Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Fruit abuse

Take a good look at the picture above. The manager of the safari camp showed it to me the other day, apparently in an attempt to rile me. He knows how sensitive we gorillas are to the misuse of fruit.

“I hope the feast didn’t go to waste after that pitiful floozy got out of the bath,” I remarked.

“Why would it?” asked the manager. “Those peaches would have tasted even better after rubbing against her jubblies!”

“Rubbish!” I barked. “Her jubblies might have tasted better, but not the peaches. The natural flavour of fruit is not improved by stewing it in a woman’s juices!”

I left the smirking manager to avoid further provocation. After regaining my composure, I did some research and identified the fruit-abusing female as a member of a musical ensemble called “The Pussycat Dolls”. Her name is Ashley Roberts and the purpose of her unusual pose was to promote a cheap brand of wine. I’m sure she was the right woman for the job, but where are the grapes? Even Benny the Baboon knows they’re the main ingredient in wine. I suppose she might have been sitting on them, but you can’t really tell from the expression on her face.

In any event, it’s a damned peculiar way of promoting an alcoholic beverage. At the very least, she should have been holding a half-full glass, to give people the impression she enjoys quaffing the stuff. There is nothing remotely drinkable in that bath, although I dare say most of its contents taste better than the wine they’re trying to sell.

Now I’m not dogmatically opposed to displaying wares on a woman’s body. My dear friend Jules sent me a lovely picture of a necklace adorning the smooth skin of an anonymous model, which I display below for your inspection. Would you believe that the stainless steel object nestling between her norks is a vibrator? I would never have guessed it without being told by the text beneath the picture.

It looks too thin for an insertion device, so it must be one of those bean-tickling gizmos. If so, it’s a masterpiece of slick design, because I can’t see where you’d put in the batteries. Hundreds of years from now, that necklace will be a museum exhibit, inspiring onlookers to marvel at the ingenuity of humans in the 21st century. It might even still be in use. The basic technique of stimulating a lady’s love button is unlikely to change over the centuries – it’s one of those skills like darning a sock or squeezing a lemon that can’t really be improved on.

Anyway, I hope this gorgeous necklace will encourage women to display their sex toys with pride rather than hiding them under their pillows. Men have no reason to feel threatened by such a development. I can’t think of a better conversation starter than expressing admiration for a woman’s dildo and inquiring about its performance. It’s got to be better than petting her poodle and asking her whether it does tricks.

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Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Good news for Hef

Does anyone know how Hef is keeping? I’ve written a few scornful posts about him in the past, but I’m reluctant to mention him now in case he’s about to pop off. I don’t want people denouncing me as a heartless ape when the playmates are in mourning and the porn community are hailing him as a giant of the industry. Hef may currently be a ridiculous old ghoul, but I’m pretty sure he was admired as a great innovator in his day. No one can deny his many achievements, such as making it socially acceptable for lecherous men to stare at pictures of tits and ass.

The reason I’m talking about Hef is that I’ve got some good news for him. Christina Aguilera has announced that she wants to pose nude in Playboy. Having recently had her second child, she’s eager to show the world that her body is as elastic as a rubber band:

“This is something she wanted to do even before she got pregnant,” a close friend revealed. “Christina's always loved her body.”

I wonder what her fiancé thinks about her unabashed narcissism. If he kept her waiting in bed, she’d probably start without him. Personally, I don’t see why she doesn’t publish the photos on twitter. If you’re fishing for compliments, it’s better to choose a medium where your flunkies can give you instant admiration.

It’s actually a miracle that Playboy is still in business with all the free pictures of female flesh in cyberspace. There’s a blog with the strange name of Zyzzyz (adults only) that I recently became aware of. It is a journal of few words and many pictures, mostly of happy smiling ladies in various states of undress. I discovered this blog because The Japing Ape is one of several it links to. I view this as a compliment, even though the other linked blogs have a nudity or sex theme. A man can take only so much naked flesh before his brain hungers for the prose of a literate gorilla.

Returning to the subject of Hef, I’ll venture a guess that we’ll never see his like again. I’m not trying to kiss his butt here, because no one in his right mind would want to kiss that leathery old pumpkin. The point I’m trying to make is that there isn’t a young man-about-town you can point to say “He’s the new Hef”. What we have instead is fellows like Mischa Badasyan, a 26-year-old German “performance artist” who is planning to have sex with a different person on each day of the year.

“I hope my project entitled ‘Save the Date’ will challenge ideas of sexuality and homosexuality in the time of Tinder, Scruff and Grindr,” he explained.

He may call it art, but I call it a recipe for confusion, because he won’t remember most of the people he’s slept with. Tinder, Scruff and Grindr could sabotage his project by ravishing him in April and buggering him again in November.

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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Licking James Bond

A 26-year-old actress called Karen Gillan has said she wants to lick Daniel Craig’s face. Before you denounce her as a shameless hoochie, take note of her intention to perform this act in a professional capacity. Her dream is to appear in a Bond movie, playing a villainess who would demonstrate her brazen effrontery by slobbering on 007’s cheeks. According to Karen, her father was the inspiration behind this unusual ambition:

“My dad used to tell me when I was younger, ‘You don't want to be a Bond girl; you want to be a villain’. That stuck with me.”

Let’s hope her tongue doesn’t stick to Danny’s face. Knowing him as I do, I am certain he would not find the prospect appealing. That tanned, clean-shaven countenance we admire on the big screen is heavily coated with cosmetics. Licking it off would make him feel naked. Far from promoting her cause, Miss Gillan’s audacious announcement will make Danny very reluctant to work with her. She would have done less harm to her chances by saying she wanted to lick his arse.

There are surprisingly few good licking scenes in big budget movies. Steven Bauer wiggled his tongue at several women in Scarface, but his invitations came to naught. John Turturo licked his bowling ball in The Big Lebowski, but what did that prove? Any fool can lick an inanimate object. The only licking of actual flesh I can remember occurred in The Name of the Rose, when the ugly hunchback licked the leg of the sultry peasant girl. She didn’t like it one bit and cursed him in an obscure medieval language, which may have been French. Another good licking opportunity arose in the same movie, when the apprentice monk played by Christian Slater was ravished by the same peasant girl. But neither tongue got involved in the action – I suppose such things are often forgotten in the heat of the moment.

In truth, it is better to have your face licked by a cat than a human. The rasping feline tongue is admirably equipped for the purpose, whereas the human tongue is made for talking rather than polishing. This doesn’t mean that all humans are good speakers, of course. Britney Spears has a very attractive tongue, yet people have accused her of being too stupid to hold a conversation. Maybe she would be more articulate if she communicated in song.

Britney should nevertheless take heart from Kanye West’s recent statement about her:

“I am not Britney Spears,” he declared profoundly.

He may have meant it as an insult, but she should certainly take it as a compliment. The man has recently been charged with assaulting a photographer, and expects to beat the rap by boasting about his towering intellect:

“I’m the smartest celebrity you’ve ever fucking dealt with!” he told a lawyer in a deposition to the court.

One suspects he was exaggerating for effect. I can’t believe he’s brainier than 50 Cent or P. Diddy.

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Wednesday, August 06, 2014

Inhaling deeply

Someone sent me a news item about a nose spray that helps women to have orgasms. The frigid women who tried it increased their climax rate from 1.7 to 2.3 over a period of 84 days. That works out at roughly 3 extra orgasms per year, which isn’t a huge payback for fumigating the nostrils. It might be okay if the woman could choose when to have them – e.g. one on her birthday, one on Valentine’s Day and one on Halloween. But what if they pop out haphazardly during daily chores on the motor scooter or washing machine? There’s no point having an orgasm if it causes an accident.

As a jungle-dwelling ape, I would rather see women use natural methods of stimulating their drives and juices. Dr Ruth said an orgasm was like a sneeze, and you’ve got to admit the similarities are striking. There’s every chance that a woman who makes herself sneeze regularly will master the knack and start coming all over the place. They would have to be hearty sneezes, of course, not those repressed little “choos” that some ladies emit because they’re scared of losing control. The nose is the right organ to arouse, but with a pinch of pepper rather than a hormone spray.

Some women have the good fortune to work in occupations where orgasms are a perk of the job. Cara Houiellebecq (sic) is a mother of two whose popular blog caught the attention of the sex toy industry. She now earns a living by testing and reviewing their devices, experiencing an average of 15 orgasms per week.

“Toys have always been a part of my private sex life,” explained Cara. “It gave me the idea to start writing about my sex life and to start testing sex toys.”

Cara’s long-term partner Darren doesn’t feel threatened by her toying habit. One assumes they have an understanding that she won’t compare his todger with the latest “bullet train” dildo.

"We always say that toys are the seasoning to a sex life, not a replacement," she said.

Fair enough, but doesn’t that imply their sex life would be bland without the toys? It sounds as if Cara’s lady parts have got addicted to high-frequency vibrations and permanently hard penetrators. Call me an old-fashioned ape, but I don’t think the carnal pleasures should turn into an encounter between tool operators.

An encounter between tool operators is better than an encounter between tools, which is what happened when Orlando Bloom attempted to punch Justin Bieber in the mouth. Apparently he was upset that Bieber had slept with his ex-wife and taunted him about it.

Much as Bieber merits a good hiding, I don’t think a fop like Bloom is the right person to deliver it. He is clearly no pugilist and equally deserving of a thrashing himself. I would personally like to see Bieber chastised by a bald stocky fellow, who would sit on his back and pinch his buttocks black and blue. 

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Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Hairy Potter

Does anyone feel sorry for Daniel Radcliffe, the Harry Potter actor? Okay he’s a millionaire, but millionaires can suffer. Do they not bleed if you prick them and smart if you tweak their noses?

When he was a child, he was an idol for millions of pubescent girls who dreamt of being his wizardess, to say nothing of countless full-bosomed women who yearned to smother his head. But those days are gone. Growing up, for Daniel, has been a painful transition from fresh-faced and boyish to bushy-eyebrowed and gnomish. Money is no antidote to the ravages of time.

Daniel is putting a brave face on his metamorphosis. He has starred in a handful of non-Potter movies, which were well received, although few people have seen them. And he recently informed Elle magazine that he’s taken to sex like a squirrel to nuts:

“I'm one of the few people who seem to have had a really good first time,” he said. “I'm happy to say I've had a lot better sex since then.”

Reading between the lines, you can see that he’s immensely proud of his copulatory deeds. His well-wishers should be pleased that he’s added to his toolbox since his Harry Potter days. However, most of his groupies still think of him as the former boy wizard. The actress Jennifer Lawrence, a girlhood fan of Harry Potter, admitted to screaming in excitement when she saw Daniel. Her enthusiasm fizzled out after they met, so a scream is probably all he got out of her.

Is Daniel wise to extend his acting career into adulthood? Maybe he should have followed in the footsteps of Shirley Temple, who became an ambassador. He would have certainly gone down well as Her Majesty’s emissary to the Congo. Wizards are feared and respected over here, and his face resembles a native species of owl. The local women would have shaken their booties at him before presenting him with a tribute of small rodents. He might well have become a celebrated figure of international diplomacy – “The Owl of Brazzaville”, we would have called him.

A career in entertainment is an unpredictable journey – some artistes are destined to be child stars who go no further, whereas others continue to perform in old age. I was delighted to hear that my friend Joan Rivers, whom we gorillas revere as a Great Earth Mother, recently officiated an impromptu gay wedding ceremony. Although marrying people isn’t technically show business, anything involving Mother Joan is bound to be a stand-up routine.

“It’s been so long since I had sex I’ve forgotten who ties up who!” she quipped. 

When I told the manager of the safari camp about this auspicious event, he said:

“I never knew she was a fag hag.”

“Not a fag hag, but a fag yenta,” I corrected him.

The manager is too ignorant to know the correct term for a Jewish woman who marries a gay couple. He is lucky to be acquainted with a learned gorilla who can educate him.

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Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Planet of the Jackanapes

I got an email from someone asking me to comment on a new movie called Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.

“Why are you asking me? – I’m not a film critic,” I wrote in reply.

The answer came back swiftly:

“No, but as one who claims to be a gorilla you ought to have an opinion on the way your species is portrayed in popular entertainment, given the subtle influence of such perceptions on public support for conservation and other related projects.”

This erudite statement deserved a carefully-worded response:

“Fiddlesticks and tiddlywinks!” I wrote, ending the debate decisively.

At the time, I thought it was a suitable riposte to a snooty lecture from someone whose email address was But on later reflection, I had to admit that Mr Godzilla’s argument was sound. Gorilla Bananas must not be silent when humans invent stories about their hairy cousins. The gullible masses will believe any old tosh presented to them on a cinema screen, even if it involves three-legged orang-utans juggling dwarves between their feet.

It will be many moons before the film is screened in the Congo, so I had a look at the official trailer to get a flavour. It was utter bunkum and farce. The “apes” in it are walking in upright postures, making grumpy faces and speaking American English in throaty, menacing voices. In short, they are surly humans wearing furry costumes, under which they must be sweating like horses.

This suggests the movie is a classic example of what psychologists call “projection”. Humans put their own dark side in another species so they can externalise the evil and struggle against it without having to purge their own souls. Admittedly, a trailer can only tell you so much. There may also be tender scenes of apes feeding humans berries by hand, but that won’t put bums on seats. People will go to this movie to see the Big Bad Ape, so they can enjoy the exhilarating fear that humans feel when there is zero risk of getting a hunk of flesh bitten out of them.

On the subject of humans pretending to be apes, I recently overheard an American tourist call Justin Bieber “a despicable little chimp”. The uncouth youth has been fined $80,000 for throwing eggs at his neighbour’s house, which is an unwise prank for a stage performer to play. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and Bieber’s devoted fans may now have to endure the agony of seeing their idol get a facial omelette while he’s warbling away on stage.

Bieber’s growing band of beraters have sent a petition to the White House, demanding that he is deported to his Canadian motherland. The Obama administration has wisely declined to get involved. If Bieber were sent back to Canada, he could buy a house on the border and throw eggs at his neighbours in Michigan, while mooning at an American flag. Much better to keep him in the USA, where there’s a good chance some angry redneck guy will kick his ass.

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Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Nuptial news

So it seems that George Clooney is getting married after all. The lucky woman, if lucky she be, is a high-flying Lebanese lawyer called Amal Alamuddin. The London law firm she works for has been singing her praises most effusively:

"She brings a bright light to everything she is involved in and I am so delighted at her happy news," said the chief executive.

The danger for George is that she reserves her smiley face for work while lashing out like a scorpion at home. The woman who must be courteous and congenial in her professional life is all the more likely to box her husband’s ears.

Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I now feel sorry for Clooney’s ex-girlfriends, who were led to believe that George would never marry because of “commitment issues” or whatever. Now they know the truth: he thought they were too stupid to be his wife. These spurned spinsters must be feeling like airheads and bimbos, so I’ve sent an email to my mentor Dr Whipsnade, suggesting that he holds a summer school for them. Attending the good doctor’s seminars in philosophy, gastronomy and coquettery should help to restore their intellectual self-confidence.

Clooney’s fiancé comes from a small, middle-eastern sect called the Druze, who normally only marry within their community. George has reacted furiously to media reports that his prospective mother-in-law disapproves of the marriage on religious grounds:

“It’s a completely fabricated story!” he wailed, and went on to accuse the offending newspaper of “inciting violence” by “exploiting religious differences where none exist”.

The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. A statement from Mother Alamuddin herself would have scotched the rumour more conclusively, but I suppose the cat got her tongue.

It’s not the end of the world if George’s mother-in-law doesn’t approve of him anyway. He’ll be in the same boat as millions of other men, who manage to cope with the problem without provoking a deadly blood feud. If I were George, I’d try buttering her up with flattery and expensive gifts. If that didn’t work, I’d tell her to fly off on her broomstick. He shouldn’t say that if she really is a witch, of course. Many might be amused to see Clooney turned into a frog, but it would limit his acting roles to nature documentaries and romantic comedies with Kermit and Miss Piggy.

Perhaps George should have hired a committee of “relationship experts” to find him a bride. This is the concept behind a new reality TV show, where marriages are arranged for couples who agree not to see each other until their wedding day.

As a gorilla, I have a lot of admiration for this idea, but there is one fatal flaw: it is impossible to be sure that Human A will be sexually attracted to Human B before they have actually met. This has already led to one unlucky candidate feeling terribly let down after getting a husband she didn’t fancy. Is there a solution? I would allow them to sniff each other’s underwear before pairing them off.

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