Wednesday, September 21, 2016
King Kong: a reassessment
Long-standing readers of this blog will be aware of my disdain for King Kong. I have a number of issues with that overgrown ape. First, that he stomped around his native jungle making a hullabaloo instead of foraging and fornicating like a proper gorilla. Second, that on escaping from captivity in New York City, he created havoc and climbed a skyscraper instead of making a beeline for the nearest forest. But third, and worst of all, that he fell head-over-heels in love with a human female, needlessly endangering himself to keep her in his hairy clutches. I hope I am stating the obvious in pointing out that real gorillas do not behave in this way. And those that did would flee to a barren rock to die of shame.
One of our human guests at the annual simian convention was a young American chap who told me he had recently graduated from the New York Film Academy. In spite of wearing a baseball cap back-to-front, he seemed quite knowledgeable for an American, so I invited him to parley with me on the King Kong question.
“You’ve got it all wrong, GB,” he said after listening patiently to my critique. “King Kong wasn’t in love with Ann Darrow. She was just a plaything who amused him by scampering about like a mouse and hollering at him whenever he tripped her up. Sure, he loved her, but in the same way that Long John Silver loved the parrot on his shoulder. It wasn’t a romantic thing.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” I mused. “I’d love to believe it, but answer me this: why did he risk his life to protect her?”
“People get very attached to their pets,” he replied. “Humans have often risked their lives to save their dogs. Remember Dorothy and Toto in The Wizard of Oz? Couldn’t a gorilla develop the same feelings for a pet woman?”
After considering the matter, I was forced to concede the point.
“Thank you for sharing your perspectives, young Sir,” I said. “You have marshalled your arguments well and given me food for thought.”
Plausible though his theory may be, it does not significantly elevate my opinion of King Kong. His infatuation might have resembled what humans feel for a kitten, but it was certainly a foolish one in the circumstances. Love-struck he may not have been, but sentimental ninny he certainly was.
If a nubile woman turned up on my doorstep in a helpless state, I would extend her every courtesy, but treat her in a formally correct way. The horseplay that occurred between Mr Kong and Miss Darrow would be out of the question until our relationship had progressed to a higher level. I would not endanger my life for her until we were bosom buddies, at the very least.
To the Ann Darrows of the world, I say this: Gorilla Bananas won’t bathe you under a waterfall until you’ve earned his affection. It might take a good fortnight to butter me up sufficiently.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
Apparently there’s been a werewolf sighting in the north of England. The creature is said to be eight feet tall with dog-like features and a bad breath problem. A traumatised woman made the following statement:
“It was stood upright one moment. The next it was down on all fours running like a dog. I was terrified.”
The British press have named the werewolf ‘Old Stinker’, which is a foolishly provocative jibe to make while the beast is still running at large. Admittedly it’s unlikely that the creature reads newspapers, but why take a chance? A werewolf with a grudge is less likely to keep its fangs to itself than a werewolf without one. Calling it names will only make it more difficult to achieve a negotiated solution involving mouthwash and a manicure.
Biologists have been quick to dismiss these werewolf reports as a case of mistaken identity, fuelled by fantasy and hyperactive brains. ‘Old Stinker’, they insist, must be an oversized dog. I suppose it’s possible that Scooby Doo could have been confused with a werewolf, especially after Shaggy had jumped into his lap. But I don’t respect scientists who pooh-pooh eyewitness accounts without doing the necessary detective work. They should be conducting field trips and collecting dung samples before jumping to conclusions.
Is it true that women have sexual fantasies about werewolves? It’s what all the werewolf movies imply. I remember a film called Wolf starring Jack Nicholson, who somehow got transformed into a creature of canine appearance. It made him behave like a hungry sex fiend intent on leaving his bite marks in a woman’s fleshy parts. Yet I don’t believe that a hound-like animal is a natural bedfellow for the human female. His teeth may be sharp, but his tongue does not probe with the required finesse. And doing it doggy-style gets boring after a while.
If a werewolf wants a mate, it really ought to be a female werewolf, who could match him bite-for-bite. Strangely, you never hear stories about lady werewolves. These days, most women are desperately keen to shave off their body hair, so the idea of turning into a furry bitch would probably horrify them. Nevertheless, there are some women who have the right personality for the role, with many of them keen to advertise their talents.
It’s been a long time since I visited the website of a dominatrix, so I’m glad to have an excuse to do so now. Sadly, I never provoked any of these viragos to leave a comment on this blog. In truth, their writing skills are not of the highest order, so you probably haven’t been deprived of any exquisite quips or bon mots. Nevertheless, if I do manage to strike up a friendship with someone like Mistress Tatiana, I promise to move heaven and earth to make her agree to an interview, which I shall publish in full for your enlightenment. Who knows, I might even persuade her to give her body hair a chance to sprout.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
I’m pondering the words of a Russian model called Irina Shayk (pictured above). When asked if she would consider having intimate relations with a woman, she replied:
“No way, I’m Russian: I’m into men, caviar and diamonds.”
Are Russian women really so similar in their hobbies and pastimes? Although I’d be the last ape to deny that humans do have shared national traits, the only similarity I’ve observed in Russian women is the possession of somewhat sulkier faces than normal. Maybe it’s the cold winters that makes them irritable. Or maybe they only make sulky faces when people are looking at them. For all I know, they could be grinning like vixens when they’re alone in the shower. Nevertheless, it seems obvious that the fancies of these mysterious females can’t be summed up in a single sentence.
Being “into men” is a strangely general type of preference in any case. Although there are many fine specimens within the population of human males, perhaps of a quality that few Russian women would rebuff, it cannot be denied that plenty of cross-eyed vagabonds exist within the group. While Ms Shayk has every right to give them a blanket endorsement, she does the women of her country no favours by implying they share her lack of discrimination.
Liking caviar sounds like a more respectable preference, but it’s not without its moral objections. You could argue that no one who eats birds’ eggs should condemn those who eat fish eggs, but that would be ignoring the method of procurement. Obtaining caviar requires pregnant fish to be captured and de-ovarised, whereas birds’ eggs are harvested after they have been laid. Admittedly, no bird enjoys having its eggs pilfered, and some species, like the ostrich, will travel several furlongs to inflict dire revenge on the thief. Yet there’s a big difference between stealing unaccompanied eggs and sucking them out of a living creature. Female fish should have the right to lay their eggs in peace, like the birds of the world.
The last item on her list was diamonds. A woman might have good reasons for loving diamonds, but being Russian isn’t one of them. The honest Russian matron may be sentimentally attached to the stone in her wedding ring, but she does not wish to be covered in glistening gems, like an overpriced harlot. Ms Shayk sounds like one of those shallow women who want to be the trophy wife of a big shot. Maybe she should have a few counselling sessions with Martin Scorsese and Brian de Palma, who could convince her that being a gangster’s moll isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I can’t quite remember what happened to Michelle Pfeiffer at the end of Scarface, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t fly off to Tahiti with a suitcase full of cash.
The bottom line is that being Russian is no excuse for having poor taste. I’m sure Olga Korbut had perfectly sound opinions on men, caviar and diamonds – as well as supple limbs and a face like a cute little pixie.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
The making of Britney
Once again, I find myself thinking about Britney Spears. Not in a lurid or lustful way, I should hasten to add. I feel like an ornithologist observing a rare species of parrot and wondering what’s going on inside that birdbrain. This time, it’s the title of her new song that has me flummoxed. “Make me” is what it’s called. It’s the kind of thing a pina colada would say to a barman if the pina colada could talk. However Britney isn’t a cocktail, so what does she mean by that two-word instruction?
If the song were about food, it might be short for “Make me a possum burger”. I’ve never thought it remotely likely that Britney was a vegetarian – her sharp white teeth and hungry eyes remind me of a female hyena. Although she probably doesn’t screw up her nose at fast food, I’m sure she prefers fresh road-kill, skinned and sliced by an unkempt backwoodsman with a bushy beard. There was a rumour that she acquired a taste for squirrel when she was a girl, but she claims she only petted the critters.
But perhaps I ought to listen to the song before speculating about the meaning of its title. There might be a few subtle hints in the lyrics about what she’s asking for. Come to think of it, I can look up the lyrics directly without even listening to the song. Here’s a selection of some of the more pertinent lines:
I just want you to make me move
Like it ain't a choice for you, like you got a job to do
And make me oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh...
And make me oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh...
I think we can safely deduce that she isn’t talking about burgers. The last two lines seem to be saying “Make me moan like a harlot”, but the first two lines are more opaque in their meaning. “Like you got a job to do” could mean she’s hired a gigolo to pleasure her, but why would she need to tell him that? A gigolo would already know he had a job to do. What Britney is really saying, I suspect, is “Make me pregnant”. That’s the kind job she has plenty of history in asking for, and I don’t believe she’s done yet. The “ooh oohs” in the last two lines could be labour pains.
Now I’m aware there’s a video promoting the song, which could provide further clues about what it all means. The problem is that the current video is actually a replacement for a previous one that was withdrawn. A show business gossip site has revealed that the original video was axed because it was “too sexy”. “Too sexy for what?” I’d like to know. This earlier version should be re-instated in my view. Let Britney express herself freely, so we can scrutinise her movements and assess her desires and intentions. We won’t get to the bottom of this subject if people keep on censoring the evidence.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
The late Gene Roddenberry said the purpose of science fiction was to portray a hopeful vision of the future, but I’m worried it’s creating a lot of false hope. Take the transporter in Star Trek. I can’t think of anything more wonderful that whizzing from A to B in a pulse of sub-space energy, but what are the odds of that ever happening? Even if it’s feasible in theory, you’ve got to wonder how the away team always ends up on a clean piece of ground, rather than treading on dog shit or gate-crashing the lair of some flesh-eating lizard. Ideally, you’d send an expendable peon to check out the place in advance, but that never seems to happen on the Enterprise.
The phaser, on the other hand, is much closer to reality. We already have the laser, its rhyming stepbrother, and I was pleased to read about a new application in Canada. Students from Vancouver have developed an auto-firing laser, which zaps uppity geese who dare to plunder the crops of hard-pressed farmers. There’s no need to feel sorry for geese, who are the hooligans of the avian world, renowned for honking and flapping at anyone who attempts to reason with them. The laser does not injure them in any case. Rather than cooking the goose’s goose, it spooks the bird and makes it flee in panic.
However, the most important advances in technology will probably be devices that no one ever predicted. Who, in the reign of Queen Victoria, would have dreamt that 21st-century humans would be relaxing in hot tubs and Jacuzzis? A bath used to be a monthly ordeal endured by gentlefolk to scrape off their befoulments with hard brushes and coal tar soap. Yet somehow this grievous tribulation was transformed into a sensual experience with massaging jets and swirling underwater vortices. Miraculous.
A more recent example of an unforeseen invention is the straddling bus, which has never appeared in a sci fi movie. The Chinese are incredibly excited about it, because their own engineers designed it, and it does look very remarkable. It’s essentially a giant mobile conference room with sufficient space below for cars to drive right through. Impatient motorists will be able to pass safely underneath, instead of hooting their horns and attempting dangerous overtaking manoeuvres.
There are humans, of course, who shun the blessings of modern technology. I suppose a jungle-dwelling ape like me should admire them, but in truth I view them with suspicion. It is not in the nature of man to eschew his creature comforts unless he is a religious hermit. I’ve heard stories about a human tribe called the Amish, who are said to draw water from wells and pluck their own chickens. All well and good, but aren’t they also a tourist attraction for visitors who want to chuckle at their quaint customs and silly clothes? As any gorilla knows, you can’t get into the tourism business without acquiring a taste for easy living. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Jacuzzis in their homes.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Paris gets flashed
Many years ago, I wrote a post defending Paris Hilton against people who claimed she was a spoiled, vacuous bimbo. Some time later, I discovered that the allegation was actually well founded, which made me feel like a lawyer who had defended a guilty client. Thereafter, I naturally shied away from discussing Miss Hilton, but I did not delete the original post, which is still buried somewhere in the archives. Gorilla Bananas is not like one of those cowardly media pundits who erases embarrassing tweets to avoid the scorn of the mob.
So why am I mentioning her now after such a long hiatus? Well, it’s because of a recent news item about her. Apparently she is now a DJ, which seems like a fitting occupation that will give her something useful to do without taxing her brain excessively. Yet her new line of work is not without its perplexing incidents. It seems that many girls on the dance floor are showing Paris their breasts for reasons that are currently unfathomable:
“I'm a girl so it's weird when girls are flashing their boobs at me,” she explained. “But I love that people are into it and they feel so free that they can express themselves however they want.”
Now why would so many girls be baring their breasts at Paris Hilton? The most straightforward reason would be to indicate they were sexually available, but how could Paris respond to their invitation while she was busy playing records? I can’t believe that girls who go to discos don’t have better methods of seduction.
Another possible motive, much less flattering to Paris, is that the girls want to show their breasts are fuller, rounder and perkier than her own ones. If you’re envious of a woman’s fame and fortune, why not even up the score by making her jealous of your jahoobies? If that was their intention, there’s little evidence they succeeded. A dopey creature like Paris would be blissfully unaware of such devious attempts to demean her.
A third possibility, which I’m leaning towards with increasing favour, is that the girls were hoping to be recruited for a porn video. Although Paris is not a commercial producer of adult entertainment, I vaguely remember a story about her appearing in a porn video herself. Did that really happen? It was a long time ago, so I may have been dreaming. But no, I don’t think I was.
I now recall an article about that video written by Germaine Greer, who noted with approval that Paris had a bored expression on her face when some fellow was eating her cha-cha. This, Ms Greer assured us, was a powerful statement of feminist indifference. It proved that a man couldn’t orally pleasure a woman into a mass of moaning, quivering flesh.
I’m not entirely persuaded by Ms Greer’s argument, but I’m not going to search for the video after all these years just to refute her. I’ve got better things to do than study the expression on Paris Hilton’s face.