Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Gaga gets hitched
So Lady Gaga is getting married. I don’t know anything about her fiancé, but I predict the marriage will fail if he possesses an iota of machismo. The merest morsel of manly pride must be crushed like a pomegranate seed if he’s going to succeed as Gaga’s official bed-warmer. That’s the way it has to be when the queen bee elopes with a drone. He should get into the habit of thinking and acting like a lesbian in a man’s body. If he does that, he might yet make a good fist of it.
Gaga herself is as happy as a lark, fluttering around the globe with a gooey smile on her face, like a fairy princess whose frog has just turned into a prince. When Taylor Swift tweeted a few wistful words about Gaga’s enviable predicament, the bride-to-be reassured her that “your prince charming will come”. She must be suffering from the giddy vapours to write such drivel.
Now I don’t deny there are real-life examples of a successful marriage between a show-business queen and a beta male. Some time ago I discussed the nuptials of Kate Winslet, who had pledged her troth to an oafish-looking swain called Ned Rocknroll. If anything he was an omega male, yet Kate recently praised him as the perfect husband:
“I have a wonderful man in my life who is so incredibly supportive that makes it possible for me to have those experiences,” she said.
The “experiences” she refers to were related to her movie career rather than any kind of kerfuffle in the marital bed. Be that as it may, the couple had their first child on 7th December 2013, a son whom they named “Bear Blaze”. No boy should have a father whose name is sillier than his own.
Maybe the secret of their blissful union is that everyone knows their place. Ned is so far down the pecking order that he doesn’t bother trying to compete with Kate, meekly accepting his role as concubine and comic sidekick. One can imagine him happily strumming his electric guitar in the playroom while Kate is in the lounge, discussing her next film with the moguls of Hollywood. It could actually be a similar type of relationship to the one Paris Hilton had with her pet chimpanzee.
Let’s hope Miley Cyrus learns from Kate’s experience. Her romance with Patrick Swarzenegger is currently on the rocks because he was photographed canoodling with a floozy. The blighter is now begging Miley to forgive him, but the episode should have taught her that he’ll never be a suitable consort. His famous name has given him the delusion that he’s someone of note, rather than a superficial young rake of no distinction whatever. He’ll constantly be trying to compete for the limelight if Miley accepts his suit.
Will another Ned Rocknroll come along to give Miley the unconditional service and succour she requires? If not, she may have to marry her butler.
Labels: giddy vapours, Kate Winslet, Lady Gaga, marriage, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Third time unlucky?
Call me a finicky ape, but I don’t like the look of Kate Winslet’s new husband. He reminds me of a baboon I once thrashed for making indecent suggestions to my females. Before you accuse me of being a bully, I gave that baboon a good hiding out of kindness. Had I not done so, my females would have taken the law into their own hands and crushed his testicles like almonds.
Now, back to Kate’s husband: he does not particularly resemble a baboon; nor, to my knowledge, are his gonads in danger of being pulverised. But there is something baboonish about the expression on his face. That gawping countenance suggests he’s easily distracted and lacks self-control. It makes me wonder whether he was ogling the bridesmaids when he uttered his marriage vows.
Perhaps Kate considered him a worthy suitor because he’s a nephew of Richard Branson, the British entrepreneur. If so, she ignored some fairly clear warning signs, the most obvious one being that he’d changed his name to Ned RocknRoll. What kind of arsehead would adopt such a name? My guess is that his brain stopped developing at the age of 15 and he still dreams of being the lead singer in a pop group. He no doubt fantasizes about being chased by delirious groupies, eager to make a lollipop of his todger.
But why I should care about the character of Kate’s latest husband? The manager of the safari camp made this point when I brought up the subject with him:
“You’re not her Hairy Godfather!” he jeered.
“We gorillas are avuncular,” I replied. “I don’t have to wait until she’s my bosom buddy before showing concern.”
“If Kate’s bosom and me were buddies, that joker she married would be sleeping on the couch!” quipped the manager.
An idle boast, to be sure, but I can’t fault his appreciation of Kate’s jahoobies. I myself have often expressed admiration for her luscious figure, so ideally suited to the task of making babies. She already has two children sired by different fathers, a clever reproductive strategy of putting each egg in a different soufflé. My worry is that soufflé No.3 will turn out to be a raspberry fool.
Now that she’s married the blighter one must wish her well, of course. Maybe she’ll train him like a dog, taking him for walks and giving him treats when he obeys her commands. Ned is actually the perfect name for a dim-witted mutt who isn’t sure where to bury his bone. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his mistress knows all the best hiding places.
As luck would have it, a new gadget has been invented for humans taking the canine path. It is a tail that wags to the pulse of the wearer when attached to his or her rump. This device could allow Kate to monitor her husband’s moods, and put him on a leash when the neighbourhood bitches were in heat. In this day and age, a happy marriage requires investment in the latest technology.
Labels: dog training, jahoobies, Kate Winslet, marriage, Tailly
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Travelling light
I’m back in the Congo after a somewhat disturbing flight home. I don’t mean, by this, that there were any apprehensions of an aeronautic complexion. No aircraft I’ve ever flown in has dared to misbehave when I was on board. Before the plane took off, I had my customary chat with the captain:
“Rest assured that we gorillas have very sensitive ears,” I said. “I can hear what’s going on in the cockpit from first class, and will be ready to assist if anything untoward happens. I won’t hesitate to pin down your co-pilot if he has a fit or explodes in a mutinous rage. Never forget what happened to Captain Bligh!”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” replied the captain with a nervous grin. “Why not just put on the headphones and enjoy the in-flight entertainment. You get a great choice of films in first class.”
“Maybe I’ll watch the screen without wearing headphones,” I mused. “I’m a fairly good lip-reader as it happens.”
Now, some of you might have guessed that I couldn’t really hear inside the cockpit. I told the captain this white lie to discourage him from playing hookey while the plane was on autopilot. Most aviation accidents are caused by “human error”, which is a polite way of saying that the captain and first officer were looking at girlie magazines or playing tiddlywinks when the warning lights began to flash. That sort of arsing about is not acceptable when I am a passenger.
Anyway, the captain was right about the great choice of movies in first class. As I rarely read film reviews, I asked the stewardess for her recommendation.
“How about The Reader?” she said. “Kate Winslet got an Oscar in that one.”
“Kate Winslet is my favourite actress!” I exclaimed. “A hundred thanks for your excellent suggestion!”
Long-standing readers of this blog will remember the eulogies I have penned for Miss Winslet. As well as being an accomplished thespian, her body is of a shape that we gorillas can appreciate (in a wholly non-sexual way). Curvaceous hips; luscious thighs; breasts that look as if they’re ready for milking. The human female doesn’t get better than that.
So I settled down to watch the film and was pleased to see Kate rolling around naked in the early scenes, albeit partially obscured by the annoying whelp who was trying to mate with her. When I eventually got a good view of Kate’s body in its entirely, I bit my lip in disappointment. The succulence of her flesh was much diminished, obviously because of some accursed diet she’d been following.
On the way home from the airport, the manager of the safari camp attempted to explain this anomaly:
“She was playing a war criminal, so her normal full figure wouldn’t have worked,” he said. “Evil women are supposed to look bony-arsed.”
“Fiddlesticks!” I exclaimed. “Fans of Kate have certain expectations of a movie in which she stars. If they wanted a bony-arsed woman, they should have given the part to Gwyneth Paltrow!”
The manager sucked his teeth and nodded.
Labels: air travel, cockpit incidents, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet
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
Friday, June 08, 2007
A woman in full
The jungle is abuzz after a screening of Holy Smoke at the safari camp. The movie has a scene in which naked Kate Winslet embraces nonplussed Harvey Keitel in the parched Australian scrub. He initially rebuffs her, but when she pees on the ground he is overwhelmed with lust and mates with her in a nearby hut. My simian brethren are chattering excitedly about whether this was the first recorded case of a man being aroused by the scent of a woman’s urine.
Unfortunately it wasn’t. After contacting Jane Campion, I learnt that the behaviour depicted was a common-or-garden wee-wee fetish from Dr Freud’s casebook, most probably rooted in a formative childhood experience. You know the sort of thing: boy spies on girl taking a leak at school picnic and files it away in kinky part of brain. Nothing to do with smelling sex hormones and not the biological advance for homo sapiens we were hoping for. How disappointing.
One might ask, nevertheless, why the sight of Ms Winslet in the nude wasn’t enough to make Mr Keitel rise to the occasion. She’s certainly got the body that any male gorilla would admire – broad, curvaceous hips; succulent thighs; breasts heavy with milk. It all adds up to one word, which ought to be the sexiest word you could apply to a woman: fertile. A voluptuous screen goddess like Kate shouldn’t have to powder her nose when she wants a man to oblige her. I bet Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn’t have been asked to piss her co-star into bed.
This brings us to one of the great mysteries of human sexual attraction: the puzzling preference of the human male for waif-like women. A lot of feminist types complain that ubiquitous images of pencil-thin models have created a false ideal of feminine beauty. Yet the plain fact is that most men prefer slim chicks. You can’t blame a fellow for what he finds attractive – the point is to get to the source of the pathology. As usual, these feminists are very good at carping about problems and much less good at devising practical solutions.
Man’s desire for thin totty, as Dr Freud would have explained, must originate from the time of his sexual awakening. Let us start by considering the question of the family au pair. She is an important figure for the pre-pubescent boy – the first unrelated female with whom he cohabits. Is it not true that many of these girls are slender young chits from Scandinavia? Why not hire a buxom filly from Bulgaria instead? Get her to bounce little Johnny on her luxurious lap and clasp his head to her bountiful bosom, so he grows up knowing what a real woman feels like. A boy who’s been cuddled by a queen bee won’t be interested in stick insects.
The message could be reinforced when the boy attains puberty and starts making love to fantasy females in the privacy of his bedroom. Why not encourage the lad’s appreciation of art by giving him a suitable print for his thirteenth birthday? Perhaps one of those masterpieces of fulsome female flesh by the great Titian, which he could put up on his wall and ogle while he’s wrestling with the bald-headed champ. If he’s leering at a luscious lady when he’s firing off his first one, he’ll probably be inclined that way for the rest of his life.
Of course, it’s not my place to lecture human mothers on how to bring up their sons. They’ve got a hard enough job dealing with the surliness and the scent-marking and the soiled bed-sheets. I humbly advance these apish suggestions on the off chance they might help a woman guide her boys around the potholes and foot snares that bedevil the path to manhood.
Labels: Kate Winslet, Titian, wee-wee fetish
