Monday, July 30, 2007
A new direction
An American visitor resembling Quentin Tarantino explains his plan for seducing a former beauty queen in his tour party. He confidentially informs me that he will look directly into her eyes and declare:“I’m going to give you a new direction.”
The idea behind this statement is that the woman will subconsciously hear the words:
“I’m going to give you a nude erection.”
This will subliminally implant the image of a phallus in her brain, causing her vulva to engorge and dilate like that of a female gorilla in oestrus. She will then drop her pants and bend over for the man to do his stuff.
I watch him closely as he shuffles up to the woman and stares at her like a hungry coyote. He drops his bombshell. She makes a face like a chimpanzee smelling a hippo fart and puts on her shades before walking away brusquely. I know not the condition of her vulva, but imagine it to be constricted as tightly as the anus of an ostrich having its tail feathers plucked.
I shake my head and gaze sadly into the blue African sky. A male gorilla takes no pleasure in witnessing a fellow primate make a hash of his species’ mating rituals. If only the man had been here a few months ago to observe a master in action. This gentleman was another American, resembling the actor John Cusack. While tending at the bar, I watched him exchange pleasantries with the female guests during the cocktail hour. One of them asked him what he did back home.
“Right now, I’m taking a break from wife-hunting in
The ladies were evidently intrigued by this admission and spent the rest of the evening questioning the man about his plans and ambitions. The youngest and prettiest female in the party fluttered around him like a moth near a candle, gently tugging at his jacket sleeve to get his attention. She and the man quickly developed an understanding. By the end of the safari, they understood each other very well indeed.
Let’s analyse the key words in the man’s statement to see why it was so effective.
Wife-hunting
Indicates to females that he is ready to commit his worldly goods to the right woman until death-us-do-part (or shirt-off-his-back in earlier divorce settlement).
Taking a break from…
Indicates to females that he will not put them on the spot by suddenly popping the question, causing untold embarrassment and sweaty knickers.
Isn’t that a giant cornfield where tractors outnumber people? Why is he limiting his choice to a handful of straw-chewing farm girls? This young man needs to broaden his horizons!
The final point of interest about the statement is whether there was any truth in it. Having examined the man’s paperwork at the safari camp, I cannot pronounce definitively on this question. But given that he identified himself as an insurance salesman residing in
It’s a tough world for the single girl, having to make on-the-spot judgements about whether a man is an honest suitor or just honestly dying for a fuck. Following every date with a lie-detector test has been known to kill the romance in a relationship. I wish I could offer some foolproof advice, but can only suggest that she look for inconsistencies and use her feminine intuition.
Gorilla Bananas can’t solve all of your problems.
Labels: nude erection, South Dakota, vulva
Friday, July 20, 2007
Busted on a bus
News arrives of a German bus driver who refused to be deflected from his duty by a pair of bouncing bosoms. These belonged to a 23-year-old female passenger, riding in a seat that made her cleavage visible in the rear-view mirror. A lesser man might have ogled the boobies intently at traffic lights and bus stops, trusting to his self-discipline when the vehicle was in motion. In my view that would have been a gross dereliction of duty. Full marks to the fellow for stopping the bus and ordering the woman to change her seat or leave. Safety must always take precedence over a woman’s right to have her titties admired.
What a pity that the young lady made a fuss and complained to the bus company. Those familiar with the game of cricket know that there is no excuse for walking across the batsman’s eye-line when the bowler is about to deliver. Had her brain not been scrambled by misguided feminist doctrines, she would have surely taken the bus driver’s concerns for the compliment they undoubtedly were. Would she really prefer to have breasts that a man would ignore if they appeared in his rear-view mirror? If so, she should have replaced her low-cut T-shirt with some variety of billowy garment popularised by the women of Arabia.
Female bus drivers should have similar rights, of course. A bare-chested labourer returning from work might well have a malign influence on their manipulation of the gear stick. What’s sauce for the goose is chutney for the chipmunk. If a lady bus driver catches sight of a male passenger flexing his pectoral muscles or suggestively wiggling his tongue, she should stop the vehicle immediately and confront him with a set of non-negotiable demands. In the business of public transport, it is always the driver who wears the trousers and the passenger who squirms submissively inside the petticoat.
These anatomical dilemmas were common in my circus days. I shall never forget Zelda the trapeze artist, whose lithe body caused male necks to twist and strain wherever she went. She had a superb bottom, perfectly pert and as firm as a freshly-picked tomato. I once discussed the question of rump maintenance with her in an analytical way, and she told me that bicycles and balletic exercises were the secret of her well-preserved posterior. Who was I to doubt her?
Unfortunately, her peachy adornment was distracting the male members of her team, who were finding it difficult to concentrate on her hands during mid-air somersaults. The remedy conceived was a radical one. Zelda allowed the men a half-hour session before each performance for studying her buttocks at close range, discussing its finer points and probing its contours with their hands. This repeated scrutiny soon diminished its fascination, allowing the men to accomplish their aeronautic feats without diversion. You can only listen to your favourite pop song so many times before it becomes mundane.
Does this circus anecdote suggest a possible course of action for women who are tired of men leering at their bosoms? I’m not one to belabour a point, so I’ll let you work it out for yourselves.
What a pity that the young lady made a fuss and complained to the bus company. Those familiar with the game of cricket know that there is no excuse for walking across the batsman’s eye-line when the bowler is about to deliver. Had her brain not been scrambled by misguided feminist doctrines, she would have surely taken the bus driver’s concerns for the compliment they undoubtedly were. Would she really prefer to have breasts that a man would ignore if they appeared in his rear-view mirror? If so, she should have replaced her low-cut T-shirt with some variety of billowy garment popularised by the women of Arabia.
Female bus drivers should have similar rights, of course. A bare-chested labourer returning from work might well have a malign influence on their manipulation of the gear stick. What’s sauce for the goose is chutney for the chipmunk. If a lady bus driver catches sight of a male passenger flexing his pectoral muscles or suggestively wiggling his tongue, she should stop the vehicle immediately and confront him with a set of non-negotiable demands. In the business of public transport, it is always the driver who wears the trousers and the passenger who squirms submissively inside the petticoat.
These anatomical dilemmas were common in my circus days. I shall never forget Zelda the trapeze artist, whose lithe body caused male necks to twist and strain wherever she went. She had a superb bottom, perfectly pert and as firm as a freshly-picked tomato. I once discussed the question of rump maintenance with her in an analytical way, and she told me that bicycles and balletic exercises were the secret of her well-preserved posterior. Who was I to doubt her?
Unfortunately, her peachy adornment was distracting the male members of her team, who were finding it difficult to concentrate on her hands during mid-air somersaults. The remedy conceived was a radical one. Zelda allowed the men a half-hour session before each performance for studying her buttocks at close range, discussing its finer points and probing its contours with their hands. This repeated scrutiny soon diminished its fascination, allowing the men to accomplish their aeronautic feats without diversion. You can only listen to your favourite pop song so many times before it becomes mundane.
Does this circus anecdote suggest a possible course of action for women who are tired of men leering at their bosoms? I’m not one to belabour a point, so I’ll let you work it out for yourselves.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Blond faith
Miss Scarlett Johansson has been occupying my mind recently. She reminds me of a young woman I met, many years ago, when performing with the circus in Stockholm. As my act drew to a conclusion, I noticed her staring at me intensely from the ringside. She stood up and stretched out her arms as I passed her on my way to the exit.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
Labels: Scarlett Johansson
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Record-breakers
A correspondent asks me about my reading tastes. I tell her that the book of Guinness World Records has often kept me amused while idling in my hammock. Where else could you discover that Mr Bernard Clemmens of London managed to sustain a fart for an officially recorded time of 2 minutes 42 seconds? Actually, this particular feat must be documented elsewhere, as it is not in fact mentioned in the Guinness book. But my point remains valid. The almanac reminds us that humans will compete in activities of the utmost futility when the prospect of minor distinction beckons.
There’s nothing very clever about a prolonged emission of flatulence. I recall a chimpanzee who claimed he could fart out a tune.
“Let me hear what you can do,” I replied casually. “If your performance is virtuoso, I may recommend you to the wind section of the Berlin Philharmonic.”
So the chimpanzee bent over and gave me a rendition of Home On The Range. He was pretty much in tune for the first verse, but I detected flat notes in the chorus.
“You have a rare talent,” I said after he had concluded. “I’ll get back to you if we need a musical act for the Hairy Coconut Festival.”
My most memorable observation of human bodily convulsions occurred in my circus days. A Welsh clown was discussing the relative merits of the male and female orgasms with a pair of buxom wenches from the make-up section. I was loitering nearby, oiling the gearwheels of my bicycle.
“When I pull one off it’s like Krakatoa erupting!” he bragged. “Shoots across the room like a squirt from a water pistol!”
“Absolute bollocks!” declared one of the ladies. “I’ve jerked off dozens of blokes and it’s never gone further than a couple of feet. Who are you trying to kid?”
“You’ve only milked a few English oxen!” retorted the clown. “Try working the Valleys if you want to see what real men are capable of.”
“You’re on!” exclaimed the woman. “Let’s go back to my trailer. If it goes more than a yard I won’t charge you for the hand job. Otherwise you owe me twenty quid.”
“Oh no, Miss!” chuckled the clown, shaking his head in amusement. “With all due respect to your supple fingers, only my tried-and-tested methods are capable of producing a performance of Olympic dimensions. You can watch from the window of my trailer while Mr Bananas here can be the referee with the measuring tape.”
“The hell I will!” I interjected heatedly. “I have no expertise in officiating such events and no wish to get your mucky yoghurt on my fingers!”
Both ladies then used their considerable powers of persuasion to make me change my mind. They cajoled; they flattered; they pouted; they petted. No male primate likes to disappoint begging females, and I relented when they offered me a free grooming session with blow-dryer and tweezers.
We watched the clown make his preparations from outside. He tried to ignore us and concentrate on a picture in a magazine. After a few minutes, he flung off his clothes and knelt on his bed with the magazine lying open in front of him. He began to stimulate himself while staring furiously at the picture, his face moving ever closer to the image that so excited him. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was a photograph of the singer Bonnie Tyler. His eyes swivelled madly at the moment of release as he thrust his abdomen upwards.
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I was impressed by the power of the first spurt of fluid, which reminded me of a lemon being squeezed. When he was done and lying flat on his bed, I entered the trailer cautiously with measuring tape in hand.
“Showed ‘em, eh Bananas!” he mumbled breathlessly as I looked for the landing spot of his farthest ejaculation. When I found it, I measured the distance travelled as over six feet from the edge of the bed. Both ladies were forced to eat humble pie and give credit where it was due.
A few days later, I made the mistake of telling the clown that Mr Norris McQuirter was an acquaintance of mine. He immediately started pestering me to inform the world-record compiler of his accomplishment. With a deep sigh, I put pen to paper and duly received a reply from Mr McQuirter. It stated that the clown’s performance, although admirable, was no world record. Apparently, there was a society in Brazil in which men had honed this particular skill to the ultimate degree, achieving distances of over twenty feet. The most popular pictorial aid was a photograph of Shirley Bassey, gesticulating with mouth wide open.
The clown made no attempt to hide his disappointment when I gave him the bad news.
“Shirley Bassey!” he exclaimed. “Are they all queer or something?”
I gave him no answer and walked away shaking my head, reflecting on the rancour and bad sportsmanship to which overly-competitive humans were prone.
There’s nothing very clever about a prolonged emission of flatulence. I recall a chimpanzee who claimed he could fart out a tune.
“Let me hear what you can do,” I replied casually. “If your performance is virtuoso, I may recommend you to the wind section of the Berlin Philharmonic.”
So the chimpanzee bent over and gave me a rendition of Home On The Range. He was pretty much in tune for the first verse, but I detected flat notes in the chorus.
“You have a rare talent,” I said after he had concluded. “I’ll get back to you if we need a musical act for the Hairy Coconut Festival.”
My most memorable observation of human bodily convulsions occurred in my circus days. A Welsh clown was discussing the relative merits of the male and female orgasms with a pair of buxom wenches from the make-up section. I was loitering nearby, oiling the gearwheels of my bicycle.
“When I pull one off it’s like Krakatoa erupting!” he bragged. “Shoots across the room like a squirt from a water pistol!”
“Absolute bollocks!” declared one of the ladies. “I’ve jerked off dozens of blokes and it’s never gone further than a couple of feet. Who are you trying to kid?”
“You’ve only milked a few English oxen!” retorted the clown. “Try working the Valleys if you want to see what real men are capable of.”
“You’re on!” exclaimed the woman. “Let’s go back to my trailer. If it goes more than a yard I won’t charge you for the hand job. Otherwise you owe me twenty quid.”
“Oh no, Miss!” chuckled the clown, shaking his head in amusement. “With all due respect to your supple fingers, only my tried-and-tested methods are capable of producing a performance of Olympic dimensions. You can watch from the window of my trailer while Mr Bananas here can be the referee with the measuring tape.”
“The hell I will!” I interjected heatedly. “I have no expertise in officiating such events and no wish to get your mucky yoghurt on my fingers!”
Both ladies then used their considerable powers of persuasion to make me change my mind. They cajoled; they flattered; they pouted; they petted. No male primate likes to disappoint begging females, and I relented when they offered me a free grooming session with blow-dryer and tweezers.
We watched the clown make his preparations from outside. He tried to ignore us and concentrate on a picture in a magazine. After a few minutes, he flung off his clothes and knelt on his bed with the magazine lying open in front of him. He began to stimulate himself while staring furiously at the picture, his face moving ever closer to the image that so excited him. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was a photograph of the singer Bonnie Tyler. His eyes swivelled madly at the moment of release as he thrust his abdomen upwards.
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I was impressed by the power of the first spurt of fluid, which reminded me of a lemon being squeezed. When he was done and lying flat on his bed, I entered the trailer cautiously with measuring tape in hand.
“Showed ‘em, eh Bananas!” he mumbled breathlessly as I looked for the landing spot of his farthest ejaculation. When I found it, I measured the distance travelled as over six feet from the edge of the bed. Both ladies were forced to eat humble pie and give credit where it was due.
A few days later, I made the mistake of telling the clown that Mr Norris McQuirter was an acquaintance of mine. He immediately started pestering me to inform the world-record compiler of his accomplishment. With a deep sigh, I put pen to paper and duly received a reply from Mr McQuirter. It stated that the clown’s performance, although admirable, was no world record. Apparently, there was a society in Brazil in which men had honed this particular skill to the ultimate degree, achieving distances of over twenty feet. The most popular pictorial aid was a photograph of Shirley Bassey, gesticulating with mouth wide open.
The clown made no attempt to hide his disappointment when I gave him the bad news.
“Shirley Bassey!” he exclaimed. “Are they all queer or something?”
I gave him no answer and walked away shaking my head, reflecting on the rancour and bad sportsmanship to which overly-competitive humans were prone.
Labels: Bonnie Tyler, Shirley Bassey, Welsh clown
Friday, July 06, 2007
Job dissatisfaction
Quite a few humans seem to be disgruntled with their jobs. I‘ve recently heard complaints from Sassy Little Kara, Moping Lord Milky and even some of the overpaid cokeheads who come on safari. It makes me thankful for my own career as a circus performer. Entertaining an audience has its pressures, but at least your fate is in your hands. As long as the crowds keep cheering, you don’t have to bother with buttering up the boss or humouring your workmates.
I could do pretty much as I pleased in my off time. I snoozed in my trailer when celebrities came to visit and farted loudly at staff meetings. I flirted with the ringmaster’s wife and conspired with her in intrigues against her philandering husband. I goofed around during rehearsals, pulling off the clowns’ wigs and stuffing them down their baggy trousers. And if the ringmaster ever raised his voice to me, I would cordially invite him to pucker his lips and smooch my big hairy butt – or words to that effect.
So what is a good boss? One who can separate the trivial from the important. If I were in charge of humans working in an office, I’d tell them precisely what they had to do for their payslip at the end of the month. As long as they managed it, I wouldn’t worry about them coming to work dressed as Batman, or discussing the latest vice from Amsterdam, or using sex toys in the office toilets. Caesar said his soldiers fought just as well when stinking of perfume. But if they failed to give satisfaction without good cause, I would not hesitate to bestow the Order of the Boot.
“What of sexual harassment in the workplace?” I hear you ask. “What of it?” I reply. These problems arise from poor communication. I would ask each member of staff to submit a confidential list of workmates whom they fancied. I would then privately inform each employee which of their co-workers they were allowed to grope. Mutual fanciers would obviously be given carte-blanche to molest each other. Problem solved.
Insecure human bosses don’t realise that imposing pointless rules doesn’t earn you respect. Nor does playing the court jester like that donkey David Brent. Your underlings must know that without your guidance they’d be floundering like seal pups before the cull. As well as being superb at your own job, you’ve got to make them aware that you’d be better at their jobs as well. Once in a while, the shrewd manager comes out of his cubicle and fills in for one of his minions, flaunting his superior admin skills and flashing his stylish accoutrements.
The one thing a team leader can never tolerate is treachery behind his back. I once left a young gorilla in charge of my band when I was away on a cruise. When I got back, I found that the coconut stash had disappeared and two females were pregnant. I chased that hairy rascal right out of the jungle. He would have starved if he hadn’t found some ostrich eggs, which he managed to steal at the cost of having his arse hairs pecked out. On returning to the forest, he wisely never showed his ugly face near my patch again. I celebrated my rout of the interloper with a gala chest-thumping party. An ape does good business when he rids himself of a turd.
I could do pretty much as I pleased in my off time. I snoozed in my trailer when celebrities came to visit and farted loudly at staff meetings. I flirted with the ringmaster’s wife and conspired with her in intrigues against her philandering husband. I goofed around during rehearsals, pulling off the clowns’ wigs and stuffing them down their baggy trousers. And if the ringmaster ever raised his voice to me, I would cordially invite him to pucker his lips and smooch my big hairy butt – or words to that effect.
So what is a good boss? One who can separate the trivial from the important. If I were in charge of humans working in an office, I’d tell them precisely what they had to do for their payslip at the end of the month. As long as they managed it, I wouldn’t worry about them coming to work dressed as Batman, or discussing the latest vice from Amsterdam, or using sex toys in the office toilets. Caesar said his soldiers fought just as well when stinking of perfume. But if they failed to give satisfaction without good cause, I would not hesitate to bestow the Order of the Boot.
“What of sexual harassment in the workplace?” I hear you ask. “What of it?” I reply. These problems arise from poor communication. I would ask each member of staff to submit a confidential list of workmates whom they fancied. I would then privately inform each employee which of their co-workers they were allowed to grope. Mutual fanciers would obviously be given carte-blanche to molest each other. Problem solved.
Insecure human bosses don’t realise that imposing pointless rules doesn’t earn you respect. Nor does playing the court jester like that donkey David Brent. Your underlings must know that without your guidance they’d be floundering like seal pups before the cull. As well as being superb at your own job, you’ve got to make them aware that you’d be better at their jobs as well. Once in a while, the shrewd manager comes out of his cubicle and fills in for one of his minions, flaunting his superior admin skills and flashing his stylish accoutrements.
The one thing a team leader can never tolerate is treachery behind his back. I once left a young gorilla in charge of my band when I was away on a cruise. When I got back, I found that the coconut stash had disappeared and two females were pregnant. I chased that hairy rascal right out of the jungle. He would have starved if he hadn’t found some ostrich eggs, which he managed to steal at the cost of having his arse hairs pecked out. On returning to the forest, he wisely never showed his ugly face near my patch again. I celebrated my rout of the interloper with a gala chest-thumping party. An ape does good business when he rids himself of a turd.
Labels: Batman, Caesar, David Brent
