Tuesday, December 06, 2016
Woman marries dog
There are conflicting reports about the Argentinian woman who married her dog. Some say she did it because her fiancé jilted her; others say she did it because her fiancé cheated on her. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this romantic tale, but I would beg to differ. If her fiancé’s philandering was the issue, who is to say that her dog won’t cheat on her too? Although dogs are normally very loyal to their owners, their concept of fidelity doesn’t stop them from humping other dogs. The behaviour of stray mutts in the shanties of Brazzaville suggests that love and sex are wholly separate categories for the canine community. As they are for many humans, of course.
Now it seems that Miss Romina Pitton’s main motive in this affair, apart from confirming her affections for her pooch, was to avoid cancelling a wedding in the final stages of preparation. With so much money already lavished on cakes and frilly dresses and gay wedding planners who charge by the hour, she didn’t want to deprive herself and her guests of the extravaganza they’d been eagerly anticipating. All of which shows how the human wedding has evolved, over the centuries, into a ridiculous circus. A simple exchange of vows has become the excuse for an absurd and overblown show with a giant cast of extras.
Personally, I can’t think of anything more undignified than participating in a human-style wedding. When Gorilla Bananas makes a promise to someone, there is no need for witnesses. His word is his bond. Potential voyeurs are told politely to sod off before any oaths are uttered. My solemn covenants are a private affair, not a gala event that the world and his wife may attend. Listening to an impertinent speech by the best man would be out of the question too. Any “best man” who attempted to mock me in front of an audience would immediately find himself demoted to “worst baboon”.
This explains why I’ve always had a soft spot for humans who elope. When a clown ran off with the ringmaster’s daughter in my circus days, I was quick to offer help with getaway vehicles, safe houses and disguises. Obviously I didn’t provide all these services myself. Like Frank Sinatra, I had underworld contacts who were only too willing carry out favours on my behalf. Most things can be arranged if you know the right people.
You may think that eloping has gone out of fashion and doesn’t happen anymore, but I have a suspicion that a big one is in the offing. Prince Harry seems to be very besotted with his latest girlfriend, to the extent that he’s issued a statement to the press, telling them to back off. I don’t think he’d want to expose her to the media scrutiny that a royal wedding would generate. If he and his would-be-bride are interested, I have a nice little hut in the Congo where they could consummate their nuptials in peace.
Labels: marriage, Prince Harry, weddings
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Wet nurse offer
“Invite them to the Congo!” they demanded. “You’re always telling us how well-connected you are to the English upper classes and how you once refused a knighthood. Get the little princeling over here so we can give him a proper mouthful!”
Obviously, I had to quash this crazy talk.
“No, ladies, no!” I exclaimed. “Gorilla milk is far too rich for human babies. Your creamy boob juice would turn the little tyke into a miniature version of Tarzan. He’d start climbing trees, swinging on vines and emitting silly yodels. Not good preparation for a life of waving to crowds and cutting ribbons and listening to common folk with an interested look on his face.
They grunted in sceptical disappointment. It’s not easy to fob off maternal gorillas with lame excuses.
Before you get the wrong idea, my females are not in thrall to human royalty. We gorillas have zero reverence for puffed-up humans with silly titles. Their yearning to suckle baby George arose entirely from seeing a photo of him in the arms of his slender mother:
“She hasn’t got enough milk in her to feed a baby meerkat!” they jeered.
Cruel words, but they may have a point. If Kate cannot produce sufficient nourishment from her udders, she ought to find a donor rather than using baby formula. Maybe her namesake Kate Winslet would be willing to help out. She’s expecting a baby herself, and must have reached the stage in her marriage where she’s longing for a break from her half-witted husband. Keeping both her boobs occupied with two hungry babies might be just what she needs to take her mind off things.
Another option for the royal parents would be to buy fresh breast milk on the open market. I hear that Chinese women have been selling theirs, mostly to decrepit old men who think it will prolong their lives. How much nicer to be flown to London in a private jet and take turns letting baby George suck their titties dry. There is no reason to suppose that Chinese breast milk is less nourishing than that from Caucasian women. Maybe their diet gives it a sweet and sour flavour, but that shouldn’t bother a blue-blooded baby.
Prince Harry, meanwhile, has been telling everyone how keen he is to fulfil his duties as an uncle:
“I’ll make sure he has fun,” he declared.
I suppose that means he wants to introduce his nephew to as many bimbos he can find who will cavort with him in the nude. What Harry seems to have forgotten is that he’ll be a middle-aged man when George reaches cavorting age. It is by no means certain that the young prince will want to accompany his crinkly-arsed uncle on naked bimbo excursions. Nor can we be sure that naked bimbos will have the same appeal to the next generation of princely gallants, accustomed to virtual reality games and holographic simulations. Programmable bimbos are so much safer than ones who’ll take your picture and sell it to a gossip site.
Labels: breast-feeding, naked bimbos, Prince Harry, royal baby, wet nurse
Friday, August 31, 2012
Fun and ball games
Prince Harry’s escapade in Las Vegas has left me wondering what the rules of “strip billiards” are. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this celebrated case of royal revelry, but I’m not the sort of ape who leaves loose ends untied. The prince’s own end was completely loose, of course, but tying it up might have incited the royal bodyguards to intervene. One shouldn’t distract servants of the Crown when they’re busy ogling naked girls.
My guess is that the game was a fairly simple one. Harry grabbed the billiard cue and tried to clear the table; every time he potted a ball, the girls removed one of their garments; every time he missed, he took off one of his own. A minute after the game began, everyone was naked apart from the royal bodyguards, who couldn’t play themselves because they had to keep their weapons concealed.
When I explained my highly plausible conjecture to the manager of the safari camp, he shook his head and grinned like a chipmunk:
“You poor innocent gorilla!” he scoffed. “Do you really think the balls in this game were the kind that roll on a table? 'Billiards' is a well-known term for toying with a man’s testicles.”
“You don’t say,” I replied. “And what rulebook were the prince and his lady-friends observing in pursuing this uplifting pastime?”
“They must have improvised their own rules on the spur of the moment,” said the manager. “Maybe the prince faced the wall while the girls took turns to rummage inside his pants and manually examine his nutsack. If he correctly identified the girl doing the groping, she had to take something off.”
“Fascinating!” I exclaimed. “And how did the prince end up naked when the sport was concluded?”
“How should I know?” snapped the manager. “Maybe the girls made him strip at the end. You don’t expect them to play with his balls for nothing, do you?”
I rolled my eyes before replying to this question.
“Frankly, manager, I have no idea what to expect in the enactment of your whimsical scenarios. He could have stripped out of noblesse oblige for all I know.”
All of you, by now, must have seen the infamous picture of Prince Harry cavorting with one of the party girls. Not very impressive, was it? He reminds me of an English actor called Robin Askwith, who starred in a series of lame sex comedies in the 1970s. Most of them had a scene where Askwith was forced to flee, stark naked, from the bedroom of a sexually voracious woman, hands cupped around his groin like the prince. Such incidents provided a passing distraction from the ponderous plot and limp acting.
Hopefully, as he matures, the prince will become more inventive in his activities with naked girls. I would advise him to consider games based on the naked housekeeping theme, where there is plenty of scope for innovation, particularly while the hoovering is being done. If nothing else, it would teach him how to cope during his manservant’s day off.
Labels: naked women, Prince Harry, strip billiards
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Royal Flush
My females have been cackling excitedly about the royal princes’ tour of Africa.
“Why don’t you invite them here?” they piped. “We’d make them feel at home.”
“No you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Feeling at home for them means playing polo, visiting chutney factories and having their toenails clipped by a servant. They aren’t used to your jungle tricks and you haven’t learned the correct etiquette. I don’t want you thrusting your hips at them instead of curtsying.”
That shut them up. In truth, I was worried that a similar faux pas to the one in Botswana might occur, where a nervous rock python pissed itself in fright after being introduced to the princes. Being English, they were too embarrassed to deal with the mishap like the president of Zambia, who sternly rebuked a monkey for passing water on his jacket. Let’s just hope the incident hasn’t left a sour taste in their mouths.
In accordance with royal protocol, the identity of the nurse who accompanied the princes remained a closely guarded secret. A hapless photographer who tried to take her picture was set upon by the royal bodyguards and forced to sit on a pineapple. If you think William and Harry are too old for a nurse you know little of the customs of the British monarchy. It is essential, on such visits, to keep the princes well clear of local floozies who would eagerly squat before them in the hope of receiving a royal rogering. The role of the nurse is to lessen the appeal of such sordid temptations by regularly milking the princes of their manly juices. The job is normally offered to a lady familiar with livestock breeding, who can render the service with clinical detachment. Surgical gloves and Vaseline are essential tools of the trade.
The finale of the princes’ tour was a visit to South Africa, causing some people to suggest they were only here for the World Cup. Such cynics forget that they also met various dignitaries, including that great man whose long struggle for freedom inspired millions of down-trodden humans, and quite a few up-trodden ones as well. I refer, of course, to Bishop Tutu, who received the princes in one of his most fetching purple frocks. I don’t know what he said to the boys, but I’m sure he spiced up his sermon with plenty of whooping and jigging.
I had the honour of meeting the Bishop when he stayed at the safari guesthouse.
“Toots, “ I said, “don’t you resent all the hero-worship that Mandela gets when you did all the hard work in the dark days of P.W. Botha?”
“Not at all, GB!” he chirped. “My heart is full of joy for having done God’s work. And what makes you think I don’t have my own fans?”
He made a good point. The Bishop's many quiet admirers include a team of scientists who obtained a sample of his DNA. They discovered he belongs to one of the least in-bred human populations on Earth, which might explain his sunny disposition. This is something the princes should bear in mind when listening to the morose prattle of their bat-eared father, who recently condemned Galileo for a remark he made in 1597. When royalty breeds with royalty, the results are rarely pretty.
Labels: Bishop Tutu, in-breeding, Prince Charles, Prince Harry, Prince William
