Wednesday, July 05, 2017
Shaping up
The manager of the safari camp is away on a business trip, so his wife is advising me on what to blog about. She suggests I comment on an article about a scientific study investigating what type of breasts men prefer:
“They found that most men desire women with perky boobs,” she tells me. “As a gorilla, you know very well that the real test of a tit is how much milk it produces. Why don’t you educate your readers about the foolishness of men?”
“A most fascinating topic,” I reply. “But I try to avoid preaching sermons in my blog. You can’t really blame people for their likes and dislikes. A lot of people find it strange that I like unripe mangoes.”
“Are you telling me that you prefer perky boobs?” she asks suspiciously.
“No, not a bit of it!” I protest. “As you say, it’s their ability to produce gallons of fresh milk that matters. I’ll study the piece and see what I can make of it.”
After reading I the article, I manage to acquire a grasp of the underlying theory. The scientists argue that men are finely attuned to a woman’s fertility indicators, presumably because they can’t determine whether she is in oestrus by sniffing her coochie (as we apes do). They argue that fertile women have more attractive breasts:
This is supported by evidence showing that women with larger breasts tend to have higher estrogen levels; breast size may therefore serve as an indicator of potential fertility. However, breasts become less firm with age and parity, and breast shape could thus also serve as a marker of residual fertility.
Thus, the perky boob hypothesis postulates that women with pliant bosoms are likely to remain fertile for a longer period, which makes them more desirable. Even men who don’t want to make babies are attracted to such women because their brains are hardwired that way. This is why they lust after women like Sharon Stone rather than Dolly Parton (or Chesty Morgan).
This is an interesting theory, but there is one detail that looks fishy to men. The men whose opinions were surveyed were from four countries – Brazil, Cameroon, the Czech Republic and Namibia. Are those countries really representative of the global population? Call me a suspicious ape, but I wonder whether the men of those nations are obsessed about jahoobies to an unusual degree. Brazilian beaches are certainly a notorious haven for bosom oglers. If so, there may be places where men test the fertility of women in other ways. Sniffing and tasting is usually more reliable than staring and groping.
I’m not saying the study is definitely wrong, of course. Perhaps men from all parts of the world do appreciate a perky pair of titties. However, I know for a fact that many men are more interested in the thighs and the rump. So I’m keeping an open mind on this one. You can’t make sweeping generalisations until all the data are in.
Labels: Dolly Parton, female fertility, human titty, jahoobies
Wednesday, June 08, 2016
Dolly's denial
As I suspected, the rumour that Dolly Parton is a lesbian was too good to be true. An American tourist on safari told me she had frequent slumber parties with a woman called Judy Ogle, who was supposedly her lesbian lover. He also asserted that the husband she claims to have has never been seen in public. It was Dolly herself who put these insinuations to bed in the best possible way:
“If I was gay, I would have come out of the closet just a-flying!” she declared in a recent interview.
Apparently her husband is just a publicity-shy fellow who shuns the limelight, whereas Judy Ogle is a bosom childhood friend who never intentionally touched Dolly’s bosom. You can’t assume someone is a kitty-muncher just because her name is ‘Judy Ogle’. Many people are burdened with suggestive names that don’t reflect their true nature.
Of course, I wouldn’t blame the Velcro vixens for hoping that Dolly was one of their number. Anyone can see that busty lesbians are in short supply, so Dolly would have given the sisterhood some much-needed chesticular gravity. The flat-chested, short-haired, trouser-wearing stereotype isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and recruiting a well-stacked player for the A-team would have won them new fans.
Another myth that Dolly could have helped to explode is that lesbians are not especially keen on booby action. I don’t believe that anyone who is attracted to women would downplay the jahoobies – certainly, no one attracted to Dolly could do so. Maybe Ellen Degeneres should make a public statement clearing up the misconceptions on this topic.
What Dolly has clearly demonstrated is that you don’t need to be gay to be a supporter of gays. She was quick to apologise when she found out that a female visitor to her ‘Dollywood’ theme park was told to reverse a t-shirt displaying a pro-lesbian slogan. After issuing a statement on ABC news, Dolly announced her support for gay marriage rights:
“Sure, why can’t they get married?” she said. “They should suffer like the rest of us do.”
This is all well and good, but I hope Dolly checked the t-shirt slogan was appropriate for a family venue. “Lesbian and Proud” would be fine, but “Hot Dyke Action at Pussies.com” should be reserved for the bars and clubs.
It seems the queer community are solidly behind Hillary for president, although I’m not entirely sure what she’s done for them. Is there anything she could do after getting elected, besides offering the usual words of support?
If I had Madame President’s ear, I would advise her to invite the surviving members of ‘Village People’ to perform in the White House. It would be great to see them prancing about in their costumes again. It’s a little known fact that ‘YMCA’ is a beloved classic among the gorillas of the Congo, even though we have no idea what YMCA stands for. That’s the great thing about pop music – you can enjoy the songs without having a clue what the words mean.
Labels: Dolly Parton, Hillary Clinton, jahoobies, lesbian, Village People
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
Dolly and Christina
Dolly Parton has explained why she doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions:
“It's always the same thing, I'm gonna exercise more this year, I'm gonna eat better. And that lasts for a couple of weeks and then I'm right back where I started. So I don't make 'em cos I always break 'em.”
If I meet anyone wiser than Dolly, I will prostrate myself on an African thorn bush. I wish I could buy a book of her sayings, which I would read while relaxing in my hammock and treasure like a holy scripture. Maybe I’d become the first apostle of a new religion called ‘Partonism’, wearing a small effigy of Dolly’s boobs around my neck as a mark of my piety and devotion.
When you think about it, making a promise to yourself is pretty absurd. What are you supposed to do if you break the promise? Sue yourself? The only promises I ever made were public announcements to dissuade people from ill-omened acts. When I was a circus performer, for example, I vowed never to work with humans in animal costumes. If you’re a real jungle ape, you don’t want to scuffle with people in furry suits who are taking the mickey. An impertinent clown once approached me in a lizard costume in the hope of re-enacting the King Kong v Godzilla fight - I pulled off his fake head and gave his real one a good pummelling. Everyone took my vows very seriously after that. Many daft ideas were immediately shot down by the statement “Gorilla Bananas has vowed never to do it.”
Dealing with impersonators in animal costumes can be a challenge for humans as well as gorillas. Christina Aguilera recently got into a dispute with ‘Mickey Mouse’ at a theme park in California. She allegedly abused him when he insisted on taking a tea break before being photographed with her.
“Do you know who I am?” screamed Christina, before stomping off in a huff and referring to Mickey as “an asshole” in a carefully worded statement to the press.
I don’t know what Mickey said in reply, but it seems quite probable that he took the mickey.
If you ask me, Christina lacks a little something that Julius Caesar called dignitas. There is no surer way of looking absurd than getting into a heated debate with someone in an animal costume. I’m not saying she should have pulled off Mickey’s head, which would have been physically challenging, but it should have been possible to indicate displeasure without parleying with the imposter. If Mickey had been insufferably cheeky, she could have paid some hoodlum a hundred bucks to plant a flying kick on his backside.
I hope Christina won’t get into a huff with me for offering her this constructive criticism. She’s a fine-looking woman whom I’ve written many positive things about in previous posts. But all the good looks in the world won’t save her if she doesn’t know how to deal with humans in animal costumes.
Labels: Christina Aguilera, Dignitas, Dolly Parton, Mickey Mouse, Partonism
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Boob Jam
I recently got an email from someone called ‘Mo Terboter’. I was inclined not to open it after reading that ridiculous name in my inbox. But curiosity never killed the gorilla’s cat, so I decided to have a peek at what this obvious mountebank had to say. For good or ill, his message his printed below:
Dear Bananas
Do you like playing computer games? There are some new ones you ought to have a look at in a site called Boob Jam. They put you in the position of a woman who’s tending to her titties. I did a google search for blogs about breasts and yours came up on page 1. You’re almost as obsessed about them as I am! Would you be interested in reviewing these games in your blog? More information about Boob Jam is in this BBC link.
Cheers
Mo
He was lying about the google search. He probably found this blog inappropriately linked in some ape fetish site. I sent him the following curt reply:
Dear Mr Terboter
The answer to both your questions is ‘No’. I will not chide you for the lack of decorum in your message, as you obviously have no grasp of such niceties. I should be grateful, nonetheless, if you would refrain from further correspondence.
Yours etc
G Bananas
Although I certainly won’t be reviewing any of these eccentric computer games, the concept behind them is of anthropological interest. According to the BBC site, ‘Boob Jam’ was an on-line conference at which people swapped ideas for games about breasts. However nothing bawdy was allowed. They had to focus on everyday issues of bosom-maintenance rather than anything related to hanky-panky.
The originator of this concept is Ms Jenn Frenk, a “scholar of videogame culture and history”. She lamented the fact that breasts in video games were treated purely as sexual objects for people who did not have them, i.e. men.
“Accuracy in this context means better jiggle physics,” she asserted.
I have much admiration for Ms Frenk and her jiggle physics. She has every right to remind us that the female bosom came into being for reasons other than the rendition of cheap thrills. The vested interests that profit from the depiction of breasts as bouncy, globular fun pillows don’t want people to know what a burden they can be for their owners. Such problems are especially aggravating for bustier ladies like Dolly Parton, who suffered from back strain before her reduction surgery.
Yet, much as I sympathise with the difficulties women encounter in attending to their jahoobies, I can’t see the point of recreating them in a computer game. It is entirely feasible to provide succour to the afflicted without experiencing the affliction yourself. If a well-stacked lady told me how hard it was to find a comfortable bra, I would nod gravely and massage my thighs. My empathy for her predicament would not be enhanced by controlling a pair of computer-generated jugs. As far as I’m concerned, these booby games deserve the booby prize.
Labels: Breasts, Computer games, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, jiggle physics
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Gifts from God
Katy Perry has admitted that she prayed for big breasts at the age of 11:
“I lay on my back one night and looked down at my feet, and I prayed to God. I said, God, will you please let me have boobs so big that I can’t see my feet when I’m lying down.”
When I mentioned this disturbing confession to the manager of the safari camp, his lips quivered with emotion:
“And God answered her prayers!” he sighed. “I’m going to church this Sunday to pray that all 11-year-old girls grow a big pair of boobs.”
“You are missing the point, manager,” I replied curtly. “This story is a sad commentary on the practice of objectifying women’s bodies, such that even an 11-year-old girl has nothing better to wish for than an oversized bust.”
“You could be right,” mused the manager. “She should have prayed for a perfect ass instead. Small-titted women can always get implants.”
“And small-brained men can always get vasectomies,” I added. “I believe that’s how Homo Erectus died out.”
On returning to the jungle, I thought of the many heavenly blessings bestowed upon the buxom Miss Perry – fame, fortune, good looks…as well as the bountiful bazoomas she holds in such high regard. Not since the Queen of Sheba has a woman been better served by fate.
Yet all is not rosy in the lady’s pleasure garden. Let us not forget her failed marriage to Russell Brand, the degenerate pseudointellectual comedian. It must have been intensely aggravating for Katy to listen to her husband prattle away in his irritating Essex accent, although it was surely his sexual deviancy that caused the estrangement.
“Caaahm on Katy, you can’t expect a bloke who’s been around like I have to get off that easily,” Brand might have said. “Bite my bum for ‘arf-an-hour and we’ll call it quits.”
A big bosom can be a mixed blessing, of course. The great Dolly Parton suffered from back ache after carrying the weight of her humungous hooters. I believe she had them surgically reduced to relieve the strain. Yet the diminishment of her dumplings in no way lessened her popularity. Indeed her career continued to flourish, buoyed by the many poignant songs she wrote on behalf of the hard-pressed redneck. Miss Perry should take heed of her example if she wants to be loved for something other than her jahoobies.
The other great talent of Dolly Parton was her ability to complement her music with clever asides that were usually highly apropos.
"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain," she once said.
I often repeat this saying to my females during the rainy season. They invariably respond by hooting with derision, which helps to relieve the stress.
The best Katy Perry quote I could find was this:
“If you’re presenting yourself with confidence, you can pull off pretty much anything.”
That’s no better than a half-truth, and not something I’d dare say to my females for fear that they’d take it literally.
Labels: Breasts, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, Katy Perry, Russell Brand
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Hello Dolly!
My females have been shaking their hairy haunches to the music of Dolly Parton and I’m not ashamed to admit I joined them. The feisty diva’s latest CD is a must buy for anyone with an ear for cheerful ditties, sung in the chirpy-yet-defiant voice of a busty-yet-diminutive southern belle.
Miss Parton is now wealthy enough to produce her own albums, having previously been frustrated by shallow and avaricious record companies that will shun a female artist whose nipples are lower than her rib-cage. In a recent interview, she was quick to point out that being her own boss had its advantages:
“I don’t have to listen to anybody,” she explained. “I’m the only person that I have to tell to kiss my ass.”
She was speaking figuratively, of course. There are very few humans whose spines are flexible enough to kiss their own behinds, and I’d be very surprised if Dolly could get within 12 inches at her age. Thankfully, a singer of her rare and extraordinary genius will never have to attempt this inelegant feat to entertain her adoring fans.
“It ain’t really about the money, it’s about the art.” she declared when pressed on the matter.
I couldn’t agree more. There’s nothing remotely artistic about smooching your own rear end, even if the perverts and ghouls would pay top-dollar to witness it. A lady of style does not sully her image by performing unnatural stunts.
On the subject of ladies’ bottoms, a woman of infinitely lower pedigree than Dolly Parton has displayed a photo of her naked posterior in an English law court. Accused of the heinous crime of punching a lesbian, she claimed the rainbow-coloured flower tattooed on her backside proved she harboured no prejudice against the Sapphic sisterhood. This dubious “evidence” immediately sowed seeds of dissension among the jury, who were subsequently unable to agree a verdict. The authorities decided against a retrial, so the woman walked free with a triumphant smirk on her face.
It disappoints me that 12 honest citizens could so easily be distracted by a wholly irrelevant arse snap. How could they be sure it belonged to the defendant in any case? There was no question of exposing her rump in open court, which might have given the judge a stroke, and you can’t accept the word of a queer-basher. As a result of their pusillanimity, a truculent hussy will be free to inflict further aggravations on innocent lesbians and their collaborators.
Had I been a member of the jury, I would have pointed out that law-abiding women do not deface their buttocks with rainbow-coloured tattoos. The fact that she shamelessly displayed a photo of the alleged tattoo was proof enough of her brazen and disruptive character. And if the derriere in question did not belong to the accused, she was guilty of perjury to boot.
There are times when it doesn’t need much deliberation to determine a person’s guilt – you could say it was written on their butt cheeks.
Labels: arse tattoo, arse-kissing, Dolly Parton, queer-bashing
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Fossey reborn?
My females are oddly fascinated by the Republican Party’s candidate for vice-president. Not out of feminist solidarity, which is of no concern to lady gorillas. No, the reason is much stranger. They seem to think that Sarah Palin is the spitting image of the late Dian Fossey, a woman revered by gorillas throughout
Between you and me, gorillas aren’t very good at telling human faces apart – I only got the hang of it after years spent in the circus. I recently brought a copy of Hello! magazine to the jungle. One of my females snatched it from me and studied a picture of Sienna Miller intently.
“I’m so glad she’s back in the limelight!” she hooted. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Dolly Parton.”
Heh! I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor deluded apette that Miss Parton was then having her boobs deflated at the Betty Hoover Clinic.
With the election approaching, I am already getting irritating e-mails asking me who I’m endorsing and similar such nonsense. This is when I have to thump my chest and remind people that I’m a gorilla. Your problems are not our problems, and the only American dream in these parts is the one the manager of the safari camp had after watching a movie called Forrest Hump (available on DVD). Until the candidates announce their policies for ridding the jungle of snakes and crocodiles, who gets into the White House is none of our business.
I suppose if I were forced to choose I’d back the ticket with the most body hair. Unfortunately this is pure guesswork when one of the candidates is a woman. Senator McCain is probably a hairy old dog when he takes off his vest, but who knows what Mrs Palin does to her feminine tufts? As a mother of five, one would hope that she doesn’t over-prune, but you never know the state of a woman’s foliage until you’ve seen her in the sauna. That is not a favour I’d care to ask of her, given that her husband looks like the Neanderthal type who might make a fuss. He has nothing to scare me, of course, but one doesn’t want to come between a man and his wife merely to further one’s reputation as a political pundit.
The wildcard in this election is supposedly the “Hilldog factor”. Will supporters of Mrs Clinton be so bitter that that they’ll vote Republican in the hope that Old Pop McCain quickly pops it and they’ll get their madam president after all. Well I’ve got news for them. I know for a fact that Hillary could never have won if she’d been the Democratic nominee. The Republicans, you see, had infiltrated a super-hot velcro-vixen into her campaign team, with the sole mission of seducing the former first lady and telling the world’s press what her cha-cha tastes of. And you can bet the lying hussy would have claimed it had some horrible flavour like "pickled herring" or "essence of hermit crab". No presidential bid could have survived a political bombshell of that magnitude – the merest glimpse of Hillary’s jodhpurs would have made voters cry “Euw!” and pop a mint inside their mouths.
How do I know all this, I hear you ask? Because a fat American bloke in a baseball cap told me so while guzzling Budweisers at the safari guesthouse. Let no one say that Gorilla Bananas lacks credible sources for his scoops.
Labels: Dian Fossey, Dolly Parton, Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin
