Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Return of the jubblies
One year ago, the executives of Playboy magazine announced to the world that they would no longer be publishing pictures of naked women. The new era of on-line porn had made nudity passé, they told us. Now they have admitted it was all a terrible mistake. Here are the words of Playboy’s 25-year-old Chief Creative Officer, Cooper bin Hefner (aka son of Hef):
“Nudity was never a problem because nudity isn’t a problem. Today we’re taking our identity back and reclaiming who we were.”
Reading between the lines, I think we can infer that the absence of nudie pics provoked howls of anguish and despair from the magazine’s loyal readers. What the Playboy bigwigs didn’t appreciate was the big difference between jahoobies on a computer screen and jahoobies on smooth, glossy paper. The latter can be rubbed against the face and licked, heightening the sensual pleasure. Only crazy people lick computer screens. I once saw a baboon lick one and the static electricity gave its tongue a shock.
It is said that there is nothing new under the sun and nothing surprising under the moon. Do you remember when Coca Cola brought back Classic Coke after New Coke bombed? The whole episode ended up boosting their sales, which led some to suspect it was all a clever marketing ploy. The CEO of Coca Cola had to issue a formal denial:
“We’re not that clever and we’re not that stupid,” he said.
It remains to be seen whether Playboy will experience a similar revival in its fortunes. A new era of naked flesh might attract new readers, but what about the old readers who have migrated to Penthouse or Hustler? Winning them back might be next to impossible. Their only hope is to innovate. A lot of men must be bored of staring at dumb blondes in passive positions. How about a nude kickboxing lady or a nude schoolmistress giving lessons on a blackboard? If you think about it, there are very few activities done by fully-clothed women that cannot also be done by naked women. The possibilities are endless.
None of this would persuade me to take out a subscription, of course. A gorilla has no interest in human flesh. The only reason for me to pick up a copy of Playboy would be to swat flies. That might change, however, if the magazine acquired a reputation for high-quality journalism. As a student of humanity, I would read any periodical that kept me informed of the latest fads and perversions.
“Who could they hire?” I hear you ask. Top of my list would be a feminist writer like Gloria Steinem. Obviously, she’s a huge enemy of Hef and everything he stands for, but enemies can often collaborate for the greater good. Remember the US-Soviet alliance during World War 2? To read her trenchant prose amid all the boobies and booties would be the purest delight. Now where can I find the email address of the Hefner boy?
Labels: Hugh Hefner, jahoobies, nudity, Playboy
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Pammy's last hurrah
I am thrilled to the cockles of my groin that Pamela Anderson will be posing in Playboy’s last nude issue. It just goes to show that even a fusty old reptile like Hef can have a flash of inspiration. Call me a kinky ape, but I am far more interested in Pamela’s body now that she’s reached the ripe and raunchy age of 48. We gorillas prefer our meat cured and slightly chewy. I just hope they don’t airbrush the photos to make her skin look like polished plastic.
There are many things I admire about Pamela Anderson. Her critics think she’s an airhead, but she’s definitely not as stupid as she looks. Her critics might say that no one is as stupid as she looks, but they can go and suck on lemons. A woman who can make fifty thousand bucks by posing naked in Playboy doesn’t need to worry about snide comments from pettifoggers and guttersnipes.
The good news is that her sons have given their blessings to the venture:
“Mom you've got to do it,” said Brandon. “We're older, we're not embarrassed anymore of you. You know, we think you're great!”
“He was so excited he may have high-fived me!” added Pamela.
You’ve got to wonder how Pammy’s boys will turn out. My gut feeling is that they’ll be fine young men with a deep respect for women, even if the women in question are hoochies or harlots. That doesn’t mean they’ll date such women, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married Mormon girls, who would never dream of being unfaithful to their husbands unless they were carousing with other women, which doesn’t count as cheating in the Mormon religion. I make this proviso after learning about a new genre of lesbian pornography that the manager of the safari camp is currently enthusiastic about. It purports to show Mormon girls ecstatically exploring their erogenous areas.
“I’d convert to Mormonism to get a pair of wives like those two,” he said, while drooling over a video clip on his i-phone.
“Be careful what you wish for,” I remarked. “Your sex life might be limited to the role of a referee in a wrestling match.”
“Hmm,” said the manager frowning. “I was hoping to be the hooker in a rugby scrum.”
“Not much chance of that,” I replied. “They don’t play rugby in America.”
I now feel quite guilty about spoiling the manager’s fantasy. Christmas is a time for whimsy and make-believe, when fat jolly men empty their sacks under big bushy trees. You’re not supposed to tell children that Santa Claus isn’t real and the elves won’t turn up because they only want to play with themselves. I will have to cheer him up with news of how the Mormon faith is spreading outside America, to countries where rugby is played with a passion. Good things come to those who wait, as the Book of Mormon would have said if a gorilla had written it.
The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.
Labels: Hugh Hefner, lesbian, Mormons, Pamela Anderson, Playboy, rugby
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Doing the decent thing
Would you believe that Playboy magazine has decided to stop displaying pictures of naked women? Some people might say it’s the passing of an era. The manager of the safari camp thinks it’s the dawn of a new dark age.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I said on seeing his grim face. “You’ll still be able to download nudie pics from the internet.”
“That’s not the point,” he replied glumly. “Putting the clothes back on naked women is like turning the clock back. How would you like it if tourists went back to thinking gorillas were big hairy monsters?”
“Well it might stop them asking for my autograph,” I remarked.
I personally think it’s a positive step for Playboy. It will now be possible for men who enjoy reading its articles to subscribe to the magazine without being thought of as compulsive oglers of tit-and-bum. Dentists will be able to put copies of Playboy in their waiting rooms. Fashionistas will be able to admire the stylish garments of fully-clothed women. Wankers will have to fantasize about undressing these women instead of getting it all on a plate. There’s no doubt these developments are an advance for human civilisation.
Loyal readers of this blog will know that I’ve written uncomplimentary things about Hef in the past, so it’s nice to pat the old codger on the back for a change. The decision was actually made by Scott Flanders, Playboy’s chief executive, who made the following observation:
“You're now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free. And so it's just passé at this juncture.”
Hef gave it his blessing at a board meeting. In the spirit of the new Playboy, let’s hope he will now keep his own clothes on in the mansion. He will still need a nurse to undress and bathe him, of course, but there’s no need for the playmates to witness these repulsive and macabre events.
Lest anyone should accuse me of being a prude, let me emphasize that disrobing can be an admirable deed in the right context. Consider the case of Inés Estévez, a 50-year-old Argentinian actress who was recently the victim of insulting remarks because of a somewhat revealing blouse she wore at a public event.
“20 years ago, I would have killed for that, but now I wouldn't even look at them,” wrote one anonymous cyber-bully in reference to her bosom.
Miss Estévez responded to these contemptible barbs by issuing the following statement:
“For your hunger for destructive critique, you will see [on my Facebook page] a recent photo of my breasts without silicone or photo-shopping. And yes, I'm proud of them.”
In the circumstances, I considered it appropriate to accept her invitation to view the items in question. Having done so, I have no hesitation in affirming that her jahoobies are superb for a woman of 50 (or any other age). There’s no point staring at breasts unless you can link it to some higher noble purpose.
Labels: cyber-bullying, Hugh Hefner, jahoobies, nudity, Playboy
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Life after Hef
One of Hef’s former playmates has revealed that her sex life in the Playboy Mansion was less than exhilarating:
“The sex was very routine and something I don't think any of the girls really enjoyed,” reflects Holly Madison. “We just wanted to get it over with.”
My advice to Hef would be to take her evaluation as a compliment. Many things in life are routine, including picking one’s teeth and grooming one’s chest hairs. It doesn’t necessarily mean they are foul or depraved activities. When you think of the things Holly might have said, Hef got off very lightly. A less charitable and magnanimous lady might have insinuated that submitting to his desires was like being ravished by a hairy old goat. This is by no means a routine event at altitudes lower than the Sierra Nevada foothills.
A far more damaging revelation was that Hef refused to let Holly consult a psychiatrist while she was in the mansion:
“He knew they'd advise me to leave,” she explained. “It wasn't about what was best for me. It was about him maintaining control.”
This is like hiring Mexicans to work on a cactus farm and refusing to let them get medical attention when they are pricked. Had I been the president of the American sex workers’ union, I would have organised a picket outside the mansion to protest against this violation of basic employment rights. Is it too late to sue Hef for this outrage? Pecuniary damages would not be sufficient. Nothing less than a public caning of his leathery buttocks would be just compensation.
I’ve often wondered whether it’s possible for Hef’s consorts to have a normal life after leaving the mansion. Their situation is similar to Japanese people who’ve appeared in game shows where the contestants have to perform tasks that test their endurance, such as eating worms or licking frogs. However beautiful the playmates are (and Holly is certainly a dish), the evil torments they’ve suffered must continue to haunt them.
No one could blame them for turning to lesbianism, but if they’re still attracted to men, they would need to find someone completely free of the human tendency to blame the victim rather than the perpetrator. Maybe an army doctor who specialises in treating post-traumatic stress disorder would make the ideal husband. A woman who’s having flashbacks and nightmares needs to share her bed with a man who maintains his composure when she’s tossing in her sleep.
As for Hef, one has to pity an old codger who tries to live up to his former reputation by having group sex with girls who are embarrassed by the sight of his mangy old todger. Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favour by letting them rub their breasts into his toothless face. May the archangel Beelzebub give him the good sense to retire to a wheelchair and discover the delights of voyeurism. I can’t think of a more fitting and dignified way of ending a life of celebrated debauchery.
Labels: Hugh Hefner, playmates, post-traumatic stress disorder
Friday, June 24, 2011
Hef is spurned
I sent a condolence card to Hef on hearing that his 25-year-old fiancé had jilted him shortly before the date of their wedding. Hef and I have had our differences in the past, but I’m not the sort of ape to kick a man when he’s down. In actual fact, the only men I’ve kicked were strutting so conceitedly that they were practically airborne. I wrote a little message in the card, advising Hef against stifling his sorrows with Viagra and orgies. A man of Hef’s age has to take his debauchery in small doses to avoid dehydrating his vesicular glands.
When I first heard the news, I assumed that the bride-to-be had got cold feet because the prenuptial agreement had been too stingy. Then I discovered that Hef was so smitten with Miss Crystal Harris that he intended to marry her without a pre-nup of any kind. Did you ever hear of such a thing! She would have become the most eligible future widow in America! Could she have suffered an acute attack of revulsion at the prospect of Hef rubbing his reptilian face over her milky-white flesh? No, that can’t be true: she must have got accustomed to such ordeals during her time as a playmate in the mansion. A woman who prostitutes herself for a wage doesn’t refuse to prostitute herself for a fortune.
Media gossips have not been slow to suggest other reasons for the cancelled wedding. One sordid allegation is that Crystal was offered half a million bucks to turn Hef down at the altar in front of millions of gawping TV viewers. A humiliation of that magnitude would have made Hef grimace like a badger with its tail in a trap, arguably justifying the fee. If this rumour is true, one would hope that pangs of conscience persuaded Crystal to abort the dastardly scheme. She may have also realised, as the fateful day drew near, that behaving like the nastiest hussy in America would not have advanced her career prospects.
Crystal gave her own explanation in a tearful TV interview, claiming that her fiancé’s promiscuous lifestyle had given her second thoughts. Noting that Hef was constantly being canoodled by blonde floozies like herself, she said that playing the part of Mrs Hef would have been too painful for a maiden of her homespun sensibilities.
“Marriage is supposed to be about two people,” she remarked succinctly.
This is very true – but did the implications of being hitched to the world’s most famous lecher only dawn on her a few days before the wedding? I’m not the sort of ape to accuse a woman of lying, but you have to wonder.
It’s possible, of course, that Miss Harris is simply not very bright. The world is full of stupid beautiful women who get into a muddle after receiving a marriage proposal from a rich man. If that’s the real explanation, we should wish Crystal well and advise her to consult an agony aunt the next time a suitor asks for her hand. If she keeps on breaking off engagements at the last minute, people will start calling her names like “flippertigibbet”, which might tarnish her reputation.
Gorilla Bananas is taking a short vacation and will return on Monday 4th July.
Labels: bimbo, Crystal Harris, floozie, Hugh Hefner, hussy
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Playboy's comedy venture
Playboy are setting up a new website based on comedy rather than naked girls. I wish them well, but I’m not convinced it will appeal to their loyal fans. Pictures of Hef stroking his pet raccoon would be hilarious enough to the right audience, but men who click on a Playboy site have other things on their mind.
Combining comedy and sex is a stiff challenge for the most fertile minds. The best example I can remember was Mr Dickface, the comic book character with a penis where his nose should have been. The poor fellow couldn’t hide his erections, so women were constantly giggling at him, but a lot of them were secretly turned on as well. Eventually he got a steady girlfriend and made love to her using a snorkel to avoid suffocating. Sadly, the Dickface series had to be discontinued after Disney threatened to sue the publisher for plagiarising the Pinocchio concept.
On a somewhat similar note, a man in Pennsylvania has robbed a bank wearing baggy clown pants and false breasts. Full marks to the fellow for trying to lighten the atmosphere and put everyone at ease, but people held up in banks aren’t usually in the mood for humour. Maybe his act would have gone down better if he’d held up a cosmetic surgery clinic instead and forced one of the doctors to examine his bogus boobs at gunpoint. Making the doctor declare they were superior to his own silicone creations might have got a few laughs.
The busty bank robber reminds me of an incident in my circus days. We were discussing what costumes to wear at our end-of-season fancy dress party when one of the clowns announced he’d be putting on a pair of joke breasts for the event. The female acrobats expressed their strong disapproval.
“What’s funny about a woman’s breasts, you sexist pig!” exclaimed one of them.
The clown responded to this hostile question in the only way a clown can, by bending over, blowing an enormous raspberry, and wafting an imaginary fart in the direction of his inquisitor. It’s a good thing I was on hand to defuse the situation:
“It is not the breasts, per se, which would be funny, ladies, but the presence of those succulent wonders of Nature on the torso of a buck-toothed ninny. It is the juxtaposition of the sublime and the grotesque that creates the humour.”
The girls looked at me with a degree of scepticism.
“I don’t care what position his juxta is in, it still wouldn’t be funny,” said one of them.
However, I could see that my timely intervention had softened their opposition to the clown’s intended attire. He came to the party with fake titties puffed out, and no one did anything worse than snub him, which is a bearable insult for a clown.
I can sense you’re curious about what I wore to that party. Some of you no doubt believe that a gorilla would not have required a costume. This would be an inaccurate and offensive supposition. If you must know, I went in the uniform of a Royal Navy officer, circa 1800, carrying a cat ‘o nine tails in my right hand to discourage impudent remarks.
Gorilla Bananas is taking a short vacation and will return on Monday 16th August.
Labels: bank robber, Hugh Hefner, joke breasts, Mr Dickface
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
When I spoke to Hugh Hefner
I hear that Hugh Hefner is stalking Kate Winslet like a prairie wolf in the hope of persuading her to pose nude in Playboy. “She will never agree!” I hear you cry. Yet many female celebrities thought they could resist the old lecher's advances, only to relent when he fixed them with his snake eyes and reached for his cheque book. Part of me, of course, hopes that Hef will get his way. It is beyond dispute that Kate’s body is one of the most beautiful objects on Planet Earth. The manager of the safari camp was so impressed by her nude peeing scene in Holy Smoke that he was inspired to write these lines of verse:
More fertile than the Nile Delta
More luscious than the Melons of Malta
More curvaceous than the Hills of Beverly
More inviting than the Hot Springs of Wherever
I told him the last line needed work.
However delightful another glimpse of Kate’s gorgeous body would be, one must concede that there are sound reasons for her to refuse. It pains me to say that Playboy is no longer the respected periodical it once was. Gone are the in-depth analysis and wry commentary that its sophisticated readers used to appreciate. Even the crossword puzzle lacks the brain-teasing bite of old. It’s a sorry example of dumbing down to compete with the internet.
I once spoke to Hef on the phone to give him some ideas for improving his organ. If you think I just dialled his number and said “hello” you are sadly mistaken. My people spent weeks negotiating with his people before Larry Flynt’s people were brought in to mediate. An agreement was finally hammered out, and I won’t bore you with the details of that document. Suffice it to say that I promised to refrain from mentioning anything that might embarrass Hef or make him feel like a doofus. So I rang at the pre-arranged time, coinciding with the end of his afternoon nap. From memory, the conversation went something like this:
GB: Mr Hefner, is that you? This is Gorilla Bananas speaking.
HH: Call me Hef, GB. I hear you’ve got some ideas for my magazine.
GB: You bet Hef! You should hire a big name to write for you. People say you only like blue-eyed blondes, so I suggest you approach Oprah Winfrey.
HH: Playboy has had many African-American models, GB, but Miss Winfrey is not the finest specimen of her race. If you’d said Whitney Houston I would have understood where you were shooting from, but...
GB: Excuse me for interrupting, Hef, but I’m not suggesting you publish naked pictures of her! It is her writing ability that you need. Ask her to describe in detail all the hoochie-mama loving she’s done. I guarantee that your circulation will double if she writes a story with the headline: “MICHAEL JACKSON ATE MY PUSSY!”.
HH: You know for a fact that happened?
GB: Who’s going to deny it, Hef? It makes Oprah look good, and a wuss like Michael Jackson isn't going to say anything in public about going down on a woman, even if he didn't do it. I’m not actually certain he knows what it means.
HH: I like the way you think, jungle fella! Leave it with me and I’ll float it around. Been a pleasure to talk with you, GB.
GB: And for me, Hef! Give my regards to the playmates!
The months passed and I heard nothing from Hef. Then a Playboy insider revealed that negotiations with Oprah had reached an advanced stage, only to flounder on the issue of money. When Hef heard the fee she was demanding he reputedly said:
“That overfed crow can kiss my ass if she thinks I’m paying her more than the cost of running the mansion.”
It tells you a lot about his priorities, doesn’t it? Surrounding himself with dolly birds is more important than making his magazine admired for its prose as well as its pictures. I hope his mangy dick falls off.
Labels: Hugh Hefner, Kate Winslet, Michael Jackson, Oprah Winfrey
Monday, October 27, 2008
Bare market
I hear that Hugh Hefner got a surprise on his 82nd birthday. A beaming Pamela Anderson, appropriately dressed in her own birthday suit, presented him with a cake. I can’t imagine a sweeter tribute for the old lecher. Photographs of the event show Pammy’s bust looking a lot less globular than usual. Has she finally done the decent thing and had her implants removed? Any hot dog would now be proud to be sandwiched between those baps. It’s a pity Hef was too shy to put his head between them and say “hooey-hooey-hooh!”. I now feel a twinge of regret that I turned Pammy down when she visited the Congo last year. She had applied to become an honorary gorilla, if you recall.
I’m not convinced by the argument of Playboy aficionados that Hef is living every man’s dream. Spending the daylight hours in pyjamas and a dressing gown sounds terribly lethargic to me. Some might say that a man in a house full of dolly birds doesn’t need to go anywhere, but what’s the point of being a stallion if you never have to chase the mares and corral them into the paddock? I wonder if the playmates are really happy about Hef creeping around the place in his bedroom slippers. A woman needs to have a few hours in the day when she can take off the make-up and break wind freely.
I must admit I’ve never had a subscription to Playboy. Every issue supposedly contains at least one penetrating article, but who can be bothered to hunt for it amid all the pictures? As for the centrefolds, I refuse to inspect them unless someone first tells me where the staples are located. Body-piercing is anathema to gorillas and I’d be very annoyed if any of the good bits were obscured. I actually prefer the bunny girls to the models. As cocktail waitresses, they have an impressive knowledge of beverages and their cotton-tails can be used to mop up spills. Having said that, I have no idea why any male customer whose name isn’t Bugs Bunny would find their costumes sexy.
Hef’s latest brainwave is to invite lady bankers who’ve fallen on hard times to pose nude for the magazine. Exploiting the carnage in Wall Street is a very shrewd move – if I were a vulture, I’d send my chicks to Hef for lessons in advanced bone-picking. I hope the old boy takes a Viagra pill when they visit the mansion so he can do to them what they’ve been doing to the country. Actually that’s unfair, I was just recycling an old Woody Allen joke. The real villains, of course, are their male bosses who hogged all the bonuses in the good times. Sadly, there are very few people outside of a high-security gaol who would pay to see them naked.
One can only hope that pictures of these talented women in the buff will cheer the nation in its hour of crisis, much as Dame Vera Lynn kept the British pecker up during World War 2. The American working man needs all the encouragement he can get in these difficult times, and photos of female bankers displaying their triple-A assets may yet stiffen his resolve. As for Hef, it’s about time he groomed a younger stud to take his place at the mansion. Does Warren Buffet have what it takes?
Labels: bankers, Hugh Hefner, Pamela Anderson, Playboy bunnies
