty, but I can’t think of a single one. Perhaps the American public would view them more favourably if they understood their role in society. Their mission, as I see it, is to encourage men to explore their feminine side by putting on make-up, wearing pretty dresses and seducing lesbians. Gay men who become drag queens, like Conchita Wurst, grow beards to avoid attracting lesbians.

When I put this theory to the manager of the safari camp, he predictably attempted to refute it.

“Why would a man want to look like an ugly woman?” he asked. “It doesn’t make sense. If I were a woman, I’d want to resemble that redhead in Mad Men. A beauty with big boobs.”

“It is considered good manners to learn the name of an actress before praising her physical attributes,” I remarked. “Otherwise, you sound like a farmer inspecting a cow.”

“Don’t farmers name their cows?” asked the manager with a smirk.

I sucked my teeth pensively and nodded:

“My mistake,” I replied. “I should have compared you to a bull in a paddock.”

The manager snorted and stomped his hoof in an attempt at irony.

I later identified the actress in question as Christina Hendricks. Her photo is displayed below for readers whose memories require jogging. Obviously, no drag queen could hope to look like her without extensive surgery and hormone therapy. I don’t believe they’re trying to compete with her, in any case. The manager is a very confused man if thinks that being a transvestite means you want to grow big boobs and have your todger chopped off. He needs to get out more and observe the human animal in all its diversity, as I have done.

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Wednesday, October 08, 2014

Size and shape

A journalist has disrespectfully implied that Queen Victoria had a huge arse by disclosing the size of her knickers. The aforementioned undergarment was recently put up for auction with a reserve price of two thousand pounds sterling. It was worn by the monarch in her dotage and its waist is allegedly 52 inches.

I don’t know who the current owner is, but he should have donated it to a museum rather than allowing a bunch of undie-collectors to haggle over it. Anyone who would pay thousands of pounds for a big pair of panties cannot be trusted with a big pair of panties. When I think of how the royal bloomers might be defiled, it makes me want to thump my chest.

In discussing the size of Queen Victoria’s behind, one should never forget that she was widowed at a relatively young age. A big bum can be a great comfort to a bereaved matron who might suddenly feel weak at the knees. If she has to sit down on the nearest hard stool, her meaty rump will cushion the load.

Her buttocks were believed to be moderately fleshy when Prince Albert was alive. This helped to keep the sparks flying in their marriage, enabling them to produce a brood of nine. Having served the nation so effectively, the royal arse was entitled to expand when no longer required for duties of state.

The booty of Jennifer Lopez has received a much kinder press, possibly because people are scared of her. Latino women have a fiery reputation, so pundits likely to cross her path have praised her backside to cover their own ones. Even Diddy the rapper has jumped on the bandwagon by describing the Lopez butt as “a work of art”. He used to be her daddy-boo, so maybe he still dreams of kissing it. A witty plastic surgeon could have ruined his flattery by saying “Yes, and I’m the artist!”. J-Lo might have blown a fuse, but she would have been safe to handle with a pair of rubber gloves.

No one knows what Jennifer’s bottom will be like when she’s eighty years old. Maybe it will be big and round, or maybe it will just be big. A man who might be qualified to answer this question is William Shatner, who has personal experience of the relationship between age and body-shape. When asked how he had evolved since his first voyage on the Enterprise, he said:

“I’m a little more rotund than I was when I was doing the series but roundness is a good shape. It’s part of nature. My tip is to run as fast as you can.”

Shatner says he is open to offers for further Star Trek appearances, but could he still play Kirk? Maybe a clever writer could dream up a story where Jim is in a fat farm on Bulbous Major and solves a Vulcan murder mystery. Being too heavy to move around, he would achieve this through pure deductive reasoning while lying on a massage table. Spock would be green-blooded with envy. 

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