Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Boob joke

Why is it that celebrity lawsuits take so long to settle? The gossip rags report that someone famous is being sued and you don’t hear a thing about it for months. I’m still waiting to discover the outcome of Elton John’s dispute with the bodyguard he allegedly groped. The wheels of human justice grind more slowly than a lap-dancing snail.

The latest legal battle currently in stasis involves Ellen Degeneres and a 35-year-old woman called Titi Pierce. In this case no groping occurred, although it might still happen if they meet in a dark cubicle. Titi is upset because she was referred to as “Titty” in Ellen’s TV show. Apparently, the correct pronunciation of her name is “Tee Tee”, and those who confuse it with a vulgar term for the breast are guilty of malicious hate speech. Her lawyer issued the following statement on her behalf:

“In all her 35 years of life, no one has ever referred to Ms Pierce as ‘Titty’ until the Defendant did so on February 22, 2016 on national television. Prior to the Defendent’s misdeeds, Ms Pierce has been called only by her name ‘Titi’, which as grammar dictates, is pronounced ‘TEE TEE’”

As a result of this appalling insult, his client “suffered stress, emotional distress, embarrassment, humiliation, anger, and other mental pain and suffering”. She might also have acquired a nervous tick and a zit on her butt. Yet no one can deny that making fun of an exotic name is a coarse form of humour employed by the lowliest wags. Ellen should hang her head in shame and make fun of her own breasts as a penance. She should also offer to pay compensation of not less than forty-six US dollars.

Nevertheless, I do find it amazing that no one had ever mispronounced Titi’s name before. Maybe she lives in a church-going community whose residents would never say the word “Titty”, not even if they saw a topless dancer shaking her jahoobies in their direction. However, Ms Pierce is a realtor, so she must have encountered people from all walks of life, including those who snigger at boob jokes. I suspect that many of her clients were suppressing their chuckles and calling her “Titty” behind her back.

Some women, of course, have more suggestive names than “Titi”. Fanny Cradock was a pioneering British TV chef, admired as much for her domineering personality as her recipes. Yet there is no evidence that anyone ever made fun of her name. Some might have been too scared to do so, but jokes of that kind would have fallen flat in any case. Having a humorous name is a minor distraction if you’re a ballsy woman who can stuff a turkey and mash potatoes at the same time.

The lesson for Ms Pierce is clear enough: People will only mock your name if they have nothing else to say about you. To put yourself beyond such foolish quips, you’ve got to raise your public profile and get a reputation for being a hard-ass uppity bitch.

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Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Baywatch fantasy

Pamela Anderson is such a good sport! In a recent interview, she revealed that she has often indulged the fantasies of her boyfriends by adopting her Baywatch persona and re-enacting scenes from the much loved TV show. By way of illustration, she gave the following anecdote:

“One of my boyfriends wanted rescuing from the bed. So I jumped in the shower, got all wet, and frisky and then did the slow-mo run all the way from the shower to the double bed. I think he was pretty satisfied with the performance.”

If you think that was no big deal, do some research on how a “serious” actress like Sharon Stone reacts to men who expect her to behave like one of the characters she has played. You will find her whining about ex-lovers who hankered after “that woman on the screen” instead of her, for which misdemeanour they were haughtily rebuffed and shown the door.

Pamela, by contrast, has the sunny disposition of a woman who doesn’t overanalyse her relationships. She clearly has neither the expectation nor the wish for men to gaze into the inner depths of her soul. Consequently, she is more than happy to use the armoury in her acting repertoire to entertain her gallants. You have to admire a woman who doesn’t make a fuss and gets on with the job in hand, no matter how unusual the request.

Now Pamela is certainly a lucky woman who has milked her talent for every drop of sustenance it could provide, but that doesn’t mean her life has been free of aggravation. I’m sorry to say she is one of the growing band of celebrities who has been tormented by a stalker. In the same interview, she disclosed that the stalker had not only spied on her furtively but broken into her home to harass her in person. This disturbed individual was a woman who attempted to placate Pamela with the following invidious assertions:

“I’m not a lesbian, I just want to touch you.”

I’m glad to say that Pamela was not beguiled by these words and asked the police to intervene before any touching could occur. Had I been the stalkee, I would have told the stalker that not being a lesbian is nothing to be proud of. Pamela should have said that she wouldn’t want to be touched by a woman unless she was a lesbian, and a pretty damned hot one too!

When all is said and done, you have to give Pamela her due for still getting all this attention at the age of 49. Why is she still newsworthy? It can’t be because of her oversized bosom, which lost its ability to shock and amaze a long time ago. No one should dismiss Pamela as a walking pair of melons. My guess is that people find her uncomplicated personality engaging. It’s much easier to be loved by the masses if you’re an earnest simpleton who is devoid of any pretensions or conceit.

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Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Tasting the spice

The Spice Girls have admitted that they used to kiss each other “once in a while”.

“Because of what we went through together, there's a bond that no one else understands,” explained Emma Bunton.

I think we can take it as read that it was mouth-to-mouth kissing with probing tongues. It wouldn’t be much of a confession if they were giving each other an affectionate peck on the cheek.

I don’t know how their fans will react to this revelation, but it all sounds completely natural to me. They were young, passionate women with pumping hormones, sharing hotel suites and borrowing each other’s toiletries. Their close camaraderie was bound to spill over into something more intimate in moments of high emotion. And don’t forget all the dancing they did together, shaking their booties in perfect synchrony. It could only have stimulated their mutual attraction.

Having admitted to kissing in private, should they now do it in public? The reunion concert planned for next year would be an idea venue for a spicy exhibition of smooching. When I asked the manager of the safari camp for his opinion, his answer was unequivocal.

“Of course they should do it!” he declared. “They’ve created the expectation, so now they’ve got to follow through. No one likes performers who are all talk and no action.”

“Which pair would you like to see press lips?” I asked.

“They should take it in turns to snog Baby Spice,” he replied. “Make her blush and pant for breath.”

“That sounds disturbingly similar to a ‘gang bang’ scenario,” I remarked. “Maybe you should browse for a suitable movie instead.”

In truth, I don’t really want to see them kissing on stage. Madonna and Britney Spears did that many moons ago and it wasn’t at all erotic. It never is when it’s done purely for show. In an ideal world you’d want to watch the Spice Girls kissing in a private, intimate setting, but if you did that you’d be a Peeping Tom. It’s depressingly difficult to enjoy the simple pleasure of voyeurism in a decent and wholesome way.

It goes without saying that the Spice Girls don’t have to kiss each other to remain popular. I can think of very few musical acts in which kissing was an essential part of the entertainment. Did Sonny and Cher kiss after singing I Got You, Babe? I’m not convinced that they did, even though it would have been artistically justified. And what would it have proved anyway? They soon got divorced after their double-act lost its appeal.

That reminds me of another thing I admire about the Spice Girls – they never got bitchy with each other after they parted company. I’m pretty sure Cher insulted Sony Bono after he got into politics, implying that he was a midget who was useless in bed. It was an ugly slur against real midgets, who are often as good in bed as people twice their size.

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Wednesday, July 06, 2016

Conjugal strife

Channing Tatum has revealed that he and his wife don’t enjoy marital relations after having an argument. According to Cosmopolitan magazine, this is what he said:

“For lack of a better term, we don't hate-fuck each other. That's just not what we do.”

My immediate reaction to this statement was to wonder why he would deny doing something so damnably perverse. I wouldn’t want to hate-fuck my worst enemy, let alone a female I had to cohabit with on tolerably amicable terms. Is there an epidemic of hate-fucking going on in human marriages from which Tatum feels obliged to disassociate himself?

With these conundrums pattering away inside my brain, I embarked on a visit to the safari camp to ask the manager for his profound insights on the topic. On arriving, I was told he was away at the Brazzaville Nut Festival, so I requested an audience with his wife instead. When I raised the issue, she cackled like a witch throwing frogs into a cauldron:

“Oh GB, you innocent ape!” she exclaimed. “We humans must seem so peculiar to you!”

“Don’t tell me you indulge in the practice yourself!” I gasped.

“Well, let me put it this way,” she said. “When you’ve been married for a long time, you need to use whatever strong emotions you have to keep the sparks flying in bed. Some of the best sex I’ve had happened after telling my husband he was a swine and a nincompoop.”

“Was it good for him too?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “He gnashed his teeth and howled like a wolf. And he was proud of the scratch marks I left on his back.”

“He must have thought they were like combat scars,” I mused. “He loves films about Roman gladiators. Maybe he fantasises about being one.”

“You could be right,” she remarked. “He’d be the one with the short stabbing sword rather than the trident and net.”

On returning to the jungle, I pondered on how common this sort of behaviour is among human mating pairs. Clearly, there are dangers involved if the man becomes too enraged and shows no mercy. Could this be why Tatum and his wife avoid the practice? He’s certainly a brawny fellow with powerful arms and thighs, but it would be idle to speculate on other matters. The bull with a meatiest carcass isn’t necessarily a longhorn.

In the same interview, Tatum indicated that abstaining from this particular type of intimacy did not stop him from enjoying a varied sex life with his wife:

“We truly have all different kinds of sex,” he explained. “Sometimes it's: Look, you've got to get this done, I've got to go to work.”

Being told to hurry up is not the most inspiring thing to hear when you’re pleasuring the missus, but I suppose every marriage has to run on a timetable. He didn’t say whether he was capable of expediting matters in the manner requested. It's easier for some men than others, I believe.

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Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Telling tales

I’m no fan of Madonna, but I do take exception to Rupert Everett calling her “the Antichrist”. The Book of Revelation makes it crystal clear than the Antichrist will be an amphibious beast with ten horns and seven heads. Madonna may look like that when she’s having an orgy, but that doesn’t mean she can bring about the Armageddon and give Jesus a good run for his money.

He can’t get his story straight, because he also called her an “old, whiny barmaid”. This is no more accurate than “the Antichrist”. In my experience, barmaids are friendly buxom women who pull levers and push tumblers. Madonna couldn’t do that if she tried. Nor is she is particularly old for her age. The “whiny” part is more plausible, but how would Mr Everett know? You have to be pretty intimate with a woman to evaluate her whininess, and that’s not something he’s known for doing.

As well as calling her names, he told everyone this scurrilous anecdote about her:

“I went out to dinner with her and Sean Penn and she was wanking him off under the table. She was furious that I said that in 1985. So what? I thought it was rather romantic.”

I don’t blame Madonna for being angry about such loose talk. Her relationship with Penn was short-lived and she probably regrets having touched his todger. And Everett is clearly lying about finding it “rather romantic”. For a heterosexual couple to perform a sex act in front of a gay man is clearly an ugly, taunting type of behaviour. He probably flounced out of the restaurant in a huff.

Another reason for Madonna being upset about the anecdote is that it may not be true. Maybe she just playfully grabbed Penn’s crotch and the “wanking” aspect is poetic exaggeration. This is the perennial problem with show business memoirs. The author is under tremendous pressure to spice things up to make the book a best seller. No one ever made a pile of cash by sticking to the facts.

Tom Jones is one entertainer who would not need to invent stories for his autobiography. There are hoards of women who say he serviced them like a bull and they can’t all be lying. But he may not want to reveal the saucy details out of respect for his dearly departed wife. You have to respect him for that.

One thing Sir Tom is happy to discuss is whether he is actually a black man. He made the following statement to a British newspaper:

“When I first came to America, people who had heard me sing on the radio would be surprised that I was white when they saw me. Because of my hair, a lot of black people still tell me that I'm just passing as white.”

Last year, he announced he was having a DNA test to settle the issue once and for all. He hasn’t disclosed the results, but I predict that all his ancestors living 100,000 years ago were black.

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Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Sudden impact

There is absolutely no reason for me or any other gorilla to have an opinion on breast implants. Nevertheless, I do remember pontificating on the topic in previous posts. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I’m pretty sure I chided women who artificially inflate their bosoms. I might have quoted a saying of a mythical ape called Old Melonhead:

Be satisfied with what Mother Nature has bestowed upon you, for the fate of those who defy her is grievous to behold!

I now see it was quite wrong of me to lecture women who hire surgeons to enhance or reshape their boobs. A news story from Australia has forced me to open my mind and amend my judgements. What happened was that a 45-year-old woman collided with a kangaroo while riding her bicycle, causing her to receive a fearful blow on her chest. Fortunately for Ms Sharon Heinrich, her voluptuous silicone boobies came to the rescue and saved her from a mortal injury:

“My breast implants probably saved my life,” said Ms Heinrich, after being told her she was lucky to be alive.

Her sizable implants were naturally ruptured by the accident, so the quick-thinking surgeon replaced them with even bigger ones:

“Santa brought me 10 DDs in 2000, and it turns out they were 320 millilitres in size, but this time the surgeon put in 400 millilitres,” explained Ms Heinrich. “Australia can be a harsh country, so it’s best to be safe now,” she added. “I suppose I should be thanking the kangaroo.”

Much as I applaud her for holding no grudge against the kangaroo, she ought to have inquired after its health. I hope a bush ranger visited the scene of the accident to see if the creature needed medical assistance or counselling. The bush police should have also taken statements from witnesses to the incident. Although we can’t be sure who was to blame for the collision, a wild creature in its natural habitat normally has the right of way. The kangaroo may well have a valid insurance claim.

In light of Ms Heinrich’s fortunate escape, one could argue that breast implants are a vital safety precaution for cyclists, akin to air bags in motorcars. The main problem with making them compulsory is the expense involved in fitting them. And the same requirement would have to apply to men to avoid gender discrimination. It goes without saying that you can’t have men with titties riding on public highways – the accident rate would rocket because of motorists staring at them in horror, amusement or lust.

A more feasible solution might be the padded bra, filled with a firm yet elastic substance that kangaroos would bounce off without injury to either party. If that turns out to be the solution, we should name them in honour of Sharon Heinrich, whose brush with death sparked off the search for solutions. I should imagine that many advances in technology have been inspired by a woman’s jahoobies. 

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Wednesday, June 15, 2016

The opposite of sex

Has Salma Hayek gone off sex? This is what she said in a recent interview:

“Sex is not the key to a happy marriage, but it's a side effect. Although not every day! If it's every day, it loses its charm.”

At the age of 49, she has every right to be less horny than she was at the height of her fecundity, but I can’t help getting the impression that the carnal pleasures have been relegated to a fairly minor role in her life. An educated gorilla knows how to read between the lines.

Of course, it’s far from clear that her 54-year-old husband would be able to deliver conjugal service on a daily basis. As a Frenchman he probably thinks he’s capable of that and more, but I suspect he’s secretly relieved that Salma isn’t more demanding. The last thing a man of his age needs is an insatiable wife.

She went on to make the intriguing suggestion that scuba diving is a satisfactory substitute for sex:

“I'm a diver, and I think this is the most sensual thing. It's liberating to move in the water, to float, to observe things that you cannot control, to be in touch with your breathing. I find that sexy.”

Fascinating though this perspective may be, I’m not taking a dip in the Congo River to test whether it’s correct. It contains too many hungry crocodiles that have no appreciation for sexy breathing exercises. If Salma wants to explore her sensuality by behaving like a fish that’s fine by me, but I’d advise her to keep well clear of dolphins. Anyone who’s familiar with the work of Sir Davy Attenborough knows that those slippery beasts are relentless sexual predators. They would not hesitate to press their advantage on a lone woman floating about in an erotic stupor.

I reckon the problem for famous actresses is that their lives and careers have become so sexualised that they find the whole thing unappealing. Even Sharon Stone has lost her appetite for casual fornication at the age of 58:

“At this point, I get more satisfaction from a smile, a laugh, a warm conversation or a really sexy look,” she told a magazine for retired people. “You know the way a man can look at you? Where you know he really sees you?”

Call me an innocent ape, but I’m not quite sure what this sexy look involves. When we gorillas make eye contact, it’s usually to scare off intruders or put cheeky upstarts in their place. My guess is that very few men have the cojones to look Sharon Stone directly in the eye – the image she’s created for herself in her movies is just too intimidating. Consequently, whenever she gets a friendly grin from a fellow who hasn’t seen her films, she’s ready to jump into bed with him. I'd wager a number of wily opportunists have put this theory into practice, but we won’t hear the details until they publish their memoirs.

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