Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Too pretty to work?
The manager of the safari camp has been drooling over pictures of Miss Laura Fernee, the 33-year-old woman who claims she is too attractive to have a career.
“I’d give her a job,” he muttered, while breathing heavily on his computer screen.
“That’s very generous of you,” I remarked. “Nevertheless, she may have loftier career ambitions than being your masseuse. She has a doctorate, you know.”
“She can play doctor with me whenever she wants,” replied the manager oafishly.
I left him to his daydreams.
Miss Fernee says that whenever she finds employment her workmates make life impossible for her. The women assume she is a brainless bimbo, and when they discover she is sharp of mind they resent her even more. The men, by contrast, ignore her intellect and prowl around her like bears hoping to stick their paws in a honey pot. As a result of these intolerable aggravations, Miss Fernee is unemployed, subsisting on a monthly allowance of 2000 pounds sterling from her parents, which she uses to buy the designer clothes and accoutrements befitting a woman of her beauty and refinement.
I feel for Miss Fernee. Judging by appearance is one of the great weaknesses of homo sapiens and she has fallen foul of it. It’s not her fault that she resembles a Venezuelan beauty queen. Nor should she have to work as a supermodel or gangster’s moll just because of her looks. Perhaps she should consider shaving her head and wearing false whiskers. Her appearance would still be striking, but less likely to provoke envy or lust, and more suggestive of the deep thinker she clearly is. How many bald bearded women have ever been treated like vacuous strumpets? I can’t think of a single one.
Another young lady whose beauty is bringing her unwanted attention is Lourdes, the 16-year-old daughter of Madonna. When I say “unwanted” I mean “unwanted by her mother”, who insists that Lourdes and her boyfriend court under the gaze of a burly bodyguard, whose presence is intended to deter any hanky panky. I fear that Madonna’s maternal protectiveness may be thwarted by another human weakness, which is the susceptibility to bribery. Lourdes and her beau surely have sufficient ready cash to persuade their overseer to look the other way for 20 minutes while they sneak into a motel. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the daughter of a pop idol.
Should Madonna have had hired a gorilla to be the chaperone? I can honestly say that I never took a bribe during my circus career. If I were Lourdes’ minder, I wouldn’t think of letting her grease my palm in return for turning a blind eye to her intimate encounters. No, I would let her fornicate free of charge. Given that Madonna lost her virginity at the age of 15 without damaging her career prospects, she is a silly old hypocrite for trying to keep her daughter chaste at the age of 16. The latest photos of Lourdes and her boyfriend suggest that the train has left the station and is about to blow its whistle.
Labels: bimbo, bribery, career, Lourdes, Madonna
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Happy birthday Yoko!
Yoko Ono is 80! Her birthday was actually in February, so I’m offering her my belated best wishes. I hope she’ll understand how difficult it is to keep track of celebrity birthdays in the rainforest. I only really notice the passage of time when the crocodiles start humping.
What a fascinating human being Yoko is! People have often wondered how a demur, soft-spoken Japanese woman could be so barmy. I blame it on the American military occupation of Japan following World War 2. When a teenage girl used to a diet of steamed rice and vegetables suddenly starts binging on chocolates and Coca-cola, it has a similar effect on her brain to LSD. She later did take acid, of course, and her disordered mind began to make weird connections, such as noticing the humour in men’s private parts. Did she laugh at John Lennon’s dick? It wouldn’t surprise me, but I doubt it damaged their relationship.
I once made the mistake of discussing the break-up of the Beatles with the manager of the safari camp. I said it wasn’t Yoko’s fault because the lads had already grown apart and were following diverging paths. This provoked a furious response:
“Of course it was Yoko’s fault, you ignorant ape!” barked the manager. “You don’t have a clue what was going on behind the scenes! She put a hex on the band and made weird mewling noises when they were rehearsing. If it wasn’t for her interference, John would be alive today and the Beatles would be playing in the Cavern!”
There was no point arguing with an irrational outburst like that, so I turned my back on him and farted before returning to the jungle.
The good news is that Paul has settled the issue by stating that Yoko didn’t break up the Beatles. What a nice thing to say after all the spiteful words that ping-ponged between them. Paul must have realised that there were bitchier women than Yoko on the face of the Earth after his divorce from Heather Mills. Whatever nasty things Yoko said about him, she didn’t cost him 30 million bucks. Let’s hope he goes to watch her perform at this summer’s music festival in London, where she’ll be singing the songs that John recorded shortly before he was assassinated by the mad assassin.
Another person who ought to go to the concert is Bjorn Ulvaeus, who praised the Beatles in a recent interview. When asked whether the Abba girls got annoyed when their husbands were chased by groupies, Bjorn replied:
“You may find this unbelievable but we never really had them.”
It does surprise me that neither Bjorn nor Benny attracted a single groupie at the height of their fame in Abba. But “unbelievable” is a strong word, particularly after looking at old photos of the band. If Bjorn says there were no groupies, I will accept his statement as factual if he gives me his word as a gentleman and a Swede.
Labels: Abba, groupies, laughing at John Lennon's dick, Paul McCartney, The Beatles, Yoko Ono
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Croatian breast festival
Croatian feminists are furious about the breast festival held in their country, where the bosoms of nubile women were weighed, measured and graded like so many tomatoes or aubergines. They pooh-poohed the organisers’ point that the purpose of the event was to raise money for a terminally ill man.
“There are all sorts of other ways that they could have raised money for this man without insulting women," said Ruza Vukovic, a woman’s rights activist.
I suppose you’re wondering which side of the dispute I’m on. It seems that some of my readers don’t know what to think about the issues of the day until they’ve received my direction.
“I’m still waiting to hear whether you approve of the mankini,” wrote one correspondent in a recent email.
Well, it’s not my business to takes sides on such controversial issues. The Prime Jungle Directive forbids gorillas from interfering in the disputes of humanity. Rather than batting for one team, my role is to mediate by suggesting an honourable compromise that might be acceptable to both parties.
Is there a way this festival could have been made non-sexist? What if an equal number of male contestants had taken part, having their breasts examined and judged in the same way as the women? There is surely no question of demeaning women if the breasts of both genders are up for grabs.
It goes without saying that the women would win hands-down in a unisex event. I hope no one will accuse me of being sexist when I say that women have much nicer bosoms than men. Many are the occasions on which I have grunted in disgust on seeing an overweight man pull off his t-shirt to reveal a hideously blubbery pair of man-tits. The moob is an ugly freak of Nature, as offensive to primate eyes as the African Banana Slug.
In the tournament that actually took place, the title of most beautiful breasts went to Danijela Golubovic, a 23-year-old nurse:
"It was a bit strange but after all it is for charity, and I'm glad that I could take part in helping to raise cash," she said.
How fitting that a nurse, whose profession is to heal the sick, was willing to use her boobs to bring comfort to a dying man. I think I would love this woman if her chest were like William Shatner’s.
A lady’s jahoobies are not always a force for good, of course. A man in San Francisco was unable to give the police a useful description of the woman who rammed his car because he was distracted by her bosom.
"He was able to describe the suspect as having a low cut dress and gave a detailed description of her cleavage," explained police captain Greg Corrales.
It’s all too easy to mock the victim in such cases, while ignoring the infamous behaviour of the culprit. It would be a sad day for road safety if the perpetrator of a hit-and-run accident escaped justice because she had a vast pair of hooters.
Labels: Breasts, Croatia, jahoobies, road safety, sexism
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
Playing doctor
It’s common knowledge than women find men in uniforms attractive. Even we gorillas know that. But is it possible they prefer doctors to soldiers, sailors and firemen? That’s what a recent survey suggests, indicating that 61% of women go weak at the knees when they see a man in a white coat.
My regular readers will know that it’s my habit to ask the manager of the safari camp for his input on such conundrums. Unfortunately, he was out collecting narcotic toads when I arrived, so I asked his wife instead.
“The explanation is obvious, GB,” she said. “Doctors make the most money.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” I replied. “I had some cockamamie notion of women being turned on by arrogant men who can order them to undress and examine their bodies with impunity. But obviously that’s nonsense. Thanks for putting me straight.”
“Hmm, not so fast, GB,” said the manager’s wife. “Your idea is not a bad one if the doctor looks like George Clooney. My doctor looks like George Lucas so I never thought of it. Your intuition about women’s fantasies is very good for a gorilla. Do you know any other ones?”
“Madam, you are too kind.” I replied. “Regrettably, I don’t spend very much time thinking up arousing daydreams for women. There’s so little need for it in the jungle. But if such a fancy does occur to me, you’ll be the first to know.”
You’ll notice that I refrained from sniggering when she mentioned George Clooney, whose appearances in ER could be part of the reason for the survey results. What’s funny about George is that the affection women have for him appears to be largely unrequited. So great is his liking for the society of men that his big sister had to issue a statement denying he is gay. I personally never doubted George’s preference for carnal relations with women. It’s just their company he finds irksome. Maybe he was severely hen-pecked by his college sweetheart…or his big sister. These things can happen to the machoest of men.
I’m not convinced about the importance of the white coat, though. Clooney would clearly be attractive to women in any uniform apart from a clown’s costume. Dr McCoy, on the other hand, never wore one on the Enterprise and was far from being a hit with the babes. I can only remember him getting into one promising situation with a woman, and he gave her the following line:
“My dear girl, I’m a doctor. When I peek it’s in the line of duty!”
That’s not the sort of remark which makes a girl feel desirable. Wearing a white coat would not have helped with that level of seduction skills.
Of course, it’s reassuring for a woman to know she’s with a man who only peeks in a professional capacity. This could not be said of the two scoundrels who fell through the ceiling of a lady’s lavatory in Duluth. Star Trek might have been created to educate such brigands.
Labels: doctors, Dr McCoy, George Clooney, Star Trek, women's fantasies
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Mars dick doodle
So the Mars Rover has drawn a penis on the surface of the red planet. The folks at NASA are stressing it was an accident:
“The image created was the unintended outcome of its exploratory manoeuvres,” announced a spokesman gravely.
Or in other words, one small cock-up by a machine, one giant cock on a planet.
I hope they don’t make the Rover scratch out its doodle. The Martian willy could be a major attraction for future space tourists, comparable in appeal to the horny chalk-man in Dorset. Perhaps the Rover should draw a giant vulva alongside it, to give equal emphasis to the male and female genitalia. Otherwise visitors might think 21st century humans were dick-obsessed maniacs like the ancient Romans, who considered the vagina a mere receptacle for the all-conquering cock.
It wasn’t just the Romans who were fond of phallic artefacts. The stiffy was venerated by most pagan civilisations until Christianity came along and told them it was embarrassing. The time has surely come for modern-day Christians to admit their forefathers made a mistake and reclaim this ancient custom. Obviously, there’s no point asking the Pope to rehabilitate the phallus – he would immediately suspect it was a trick to make him incriminate himself. It would have to be a leading Protestant, pure of body and spirit.
Do I have anyone in mind? Indeed I do. I nominate Sir Cliff Richard, one of the few world-famous Christians with no skeletons in his trousers. It wouldn’t be difficult to get him on board. I’d remind him of the psalm which says “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”, which is as phallic as it comes in Holy Scripture. I’m pretty confident this would spur Cliff into action – he’s the kind of guy who would glue his arse cheeks together if the Bible told him to.
Now I’m aware that Cliff has his fair share of detractors who think he’s the uncoolest person on the planet (Earth, not Mars). Some horticultural students recently jumped on the bandwagon by claiming that his music killed off the plants when they played it in a greenhouse. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought of this dubious experiment, he predictably expressed confidence in its results:
“Of course his music makes plants shrivel and die!” he declared. “It’s had the same effect on my erections on more than one occasion. You’re a mad hairy fool if you think he’s a suitable patron for the phallus!”
I dismissed his remarks as the ravings of a Satanist. It doesn’t really matter what Cliff’s music does to organic matter anyway. No one’s going to play it during the Festival of the Sacred Cucumber. The important thing is that he’s incredibly popular with Christians, who would follow his lead on the role of the todger in spiritual life. Imagine those pious, earnest faces offering prayers to a mighty dong made of marble and granite. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, nothing will.
Labels: Cliff Richard, Holy Scripture, phallic symbol, todger
