Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Raccoon story
A Russian zoo has accused a video studio of corrupting the morals of one of its raccoons. Thomas the Raccoon (as he is known) was seconded to the studio to appear in a TV commercial. After returning from his assignment, the female zoo staff found his behaviour unsettling:
“We noticed he was attracted to women’s breasts,” said Viktor Kiryukhin, a spokesman for the zoo. “It took two to three months to change his behaviour. Now he is happy again… but he was sad before.”
The zoo management claim that Thomas was sad because he had acquired a yearning for boobies that could not be satisfied at the zoo. They blame the video studio for giving him this peculiar urge so he would perform in erotic videos they were making:
“They must have put out some treats for him, so he associated breasts with a treat,” said Mr Kiryukhin.”
The video studio has described these allegations as absurd, saying they wanted a trained raccoon rather than a young hothead like Thomas who ran off whenever he felt like it. The also accused him of stealing a model’s bra, implying he was already crazy about boobs when he arrived. They’re probably not telling the full story, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had hired a busty woman to be Thomas’s nanny. Yet I don’t believe it’s possible to brainwash a raccoon into liking a woman’s jahoobies. These creatures know their own minds.
In fact, it’s far more likely that Thomas was upset about his return to captivity than the lack of bosom flesh within easy grasp. He must have had a whale of a time at the video studio, eating human food and playing all kinds of pranks. I don’t blame him for being sad when he returned to the zoo. Anyone would feel depressed about going back to a life of being pointed at by fat children with ice cream on their faces.
Instead of blaming other people, the zoo should find a new home for Thomas. Having allowed him to experience the high life, they can’t now expect him to be content in a zoo. An obvious place for him to go would be the Playboy Mansion, but it’s unlikely he could get an entry permit. The last thing Hef wants to see is a handsome young raccoon being petted by the playmates.
What Thomas really needs is a rich and kindly woman to open her doors to him. Pamela Anderson is always saying how much she cares for animals, so this would be the perfect opportunity to prove it with deeds. If she adopted Thomas as her pet and mascot, the animal kingdom would salute her as the Mother of All Raccoons.
As for the booby question, we shouldn’t assume it was a sexual thing. Maybe Thomas just wanted a nice soft place to snuggle his head between. If that’s all he needs, Pamela is well equipped to oblige. And if he wants anything more, someone can take him to a titty bar.
Labels: erotic videos, jahoobies, Pamela Anderson, Raccoon
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Pamela's African plans
The manager of the safari camp is thrilled about the news that Pamela Anderson might make her home in Africa. This is what she told Hello! magazine:
“I’ve never been to Africa and I want to help elephants and rhinos so I could see myself living there.”
She didn’t elaborate on how her presence in Africa would help the elephants and rhinos, but such details can be worked out later. There is always work for the eager volunteer. If she spent enough time prancing about in the bush, I’m sure she would eventually distract a few poachers on the hunt for big game. The sight of Pamela in her swimsuit might cause them to fire prematurely, warning the elephants and rhinos to make good their escape. By such unorthodox methods will the wildlife of Africa be preserved.
On the other hand, maybe Pamela thinks she has more to contribute in the field of public relations. Everyone knows that the rhino is hunted for its horn, which is used as a quack remedy for impotence. A poster of Pamela stroking the horn of a live rhino with the caption “It feels so much better when it’s attached” would help to get the conservation message out. The only problem would be finding a live rhino willing to let her touch its horn. Given the belligerent disposition of these beasts, tranquiliser darts may be necessary. Pamela could take hers orally.
But if she does come to Africa, my hunch is that she would soon get bored of hanging out with the elephants and rhinos. Four-legged animals have many admirable abilities, but none of them are transferable to humans. If Pamela wants to acquire new skills, she should spend some quality time with her ape cousins. As well as teaching her how to climb trees, we could show her a few dance moves that haven’t yet made it to the discos and nightclubs of LA. Pamela has invested so much in her boobs that she may have forgotten what her butt cheeks are for.
She should also hobnob with her fellow humans, of course. She’ll be pleased to discover that big-breasted women have a higher status in Africa than in most other regions of the world. In the Mother Continent, big titties are seen as a source of nourishment rather than fun-bags for men to rub their faces in. Pamela would certainly have no problem in adopting orphans, although I’d advise her not to foster baby chimps. They have a reputation for being aggressive feeders and might rupture her implants.
The one thing Pamela will have to be wary of is the hot African sun, which could give her skin the texture of a warthog’s rump if she doesn’t protect it. I'd hate to see her turn into a nasty old crone. No doubt she will bring her own lotions, but I would advise her to use a natural jungle ointment that we gorillas can supply on demand. The best way of staying healthy in Africa is to go native.
Labels: big boobs, Pamela Anderson, rhino horn, wildlife conservation
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Quid pro quo
Madonna has taken the art of political campaigning to a new level. At Madison Square Garden, she offered hovering voters the following deal:
“If you vote for Hillary Clinton, I will give you a blowjob, OK? I’m good. I’m not a douche, and I’m not a tool. I take my time.”
Sensing some ambivalence in the audience, she added:
“I have a lot of eye contact, and I do swallow.”
You could argue it’s sexist not to offer women anything, but she may have assumed the female vote is already in the sack. From another point of view, a man might feel aggrieved at the implication he will sell his vote for sexual favours. If such men exist, the manager of the safari camp is not one of them:
“If you won’t change your vote for a blowjob, what will you change your vote for?” he asked.
I sensed he would pooh-pooh any answer I gave him, so I scratched my chin and remained silent.
The fatal flaw in Madonna’s proposal is that there’s nothing to stop a man from agreeing to the bargain and voting for a different candidate. The secret ballot is a devilish impediment to such innovative forms of electioneering. She could reduce the risk by denying the inducement to 50-year-old men with beer bellies and Donald Trump. The demographic data indicate those groups are very unlikely to vote for Mrs Clinton.
In truth, I doubt that Madonna will win many votes for Hillary. Her tactics are too outrageous for the typical swing voter. If I were a member of the Clinton team, I would ask Pamela Anderson to join the campaign. She’s the kind of celebrity who appeals to voters who don’t know anything about politics, government, current affairs and other complex subjects. Sometimes you need an advocate who can simplify the issues to words of one or two syllables.
Pammie has recently been speaking out about the dangers of pornography. She says she has dated men who preferred watching porn to having sex with her, blaming their aberrant (and some would say wasteful) behaviour on their addiction to adult entertainment. She’s probably right, although we can’t rule out the possibility that they went off Pammie after realising they preferred women with smaller breasts. Those who have gorged excessively on Black Forest Gateau sometimes acquire a liking for cupcakes. Whatever their problem was, you have to give Pammie credit for raising public awareness of the issue:
“I want a sensual revolution because in the age of technology people are becoming desensitised and there are these multiple images and videos that get stranger and weirder,” she said.
I don’t think I’ve seen the really weird stuff, but I agree with the gist of her argument. Once you go down that path there’s no telling where it will end.
Is it too late for pornography to become an election issue? I can’t see it swinging voters in one direction or the other. But it might persuade the undecideds to stay at home.
Labels: American politics, Hillary Clinton, Madonna, oral sex, Pamela Anderson
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Baywatch fantasy
Pamela Anderson is such a good sport! In a recent interview, she revealed that she has often indulged the fantasies of her boyfriends by adopting her Baywatch persona and re-enacting scenes from the much loved TV show. By way of illustration, she gave the following anecdote:
“One of my boyfriends wanted rescuing from the bed. So I jumped in the shower, got all wet, and frisky and then did the slow-mo run all the way from the shower to the double bed. I think he was pretty satisfied with the performance.”
If you think that was no big deal, do some research on how a “serious” actress like Sharon Stone reacts to men who expect her to behave like one of the characters she has played. You will find her whining about ex-lovers who hankered after “that woman on the screen” instead of her, for which misdemeanour they were haughtily rebuffed and shown the door.
Pamela, by contrast, has the sunny disposition of a woman who doesn’t overanalyse her relationships. She clearly has neither the expectation nor the wish for men to gaze into the inner depths of her soul. Consequently, she is more than happy to use the armoury in her acting repertoire to entertain her gallants. You have to admire a woman who doesn’t make a fuss and gets on with the job in hand, no matter how unusual the request.
Now Pamela is certainly a lucky woman who has milked her talent for every drop of sustenance it could provide, but that doesn’t mean her life has been free of aggravation. I’m sorry to say she is one of the growing band of celebrities who has been tormented by a stalker. In the same interview, she disclosed that the stalker had not only spied on her furtively but broken into her home to harass her in person. This disturbed individual was a woman who attempted to placate Pamela with the following invidious assertions:
“I’m not a lesbian, I just want to touch you.”
I’m glad to say that Pamela was not beguiled by these words and asked the police to intervene before any touching could occur. Had I been the stalkee, I would have told the stalker that not being a lesbian is nothing to be proud of. Pamela should have said that she wouldn’t want to be touched by a woman unless she was a lesbian, and a pretty damned hot one too!
When all is said and done, you have to give Pamela her due for still getting all this attention at the age of 49. Why is she still newsworthy? It can’t be because of her oversized bosom, which lost its ability to shock and amaze a long time ago. No one should dismiss Pamela as a walking pair of melons. My guess is that people find her uncomplicated personality engaging. It’s much easier to be loved by the masses if you’re an earnest simpleton who is devoid of any pretensions or conceit.
Labels: lesbian, Pamela Anderson, role play, stalker
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, July 29, 2015
Countess of Giglio
Pamela Anderson has been named Imperial Countess of Giglio by Prince Stefan of Montenegro. The prince bestowed the title upon her at a ceremony in Genoa, caressing her seductive shoulders with his mighty sword. What did she do to merit such a prestigious honour? For those who know Pamela, the answer is obvious – it was for her tireless efforts in field of marine conservation.
Never forget that Pamela spent years on the set of Baywatch, frolicking on the beaches in a bathing suit. Her proximity to the sea caused her bosom to burgeon with an abiding affection for the oceanic fauna, including the octopi and squid. Her activism on their behalf was relentless. Fishermen were picketed, lobsters were liberated and shrimps were mourned rather than eaten. Those she could not save were given a decent burial at sea (or in the rest room). The destitute of the deep revered her as their Mother Theresa.
Her compassion for marine life is all the more admirable when you consider that most humans treat the ocean as a giant larder and recreational pleasure pond. Jacques Cousteau was the exception to the rule. The trendsetters of today like to speed through the waves in their motor boats and yachts, ramming hapless turtles that get in the way. As for the fellows with surf boards, they pretend to be lovable hedonists who’ll let baby seals play with their toys, but they only really care about riding the big one.
Even my ancestor Bo’sun Bananas, a mariner through-and-through, made derogatory remarks about sea creatures in his diaries. Here is an entry from 13th August 1803:
Today at noon the Captain flogged an able seaman for unnatural acts with a dugong. How a well-travelled man of the world could mistake a whiskered mound of blubber for a tavern wench is beyond my ken. I blame it on the grog. Better to suck the juice from lemons that befuddle your wits with that unholy brew. It’s amazing what you can see from the crow’s nest…
In defence of the noble bo’sun, I should point out that gorillas of the early nineteenth century were very naïve about their human cousins. The idea that seafaring men might have a fetish for chubby marine mammals would never have occurred to them. It takes years of anthropological observation for such nuggets to be absorbed into the folklore of a species.
Can humans relate to ocean-dwelling animals without eating them, ramming them or having sex with them? Maybe the case of Flipper the dolphin offers some hope for the future. As far I can tell, he willingly performed favours for his human friends without being bullied, coerced or intimidated. Possibly they bribed him with fish, but such arrangements are habitual in the animal kingdom.
My advice to the Imperial Countess of Giglio would be to appoint a dolphin as her nautical advisor and swimming coach. It may not be able to teach her the backstroke, but it would certainly give her a ride back home.
Labels: countess, dolphins, Flipper, Pamela Anderson, surfing
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Bathroom babe
It's been a long time since I wrote anything about Pamela Anderson, which should not be interpreted as a sign of neglect or indifference. To paraphrase Mr Willie Nelson, she was always on my mind, she was always on my mind. The good news is that Pamela has been parading her prodigious gifts in a more visible place than my cryptic yet imaginative brain. The picture above, which you have my permission to gawk at, shows her re-enacting the infamous “shower scene” of the horrendous movie Psycho.
The purpose of this action shot, if indeed a purpose be required, was to publicise a campaign sponsored by PETA. Pamela’s petrified pose is intended to remind people that rearing livestock wastes torrents of fresh water that could otherwise be used to bathe the nubile skin of innumerable comely wenches. As Pamela herself said:
"Producing one pound of beef uses as much water as about six months of showers.”
Cows, you see, are incredibly thirsty creatures. You would be too if you had to plod around in a field all day, chewing continually like a hipster with a piece of gum in his mouth. No less thirsty are the assassins who butcher the beasts and carve them into steaks for your barbecue. As Private Tommy Atkins said while stationed with his regiment in the Northwest Frontier:
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Water is a precious resource that the victims and villains of the meat industry are guzzling extravagantly. That’s why Pamela is both a vegetarian (like us gorillas) and a pacifist (like us gorillas unless we are needlessly provoked). It gives her the moral right to relax in her Jacuzzi for hours, toning up her supple skin with a hand shower.
Now, some of you might have noticed that I exaggerated when I said that Pamela had re-enacted the Psycho scene. Posing for a picture is not quite the same thing as simulating a gruesome murder. Perhaps she was worried that unkind critics would compare her acting skills with those of Janet Leigh. However, let’s not forget that Miss Leigh never appeared in Baywatch – I don’t even remember seeing her legs in the spine-tingling shower scene, which is pretty ridiculous when you consider she was as naked as a cuttlefish. No amount of acting technique can make up for a glaring situational anomaly.
In truth, Psycho is not a movie I greatly admire. It stretches credulity that a crazed serial killer like Normal Bates is never shown quenching his thirst after committing one of his appalling crimes. Nor did I approve of Hitchcock’s decision to make him a transvestite, which unfairly stigmatises men with a cross-dressing fetish. I ended up feeling sorry for the blighter in spite of all the mayhem he created. I wish Pamela had depicted a scene from Lust in the Dust instead, an epic movie full of thirsty villains and a transvestite who is as pure as the driven slush.
Labels: eating meat, Lust in the Dust, Pamela Anderson, PETA, Psycho, water conservation
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
End of the bra?
A French scientist is claiming that bras are useless:
"Medically, physiologically, anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity,” declared Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon. “Instead, it languishes with a bra.”
So he says, but can a Frenchman be trusted on this delicate question? Devising compelling arguments for a woman to take off her bra is a celebrated diversion of French intellectual life. I believe Jean-Paul Satre devoted a chapter to it in his PhD thesis.
The Americans, by contrast, remain as resolutely pro-bra as ever:
“The first lady will not be changing her pectoral apparel in light of this development,” said a White House spokesman.
As a gorilla whose own experience on this subject is lacking, I have little data with which to assess these competing claims. On the one hand, the tribal women of Africa have never worn bras. On the other hand, many of these women have exceptionally droopy titties. Yet wearing bras may have made them even droopier.
If I were to study humans in the same way that Dian Fossey studied gorillas, I would go around the world with an inch tape asking women to let me take their measurements. I have no plans to do so, because subjecting women’s breasts to meticulous scrutiny would be undignified for a gorilla. Such tasks should be left to men, whose reputation on this issue is already in tatters.
One band of intrepid women who should welcome Professor Rouillon’s findings is FEMEN, the Ukrainian feminist group that specialises in bare-bosomed protests. Their latest exploit was to ambush President Putin at the Hanover Trade Fair while Frau Merkel was showing him the latest German equipment. Alexandra Shevchenko is the name of the FEMEN activist who managed to invade Mr Putin’s personal space and scream the slogan “Fuck dictator!” at him (which was inscribed on her breasts for good measure). Putin responded to this affront by puffing out his own chest and raising his eyebrows in an ironic grimace.
“It was a very intimate moment,” said Miss Shevchenko afterwards.
Undoubtedly this protest would have been less effective had Alexandra been wearing a bra, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly effective without one. President Putin seemed too intrigued by the messenger to notice the message, and no doubt laughed the whole thing off as a futile attempt to arouse him sexually. You can’t humiliate an ex-KGB man by showing him your jahoobies. Such displays are dismissed as decadent frippery in the official spy manual.
Sadly, the one dictator who might be cowed by naked breast-power is unlikely ever to face that ordeal. I refer to Kim Jong Un, whose baby cheeks would surely burn with shame if they were smothered between a pair of voluptuous boobies. This explains why the only females allowed in his presence are pubescent pom-pom girls and flat-chested army secretaries. I wonder if anyone could persuade Pamela Anderson to parachute behind enemy lines, so she could tit-slap some sense into the abominable little upstart?
Labels: Bras, Breasts, FEMEN, Frenchmen, Kim Jong Un, Pamela Anderson, Putin
Monday, October 10, 2011
Pamela's new position
My friend Pamela Anderson is begging me to help her become a UN goodwill ambassador. I got a call from her yesterday:
“I want to do it so much!” she mewed. “Couldn’t you pull a few strings behind the scenes, GB?”.
“I’ll try my best, Pammy, but don’t expect miracles,” I replied. “There is only so much a gorilla can do to influence the big-wigs of international diplomacy. Throwing my weight around recklessly would be counterproductive.”
She gave me her loving thanks and expressed full confidence in my lobbying abilities.
To be perfectly honest, I‘m not sure what a UN goodwill ambassador does. The only one I know anything about is Ginger Spice, who promoted the cause of sex education for the world’s rampant teenagers. Pamela would certainly be overqualified for that task, but her instruction videos have already been widely disseminated. Touring the world to give the same lessons in person would be a pointless exercise. On the other hand, it’s quite possible that she’s made new breakthroughs in the field. Never underestimate the creativity of a woman who named her breasts Pancho and Lefty.
Perhaps I’ll write a letter to Banky-Moon, informing him of Pamela’s affectionate nature and well-rounded interpersonal skills. He seems like an earnest little fellow who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m sure he’ll warm to the qualities of a philanthropic actress whose bosom is brimming with compassion. Even if Pamela doesn’t win the goodwill job, he ought to give her another position in his office. No prominent man wants people to think he’s biased against blondes. I can honestly say that Pammy is smarter than most of the elephants of the Congo Basin.
Not all blond women are intelligent, of course. Hitler’s squeeze Eva Braun was a pitiful airhead. The Fuehrer, it seems, was attracted to women who wouldn’t give him backchat or point out the flaws in his bogus racial theories. Eva had the good sense, nevertheless, not to remove her knickers in public and keep schtum about her boyfriend’s peculiar bedroom tastes.
Heaven knows what Adolf and Eva would have made of the German couple who had sex in a football stadium. Their lurid exhibitionism was an abject failure, because the crowd were too engrossed in the game to pay them any heed. They only got the attention they craved when an eagle-eyed steward told them that bonking each other wasn’t an acceptable substitute for the Mexican wave. They were later expelled from the ground after another insidious attempt at scoring in an offside position.
What this episode proves is that sex will never rival football as a spectator sport. People who roar ecstatically when a goal is scored just don’t feel the same elation when they watch strangers copulate. A ball thudding into the back of a net is a far more powerful image than all the cum-shots, cum-faces and cream-pies one could muster in craziest orgy known to pornographic science. Don’t ask me whether that’s a good thing – my job is to observe, not judge.
Labels: Banky-Moon, Eva Braun, Hitler, Pamela Anderson, United Nations
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
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Pamela in Paris
A French tourist excitedly informs me that Pamela Anderson will be performing at Le Crazy Horse, a famous cabaret club in Paris.
“Mr Bananas, you must come! There is no charge for Pamela’s friends! She will be thrilled to see you!”
“Thank you, Gaston, but I imagine she’ll be thrilled enough without me pouting at her from the audience.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “She will be performing the striptease to the famous Harley Davidson.”
“My oh my!” I exclaim. “A spectacle to dazzle Paris, Gaston. However where Pamela’s body is concerned, that which I have already seen is indelibly etched in my memory; and that which I have not, I am content to leave to my imagination.”
He shrugs his shoulders with a Gallic purse of the lips and leaves me to ponder this remarkable event. I certainly don’t disapprove of Pamela displaying her wares in Paris and marvel at the ingenuity of bringing a Harley Davidson into the act. I hope they start up the engine as she approaches the climax of her exotic gyrations. To have that mighty beast throbbing between her legs should draw attention away from her over-hyped balloons to her under-hyped undercarriage.
The episode of Baywatch in which Pamela first appeared was one that I watched with my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet.
“I wouldn’t mind some of that,” mused Smacker as he stared at the bosomy starlet, then at the peak of her carnal magnetism.
“I’m no expert on these matters, Smacker, but wouldn’t you say that her airbags have been artificially inflated?” I suggested tentatively.
“I know that!” cried Smacker indignantly. “I was looking downstairs! I’d like to tuck into those thighs with mayonnaise and a side salad!”
Ever since that exchange, I have always thought of Pamela as a woman for the leg-and-rump man – a prime example of “white meat on the drumstick”, as the connoisseurs put it.
It's a real pity that Pamela’s acting career didn’t take off after that promising start. I would have cast her as a German slave girl in a sword-and-sandals epic set in ancient Rome. Her character would pine for Butch Hermann, a childhood sweetheart from the Black Forest, presently having his Teutonic torso oiled and scraped in gladiator school. Picture the scene as she is freed by her kindly Roman master to seek out her true love:
“I wish for every Roman a heart like yours!” she says in tearful gratitude.
“And I wish for every Roman matron a bottom like yours!” he replies waggishly.
In the amphitheatre finale, Butch Hermann (the German) would be locked in mortal combat with Fista Lesbia (the emperor’s iron-pumping sister). After an hour of pulsating action, Hermann has Fista at his mercy, his sword primed for the coup de grâce.
“I cannot slay the woman I love!” he bellows. “Let me return to the Black Forest with Fista as my queen, there to renounce the Roman oyster for the German sausage!”
He helps his opponent to her feet and clasps his manly hands on her manly shoulders.
“No!” shrieks Pamela from the Vestal Virgin box. “I am your rightful queen, Hermann! You pledged me your love when I showed you my secret treasure in the glades of Krakstein!”
The crowd gasps and murmurs as Hermann stares wide-eyed at his long lost flame.
“Let us both accompany the valiant Hermann!” cries Fista, gazing at Pamela with tender eyes. “For as we say in the Pinkus Campus, ‘two queens are better than one’!”
The crowd goes wild with joy and the emperor declares three days of orgies.
The absence of roles like this probably explains why Pamela is now straddling motorbikes in Parisian night clubs. It’s a bit of an anticlimax really. The French are certainly inventive at titillation, but the striptease is obviously running out of steam as a sensual art form. There simply isn’t enough mystery left in a woman’s body for nudity to be a thrill anymore. Men might still pay top dollar for novelty acts – like a lady newsreader getting her kit off for the first time – but a woman who has bared all is just another chicken in the meat market. The way forward for the sex goddess is to keep her naughty bits covered and work on her acting skills. Authentic facial expressions and noises are what the voyeurs of tomorrow will be after.
Labels: Le Crazy Horse, Pamela Anderson, Striptease
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Becoming one of us
Humans often ask me how to become an honorary gorilla. “GB,” they say, “you’re such a cool, fun-loving ape. How do I get to join your gang? I just want to hang out with you guys, chase some baboons and go to all your python-swinging parties. What do I have to do? Do you want me to bring you cocktails in your hammock? No problem. I’ll even massage your toes while you’re relaxing.”
My reply is always the same: “Tempting me with bribes is not the answer. You’ve got to earn our respect by finding your inner ape. Eat plenty of fruit and vegetables. Buy all the Tom Jones CDs and shake your booty to the beat. Move to the rhythm of the jungle. If you’ve got what it takes, our scouts will notice your talent.”
Most humans wait patiently for our decision, but every now and again we get a pushy character who tries to strong-arm us. I recently got a call from Hugo Chavez, the president-cum-dictator of
“Ai GB, when ju gonna make me a gorilla?” he demanded. “I doin’ everything like a gorilla. I beat my chest, I eat no meat, I tell that gringo chimpanzee Bush to go to hell. I even look like a gorilla!”
“Mr President, it’s not that simple,” I replied. “We can’t even consider you for membership while you hold high office. Gorillas must stand aloof from human politics.”
“CHINGA TU MADRE!” he shouted. “You think I leavin’ El Palacio just to join your club? I give you my cojones first!”
He terminated our conversation with that defiant offer. Between you and me, El Presidente will never be admitted to our ranks. There’s more to being a gorilla than thumping your chest and telling gringo chimpanzees to go to hell. It may surprise you to learn that we gorillas are rather fond of irony and understatement. We admire the human who can get his message across by raising one eyebrow, like Roger Moore or ‘Bones’ of The Enterprise. A blustering oaf like Chavez will never master subtle skills like that.
I should stress that it’s entirely feasible for a woman to become an honorary gorilla. Daryl Hannah received the accolade after starring in the film Splash. We were hugely impressed by her ability to wiggle her caboose inside a skin-tight fish tail. That takes some doing. What’s more, her adornments north of the tail were wholly natural, which is something we insist upon. One who fell foul of this requirement was Miss Pamela Anderson, who put her case to me in person at the safari camp.
“I’ve been a vegetarian since I was a girl; I’m a member of PETA; I’ve campaigned against the fur trade,” she said earnestly, as if reciting from a memorised script.
“All of which is most commendable, Miss Anderson,” I replied, “but there are other pertinent issues. Your...er…tangible attributes must be composed entirely of organic matter,” I said, trying hard not to stare at her breasts.
She looked puzzled for a few seconds, but then her face brightened in apparent comprehension. “Oh sure!” she exclaimed. “I only eat organic food from ethical farms. They grow their food ethically and treat all their workers ethically. It’s all very ethical.”
I scratched my neck while pondering how to make the point tactfully (and ethically).
“Are your breasts made of organic food?” I asked.
The blonde beach babe put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Do you wanna eat my tits?” she asked saucily.
“Who wouldn’t, Pammy?” I replied. “But the problem is that we gorillas are incredibly allergic to silicone.”
“Oh,” said Pamela, looking disappointed.
“I’m sorry, Pam, but we can’t admit anyone with surgically-enhanced hooters. Our females would have a fit.”
“Oh well,” said Pamela sadly, “I’ll guess I’ll just have to throw my energy into bush conservation.”
It warms the cockles of my groin to report that Pamela continues to support our causes without the slightest hint of bitterness. What a pity that so many humans look down on her as an airhead and a harlot. Those who are wise know that brains aren’t everything and that sexual promiscuity is never a sin for the pure of heart. A woman may be the whore of
Labels: Home-grown tomatoes, Honorary gorilla, Pamela Anderson
