Wednesday, April 16, 2014

The scent of a hoochie

Have you ever been to a pheromone party? Apparently, they’re the latest craze afflicting trendy young humans who aren’t sure who to have sex with. To get invited, you have to sleep in the same t-shirt for three nights in a row and bring it along to the party, where it is sniffed by potential playmates like a mature cheese. Couples who like each other’s body scent can then cut to the chase and discuss their favourite mating positions.

As a method of courtship, it’s supposed to be more reliable than chatting someone up because smells don’t lie. No longer will lads pretend to be gentlemen when they’re really the most frightful bounders. Nor will girls feel obliged to be coy and ladylike when they’re really the most awful harridans. Sniffing the pheromones will bypass all the posturing and get to the crotch of the matter.

That’s the theory, anyway. Being a suspicious ape, I detect a possible loophole in the system: it depends on the t-shirt odour being authentic. What is to stop an evil-smelling rogue sprinkling aromatic oils and aphrodisiacs over his garment before submitting it to the party manager? The human being is a cunning animal: if you give it the chance to doctor its juices, its juices will probably be doctored.

When I invited the manager of the safari camp to comment on this development, he said:

“Basically these are parties for ugly people hoping to attract someone with their smell because their looks can’t do it. A dog that smells of catnip might find a willing pussy.”

“Pithily put, manager, but what about good-looking people who smell bad?” I asked. “Didn’t your wife give you a bottle of deodorant last Christmas?”

“It was part of a toiletry set including shower gel and aftershave,” he replied defensively.

The manager does have a point about looks, though. Pretty-boy actor Paul Rudd was recently led through the streets of New York City by a garrulous comedian, who asked passers-by if they would have sex with him for a dollar. Most of the women replied heartily in the affirmative, often agreeing to waive their one-dollar fee. And at no stage of the proceedings did anyone attempt to sniff Mr Rudd to find out whether he smelt as good as he looked. For humans, the eyes are the sultan and the nose is the eunuch who guards the harem.

Yet strangely enough, there is an actor who thinks being too pretty has hindered his career, denying him challenging roles that might have won him an Oscar:

“When I was a teen idol, I was so goddamn pretty I wouldn’t have taken myself seriously,” lamented Rob Lowe.

My simian heart bleeds for him. If I were a Hollywood big shot, I would offer Rob a pheromone audition for the part of Peppy Le Pew, so he could dazzle us with his French accent, comic timing and ability to fart on cue. He deserves the opportunity. The only problem might be finding a casting director willing to sniff his butt.

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Bone apart

I do hope Napoleon’s penis is returned to his descendants so they can dispose of it in a dignified manner. The unfortunate organ was detached from its deceased owner during an autopsy carried out by a resentful doctor. I have no idea what the doctor’s grudge was – the list of possible grievances that might be blamed on Napoleon is endless. Be that as it may, robbing a corpse of its masculine appendage is hardly ever justified. Maybe a transvestite who was too scared to have the operation while he was alive would have wanted to be buried in a dickless condition, but there is no reason to suspect that Napoleon was such a person.

The eminent todger was sold to an eccentric American in 1977 and currently resides in New Jersey. I know this because a “TV scientist” has tracked it down to get some publicity for his show:

"I've seen a lot of penises, from a Chihuahua to a Sperm Whale,” declared Mark Evans, presenter of Dead Famous DNA. “This is so withered.”

Stupid twerp. I’d like to see what his knob looks like after 200 years of aimless wandering inside a cigar box. And what a charlatan he is for pretending that a withered penis is an object of scientific interest. It is a sad commentary on the TV industry that this bumptious oaf has access to the airwaves and can pass himself off as a scientist.

I should make it clear that I have no admiration for Bonaparte, who was and remains an enemy of the gorilla nation. When he led his garlic-munching hordes into the Mother Continent, we gorillas immediately took up arms and offered our services to the Royal Navy. My ancestor, Bo’sun Bananas, was mentioned in dispatches by Lord Nelson after the Battle of the Nile. That noble ape despised the Corsican upstart, and I’m sure he would have wanted his remains to rest in obscurity. Making an artefact of his penis gives him undeserved publicity.

I wonder if Cameron Diaz is aware of this story. She has recently been hinting at same-sex dalliances, and hearing about a decaying penis might have pushed her along this path.

“I think women are beautiful – absolutely beautiful,” she enthused. “And I think that all women have been sexually attracted to another woman at some point.”

My advice to Cameron is to give it a go, but be careful about her choice of paramour. No one likes to see a lesbian couple where one of the women is a mannish type who wears trousers. Ideally, her lover would be as pretty and feminine as she is, making it impossible to guess who wears the strap-on. Leaving room for the imagination is never a bad thing if you’re in show business.

I wonder if Napoleon’s mistress Josephine ever had Sapphic yearnings. I wouldn’t have blamed her. No man who spends his life planning military campaigns is going to be a skilful lover. Lightning thrusts or surprise attacks never won a man glory in the sack.

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Solar exposure

Have you noticed how normal it’s become for people in show business to promote their personal health fads? It wouldn’t bother me if there were a way of holding them to account for endorsing bogus therapies. If my local witch doctor advises me to drink a pint of snake piss to cure some ailment, he knows full well that I’ll pay him a visit if the remedy is spurious or noxious. He would then expect to be held upside down by his ankles until he confessed to being a quack. This form of redress isn’t so easy to implement when the person giving the advice resides in a mansion surrounded by a ten foot wall, equipped with the latest security devices. It breeds a culture of impunity, allowing charlatans like Simon Cowell to beguile the human masses with his pseudo tonics.

The actress Shailene Woodley is another case study of this dubious advocacy. She claims to have kept herself in good health by exposing her lady parts to naked sunlight:

“I like to give my vagina a little vitamin D,” she explained.

She made this remark casually, as if she were describing the most natural thing in the world, so one assumes she was being serious. One must nevertheless dismiss her conjecture as utter hogwash. If vitamin D is good for the vulva, it doesn’t need to be produced at the precise location where its salubrious effects are required. Vitamins are mobile: they travel around the body and do their good work where they are needed. That’s why you can take them by swallowing pills rather than pressing poultices on your body.

How many impressionable young women will hear of Ms Woodley’s bizarre panacea and start sunbathing with their legs apart and their gussets thrust skywards? If the medical profession reports an upsurge in sunburnt coochies, we’ll know who to blame.

Another young actress who seems to think the sun shines out of her vagina is Lindsay Lohann. Last year, she made a list of 36 famous men she claims to have slept with, and showed it to her friends. It quickly became public knowledge.

One of men listed is a fellow called James Franco, whose renown has yet to penetrate the rainforests of the Congo. He nevertheless took umbrage at being named in this way, and has denounced Ms Lohann as a liar.

I find his behaviour caddish for two reasons. First, because it implies that he is insulted by the idea that he had sex with Lindsay. Second, because she may have added his name to the list in error rather than malice. When you’ve slept with as many men as she has, it must be easy to get confused and imagine you’ve bedded some fellow who merely paid you a compliment at a social function. I believe this often happened to courtesans who frequented the salons of pre-revolutionary France. One cannot expect a perfect memory of a woman who is a hoochie of the highest order.

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Scarlett's denial

Scarlett Johansson has said that she’s “not a nudist by nature” and I believe her. Exposing her soft, creamy skin to the elements would be a foolhardy pastime to practice on a regular basis. In my part of the world, the mosquitoes and leeches would be queuing up to taste her tender flesh and gorge on her blood, which doubtless tastes better than a tomato smoothie. If I saw Scarlett sleeping naked in the jungle, I would order a chimpanzee to fetch a box of cling film from the safari camp, so I could wrap her up like a slice of melon. Naked actresses are no less worthy of conservation than African wildlife, and I’m sure my friend Davy Attenborough would agree with me.

The intention behind Scarlett’s remark was to assure critics that the nudity in her latest film role was essential to the plot, and not a brazen attempt at titillation. In this film, Scarlett plays an alien femme fatale who kills the men she seduces in order to harvest their bodies. Not having seen the movie, I cannot explain the motive for these egregious deeds. One would hope those extra-terrestrial chicks aren’t like female spiders who make a hearty meal of the poor dope that impregnates them. I wouldn’t want to see Scarlett practising cannibalism on the big screen – it’s not a healthy dining habit and the African tribes that did it suffered from heartburn and halitosis. Stick to green vegetables and insects if you want to live long and prosper.

Let’s hope that no mentally disturbed woman engages in copycat behaviour after seeing the film. That could lead to tiresome lawsuits, which are the bane of humanity. I groaned and thumped my chest when I heard that Miley Cyrus is being sued by a workman who was hurt while erecting the giant tongue used in her stage act. One would have hoped he had more dignity than to claim he was injured by a tongue. My advice to Miley is to settle this quickly before the lawyers descend like vultures.

Back in my circus days, a clown once threatened to sue me for injuring his buttocks during our act. There was a little swelling, but nothing that couldn’t have been cured by sitting on an ice pack for a few hours. I offered him a month’s wages from my own pocket.

“Take the cash and I will moderate the force of my kicks,” I told him. “Otherwise be prepared to suffer for your art.”

He wisely took the money and got his arse massaged by a professional.

Much as I dislike lawsuits, I have no fear of testifying in court should the need arise. I was once called as an expert witness in a libel trial in London.

“M’Lud!” I declared. “No human in a gorilla suit could tempt a real gorilla into the unnatural acts described in the journal. The anatomies are incompatible!”

I’m proud to say that my evidence decided the case.

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The peacock's tail

Scientists have discovered a trick used by peacocks to attract more females: they hide behind a bush and pretend they’re have sex by making suggestive clucking noises. This convinces any passing peahen that the male is an alpha stud who’s busy servicing her rivals. Consumed with jealousy and lust, she hunts him down to get her share of the action.

Perhaps we should consider whether the same strategy would work for men. Suppose a fellow panted heavily and shouted “Who’s your daddy?” with his bedroom window open. How would this influence women passing by in the street below? My gut feeling is that they wouldn’t be impressed. They would ask themselves questions like “Why is the window open?” and “Why is his partner not making any noise?”. Women are much less easy to fool than peahens.

Having said all that, it would be wrong to believe that the human female is immune to the attractions of reputation and swagger. Have you heard the news that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez have reunited in the biblical sense? After getting jilted by Selena a couple of years ago, I’m sure you all know that Justin went on a rampage of sleeping with prostitutes, sucking strippers’ titties and generally being a bad boy. Far from further alienating Selena, it seems these additions to his résumé have induced her to reconnect. Once again, she is spreading her legs for the Bieb.

Her parents are allegedly wringing their hands in horror, but that’s probably because they never studied biology at graduate level. There’s no point reasoning with a female in oestrus. I once tried reasoning with a female gorilla in oestrus and she bit me. What Selena’s parents should do is let Nature take its course until she finds out whether Justin has turned into the dashing desperado of her imagination. My guess is that he hasn’t. There aren’t many boys who can compete with a girl’s fantasies.

Sometimes a female gives the wrong impression of being in oestrus. Looking at the picture below, you might think the deed depicted was hormonally influenced. In fact, the actress Kristen Bell is rebuking her co-stars at a movie premiere. A few minutes before, her red panties had been exposed by a gust of wind, causing her escorts to laugh. The butt-gropes were an entirely appropriate response to their uncouth behaviour.

It goes without saying that one should never snigger at a lady’s underwear. My friend Lady Chuffington once accidentally gave me a glimpse of her purple knickers. I would have said nothing, but her hard stare and pursed lips suggested she held me at fault for some reason. Realising that the incident could not pass without comment, I formulated the following response:

“A fine pair of bloomers, milady! The colour is especially vibrant, if I may say so.”

“You many indeed, Bananas,” she replied, before giving me her hand to kiss.

It’s usually possible to defuse an awkward situation if you keep your wits about you.

Labels: , , , , ,

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Kiss of death

Katy Perry is denying that she intended to kiss Miley Cyrus on the lips:

“I just walked up to her to give her like a friendly girly kiss, you know, as girls do, and then she like tried to move her head and go deeper and I pulled away,” waffled Katy. “God knows where that tongue has been. We don't know! That tongue is so infamous!” she added.

Frankly, I think Miss Perry should be prosecuted for malicious slander and being a nasty hussy. Of the two tongues, hers is the more evil by far. If I were the presiding judge, I would sentence her to a 3-month term as Miley’s slave girl and concubine. It’s an experience that might teach her the value of discretion.

A lot of people think you can say anything you like in America because of the First Amendment and all that. If you look at the legal fine print, however, this doesn’t seem to be true. The town of Grand Rapids, for example, has an ordinance making it an offence to “wilfully annoy another person”. It’s a pity they are now planning to repeal it. This sensible by-law must have deterred all manner of vexatious deeds, including the making of obscene noises and insults beginning with the words “Yo mama”. Grand Rapids will be a rowdier and less congenial place without it.

As far as I know, it is perfectly legal for a woman to breastfeed a puppy in America. I mention this because a woman from Colorado Springs has admitted suckling a runt that refused bottle milk:

“He just wasn’t taking it. I didn’t know what else to do, I was desperate and I just couldn’t bear sitting there watching it die,” she said.

The women asked for her identity to be hidden when she was interviewed on TV, fearing that her act of mercy would expose her to the wrath of the multitude (to say nothing of lewd requests from “adult baby” perverts). Breaking a sacred taboo can be as dangerous as breaking the law, although one has to wonder why the woman made a public confession if she was so worried about it. Who would have ever found out if she’d maintained an inscrutable silence? The puppy certainly wouldn’t have squealed, except possibly in gratitude or excitement. Much as I admire her generous deed, there is something weirdly exhibitionist about this woman.

It goes without saying that there is no justification for abominating a woman who breastfeeds a baby animal. It’s a despicable double-standard when you consider that human infants have been nursed by mammalian surrogate mothers in the most hallowed myths: Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she-wolf; Tarzan took milk from his beloved ape mother; Zeus was wet-nursed by a nanny goat. There is nothing special about the human titty – it’s just a rounder and less hairy version of a female gorilla’s udder. It might also be softer, but I’m not going to stick my neck out on that one.

Labels: , , , ,

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Bag head

We gorillas aren’t spooked by humans who cover their faces. I’m well aware that it’s frowned upon in most human societies, because of its association with bank robbers, anarchists and other assorted scoundrels. But let’s not forget that Zorro and the Lone Ranger had to work incognito to avoid being pestered by autograph hunters. I don’t worry about the concealment of faces because I have faith in my sense of smell. No masked interloper could ever sneak up on me without his character and intentions being sniffed out in advance.

Consider the fellow pictured above. I don’t even need a whiff of him to know that he’s a certifiable nincompoop. His name is Shia LeBoeuf, which I would have assumed was an Iranian meat dish had the text below the photograph not informed me otherwise. The crowning glory of his twattery is the statement “I am not famous anymore” printed on the hoover bag over his head. When was he ever famous? There are shoe-shine boys in the Congo who are better known than he is.

It seems his exaggerated sense of celebrity has arisen from his part in a film called Nymphomaniac. Although one shouldn’t generally judge a movie from its title, I think we can safely pigeonhole this one as a turkey. You may as well make a film about a female fruit fly during the mating season. One of his co-stars in the movie, an obscure English actress called Felicity Gilbert, has warned him that he risks alienating his fans by wearing a bag over his head. I think he should be more worried about public-spirited bystanders kicking him in the arse.

I have nothing against nymphomaniacs, of course. Compulsive behaviour is not a sin to be condemned, but an illness to be regarded with compassion. Maybe they could be cured of their addiction by replacing it with something else, just as methadone is used as a heroine substitute. Some have suggested bungee jumping, but my prescription would be tomato ketchup. Having seen pictures of a 19-year-old student who consumes 75 kilos of the stuff every year, I am certain it would restore the virginal freshness to the cheeks of the most insatiable hoochie.

One must be careful not to misdiagnose women with a healthy sex-drive as nymphomaniacs. The singer Robbie Williams came perilously close to doing so when he described Australian women as “Olympians at sex”.

“I’ve got my wife and I am very, very happy, but I did think it was an Aussie that I was going to end up with,” he said.

I find this less surprising than he does. His brain may have loved the idea of Olympic sex marathons, but his body knew its limitations and vetoed the idea. The woman he did marry is of Turkish ancestry, so one wonders what she’ll make of his remarks. We don’t know whether she’s energetic in bed, but it’s quite likely she has a fiery temper. Maybe Mr Williams should wear a jockstrap beneath his pyjamas for the next couple of weeks.

Labels: , , , ,

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Follow my blog with Bloglovin Follow my blog with Bloglovin