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, October 23, 2013
Silly love songs
Paul McCartney has admitted he was too scared to tell his attractive wife that he loved her. Now why would he fear saying that, unless perhaps it wasn’t true? Some women can tell when their husbands are lying as easily as if their noses were growing longer like Pinocchio’s. Female intuition is a more powerful truth serum than sodium pentothal or a kick in the balls. But if Paul doesn’t love her, why would he have married her? That can’t be the cause of his anxiety.
Maybe the source of his fear is financial. When a rich man tells a woman he loves her, his wallet trembles in anticipation. Money can’t buy you love, but love can lose you money, as Paul discovered when he divorced Heather Mills. Was he worried that opening his heart to Nancy might have encouraged her to ask for Tahiti as a Christmas present? No, that can’t be right, the woman is flush herself. If she asked for Tahiti, he could have asked for Bermuda.
In pursuit of an explanation, I phoned Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, who’s been happily married for a decade or so.
“I know exactly how he feels,” he said. “You never know how a woman will react the first time you tell her you love her. My own dear spouse giggled like Scooby Doo before punching me in the face. I had a black eye for a week.”
“That’s a heart-warming anecdote, Smacker.” I remarked. “I shall tell it to my females as proof of the close genetic bond we have with our human cousins.”
Of course, it’s a complete myth that humans invented love. Birds of all species can be incredibly jealous lovers, as anyone who’s flirted with an ostrich knows. I never even smile at an ostrich hen for fear of getting my arse pecked by her mate. Not even among the primates do humans reign supreme in the amorous arts. Our mutual cousins, the bonobos, have fascinated biologists for years with their touchy-feely behaviour and public displays of affection. They are also extremely generous in providing sympathy sex, which is not something humans will do without a lot of play-acting and chicanery.
Another celebrity who’s been having issues with the L-word is Khloe Kardashian, whose marriage appears to be floundering. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the shaven-headed brute she got hitched to fell out of love with her bubble butt. Rather than consult a divorce lawyer, she is seeking solace among her twitter followers, to whom she tweeted the following message:
“I crave a love so deep the ocean would be jealous.”
Poor deluded girl! A love that deep would be full of shipwrecks, sharks and creatures that squirted black ink in her face. My advice to Khloe is to stop tweeting and have some sympathy sex with a good-natured rake like Russell Brand. He may not be as affectionate as a bonobo, but I doubt he’ll expect her to eat his body parasites.
Labels: Khloe Kardashian, Paul McCartney, Russell Brand, sympathy sex
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
Brain anomaly
An English anthropologist has explained why the human masses are obsessed with celebrities. It seems that their brains are hard-wired that way because of a unique arse-licking gene (a.k.a. “butt-kissing gene”) possessed by homo sapiens. This causes them to squeal with excitement when a famous person comes into view and behave like a fawning toady.
It’s all about prestige, you see. Unlike other animals, humans can acquire status simply by sucking up to superstars and show-offs. Furthermore, the habits of these performers are studied obsessively by aspiring young fame-hunters hoping to further their own paths to glory. Lady Gaga was just a star-struck teenager when she saw Madonna and Britney French-kissing. Look at her now.
In the rest of the animal kingdom, behaviour is driven by fear rather than hero-worship. The hyena respects the pride male to avoid getting its head chewed off; the baboon respects the silverback to avoid getting its lights punched out; the zebra respects the rhino to avoid getting the horn. There’s no need to lick anyone’s butt in the African bush unless you’re trying to make friends.
A celebrity who is wowing the world with his zany antics is Russell Brand, the chirpy English comedian. It is alleged that he recently propositioned a middle-aged lesbian TV personality, although he might well have been joking. Middle-aged lesbians find it hard to judge whether a man is being ironic or genuinely wants to straighten them out. When questioned about his indiscretion, Brand promptly confessed that he couldn’t resist infiltrating lesbian liaisons:
“I won’t rest until every lesbian relationship in Britain has been disrupted by an unwelcome boorish Essex boy," he announced.
Will frisky young bucks now follow in Brand’s footsteps? I hope so. The best way of honing one’s skills is by taking on a nigh impossible challenge. As for the lesbians, there’s surely no harm in reminding them they’re still attractive to men. It would also give them a list of potential sperm donors should they ever wish to reproduce.
Of course, a celebrity is only worthy of emulation if he sticks to his forte and doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. I was sorry to hear that Justin Bieber has started aiming kung fu kicks at the paparazzi. Someone should tell Bieber that it takes years of training to carry out such stunts without looking like a jackrabbit or injuring your buttocks. It also requires spiritual instruction to acquire the demeanour of an inscrutable Chinaman.
A more outrageous case of celebrity overstretch is Victoria Spice’s suggestion that her husband should play James Bond. It goes without saying that Mr Becks is not remotely up to the task – he cannot act and his voice sounds like a cockney version of Mickey Mouse. I doubt he could get through the love scenes without grinning like a chimp. The good news is that he seems content in his current role of being eye-candy for a certain type of woman – (the type that isn’t interested in the quantity of grey matter in a man’s skull).
Labels: cult of celebrity, human brain, James Bond, Justin Bieber, Mr Becks, Russell Brand
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Triple Jump
Russell Brand, the chirpy English comedian, has asked the Kardashian sisters to join him in a “threesome”. As there are three sisters, he must have meant a foursome. No matter. Errors in arithmetic are easy to make when the brain is befuddled with thoughts of debauchery. I once saw a baboon lose count of his kola nuts after a female flashed her red rump at him.
Brand was not put off by the fact that one of the Kardashians is with child and another is lactating. He admitted fantasizing about “limitless, foaming rivers of milk and orgasm”. Khloe Kardashian was quick to respond to this seductive cocktail of creamy juices:
“I heard that pregnant pussy is the best pussy,” she remarked.
I don’t know whether that’s true, but it looks like Russell is pushing at an open door.
As a gorilla, I am very wary of the idea of mating with more than one female at a time. Such disorderly tussles can lead to bickering and accidents if the roles are not clearly defined. It ruins the mood if two females clash heads when attempting the same manoeuvre. I would advise Brand and the K-sisters to hire a choreographer before attempting to enact their pageant of depravity. It’s better to invest in solid production values than put on a show that flops.
Is it my imagination, or have an unusually large number of actresses got knocked up recently? The latest was Halle Berry, who said that having a child at the age of 46 was the biggest surprise of her life:
“I thought I was past the point where this could be a reality for me,” she explained.
She obviously isn’t aware that menopausal ovaries hold a few eggs in reserve which can pop out at short notice when man-seed gets squirted upstream. Mother Nature is a sly old bird who can trick humans into reproducing just when they think it’s safe to go bareback. Mind you, I could probably have told her she was still fertile by giving her crotch a good sniff after her Kegel exercises. We jungle creatures have a good nose for reproductive hormones.
Now I don’t care what hanky panky humans get up to as long as they follow the golden rule: keep it in your own species. I was sorry to hear of another horrible case of bestiality in China, where a man was rushed to hospital after having butt sex with an eel. The eel was definitely not consenting, even though it took the active role. After getting trapped inside the man’s gut, it had to be extracted by surgeons. A member of the medical team described its tragic fate:
“It was still alive when we got it out but it died soon afterwards, which was probably a mercy.”
I wonder if this sort of thing is now happening in China because of the years of sexual repression they suffered in the days when everyone wore a Mao suit. The sooner they get it out of their system the better.
Labels: arithmetic, bestiality, Kardashians, pregnancy, Russell Brand
