Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Bum news
Victoria Spice has admitted to being a “pain in the bottom” without revealing whose rump she has troubled. That shouldn’t stop us from making an educated guess. I’d wager a ripe bunch of bananas that the bum in question belongs to Mr Becks, her devoted spouse. As a former footballer, his buttocks should be able to bear plenty of punishment before beads of sweat start appearing on his forehead and his groin. It’s a small price to pay for keeping the spark in your marriage alive.
Unfortunately for Mr Becks, Victoria is the type of woman who can dish it out but can’t take it. There’s not nearly enough meat on her tush to satisfy a man’s healthy appetite for butt bongo. If I were her husband, I’d be looking at Miley Cyrus with envious eyes. Miley is petite, but her rump is fleshy enough to be slapped around like pizza dough. Unfortunately for those who dream of pummelling her posterior, she has recently started dating one Patrick Schwarzenegger, son of the former Governator.
I’d like to know why this Schwarzenegger sprog is qualified to be Miley’s beau. Being the son of a famous pair of pecs shouldn’t give you the right to romance the cheekiest nymphette of our age. I hope Miley won’t consider marrying him until he proves himself worthy of the honour. Let him show the world what he’s made of by twerking with Madonna and kicking Bieber’s ass. An alpha male should acquire a reputation of his own rather than basking in the fame of his more illustrious mistress.
Whoopi Goldberg has recently reminded us that not everything associated with the bottom is good. She farted loudly on a TV chat show and had the class to accept responsibility for the deed. This would never have happened back in my circus days, when it was standard practice for humans to blame their farts on someone else. The clowns were constantly doing it and often accused me of creating their flatulence. I was generally content to give the accuser a scornful stare without issuing a formal denial, which would have compromised my dignity.
On one occasion I was forced to respond. After emitting a horrible little guff that sounded like a party horn and smelled like poison gas, a clown feigned to look at me with sad, reproachful eyes:
“Oh GB!” he whined. “Whatever have you been eating?”
“What?!” I thundered. “You accuse me of producing that pathetic little squeak?” “This is what a real gorilla fart sounds like!”
And rising to my feet, I turned my back and gave him a blast of wind resembling the base note of a trombone.
This is why I hope more humans will follow Whoopi’s example and be upfront about breaking wind. If your bowels are feeling turgid, make an announcement to the effect that you need to blow some gas out of your butthole and run to the nearest window. If you're going to fart, do it with dignity and concern for the innocent bystander.
Labels: butt cheeks, buttocks, fart noises, farting, Farts, Miley Cyrus, Mr Becks, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, June 04, 2014
The intern returns
Monica Lewinsky has blossomed into a confident, intelligent, attractive woman of 40. Before you call me a kiss-ass, study the recent picture of her above. When I emailed it to my friend Smacker Ramrod, he sent me the following response:
“Gadzooks, she is gorgeous! Lucky is the man who moistens the gum on her flap!”
I’m sure we would all agree with him on that.
Now, some of you might be thinking this is a gratuitous blog post about Miss Lewinsky, written for no other reason than her suitability as a target for bawdy jokes. That would be a scurrilous, defamatory half-truth. I was inspired to pen this piece by Monica herself, who is the author of a fascinating article recently published in Vanity Fair. Let me summarize its main points for you:
1) Monica chided the chanteuse Beyoncé for taking her name in vain in one of her songs. The offending lyrics were:
He popped all my buttons and he ripped my blouse
He Monica Lewinsky’d all on my gown.
To which Monica retorted:
"Thanks, Beyoncé, but if we're verbing, I think you meant:
He Bill Clinton'd all on my gown.
Well said, Monica. Some might say that although you didn’t own the gun you helped to pull the trigger. I would say that no one is entitled to turn your name into a verb for jizzing. It wasn’t your mess and Beyoncé is clearly an airhead.
2) In reminiscing about her youthful indiscretion in the White House, she said that the public disclosure of her deeds had made her “the most humiliated person in the world”, and that the true villains of the affair were those who did the disclosing, rather than the tomcat president whom she willingly siphoned. (I apologise for the length of the last sentence, which is a bigger mouthful than the one Monica got, but sometimes it’s necessary to spit it out in one go.)
3) After getting her Masters degree from the London School of Economics, she turned down job offers from firms seeking to exploit her status as the world’s most famous fellator. She is now using her experience to help victims of on-line humiliation and harassment, which she hopes will give a purpose to her past.
You’ve got to respect Monica for dealing with her debacle in such a dignified way. She could have made millions by promoting herself as America’s No.1 hoochie, but instead she chose philanthropy, which is an entirely different field.
Being humiliated is a terrible fate for a human, although it has to be said that many deserve it. I get the impression it’s easier to bear for those not overburdened with grey matter. Take Mr Becks, for example. He recently revealed that he wooed Victoria Spice by wearing an exceptionally tight pair of trunks. A man of greater intellect, like Einstein or Eddie Murphy, would have surely been embarrassed to admit to such a thing.
Life is so much easier if you can respond to ridicule and insults by grinning like a village idiot.
Labels: humiliation, jism, Monica Lewinsky, Mr Becks, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Oral hygiene
“I’m doomed,” he confided to me. “This is what happens when you go out of your way to please women, GB. Be wise and learn from my downfall.”
“Pull yourself together, manager!” I exclaimed. “There’s nothing to worry about unless you have the human papillomavirus. Why don’t you have a blood test to put your mind at rest?”
“What if I test positive?” he asked
I scratched my head and thought carefully before replying.
“If that lamentable eventuality should occur, I’d be obliged if you left me your nose hair trimmer.”
It’s a particularly poignant tragedy when someone contracts a deadly disease by giving pleasure to others. I blame the scientific community for not doing more to develop effective countermeasures. If they can pasteurize milk and pickle herrings, there must be a way of making the coochie safe for human consumption. Why can’t they create a sauce that would destroy all the virulent bugs while adding flavour to the dish? It’s never a bad idea to give people an incentive to take precautions.
One has to feel sorry for Mrs Zeta-Douglas, of course. I hope her husband makes it clear that the infected snatch he slurped on belongs to another lady, preferably one he savoured in his carefree bachelor days. An actress renowned for her beauty doesn’t want the public to think she’s a purveyor of poisonous juices. It’s hard to admire a woman’s face when you believe her nether regions are corrupted by a malignant effluvium.
Mr Douglas isn’t the only celebrity who’s been making statements of potential embarrassment to his spouse. At a recent awards ceremony, Victoria Spice found it necessary to elevate a microphone before addressing the hall.
“Oh I have to raise this, that doesn’t happen often!” she quipped.
The audience immediately understood this to be a reference to her husband’s manly appendage and roared with laughter. Mr Becks was not at the event, but the couple’s son was, which caused Victoria to repent of her bawdy remark:
“Oh my God I’m so sorry Brooklyn, they told me to be funny but that was completely off the cuff!” she said.
If Mr Becks is not man enough to give Victoria a regular seeing to, this intelligence should have been guarded like a state secret. Let’s hope Brooklyn recovers from the shock of hearing his mummy make light of daddy’s waning potency. A teenage boy who discovers his father is having problems in the stiffy department might well begin to doubt his own ability to raise the Jolly Roger.
Now that the cat is out of the bag, perhaps young Brooklyn should be sent to Michael Douglas for counselling. No one is better qualified to give advice on surviving the damage caused by a careless tongue.
Labels: embarrassing jokes, human papillomavirus, Michael Douglas, oral sex, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Sleep deprivation
Poor Ginger Spice is suffering from insomnia. She tweeted this news to her army of fans, who promptly tried to bore her to sleep with their inane suggestions. I refrained from tweeting anything myself. If Ginger wants my advice, I’ll be more than happy to give it to her, but she’ll have to ask me first. I’m not adding my pearls to the chorus of ill-informed chirping.
Her sister-in-song, Scary Spice, recommended having sex as a cure for insomnia. That’s easy for her to say. I believe she has a herd of brawny-arsed stallions at her disposal, who can tire out the friskiest filly. I hope Ginger isn’t tempted to borrow one of those studs. It is better for a lady to make love to her rabbit than use a man as a sedative agent.
Ginger blames her insomnia on her hyperactive brain, which won’t stop thinking about one thing or another. It’s a problem that chimpanzees would solve by dropping a coconut on her head. We gorillas prefer more gentle remedies. If Ginger were currently residing with my tribe, I would gently swing her to sleep in my hammock, while humming the snake’s song from The Jungle Book. Not many women can keep their eyelids up while being rhythmically rocked by a crooning gorilla.
I wonder what Ginger can’t stop thinking about. She doesn’t seem like the type who is kept awake by cryptic crossword puzzles or ancient Sankrit texts. Maybe she’s brooding on the news that Victoria Spice has given up singing for good, which means that the Spice Girls will never perform together again.
It’s sad when illustrious careers come to an end, but such is life. I had similar feelings of regret when I took off my circus pantaloons for the last time. The important thing is to enjoy your leisure activities and keep looking forward to the next challenge. I returned to Africa to carve out a domain in the jungle. Maybe Ginger should return to Watford to carve out a domain near the M25.
Two ladies who must be looking forward to their retirement are the 70-year-old Dutch twins who recently stopped working as call girls. One of them admitted that her only client was an elderly gentleman who kept turning up for his weekly S&M sessions:
"I couldn’t give him up,” she explained. “He’s been coming to me for so long it’s like going to church on a Sunday.”
Having serviced over 350,000 men during their 50-year careers, they have saved enough money for a comfortable retirement. I hope they’ll treat themselves to a buff young gigolo from time to time, just to keep in touch with their former profession and offer constructive advice.
“Not too bad, young man, but you must show more initiative when I assume the doggy position instead of waiting for instructions,” they might say.
Don’t you love it when senior citizens pass on their wisdom to the younger generation? It’s what separates us apes from the four-legged mammals.
Labels: Ginger Spice, insomnia, retiring call girls, Scary Spice, Victoria Spice
Monday, April 02, 2012
Alien adoption
Yet another human is claiming to be on speaking terms with extra-terrestrials. Mr Simon Parkes, an English town councillor, says his real mother is a green life-form, 9 feet tall with a stick-like figure, big eyes and tiny nostrils. Not a bad-looking female by the sound of it. Big eyes and tiny nostrils are better than tiny eyes and big nostrils, as any visitor to Impfondo “horsey-face” menagerie will confirm.
Before you mock Mr Parkes as a half-wit and a fantasist, please note that he does not believe the alien is his biological mother. The creature visited him when he was a baby and sent the following telepathic message to his infant brain:
“I am your real mother, I am your more important mother.”
In doing so, she formed an emotional bond with Simon and became his surrogate parent. This is no more far-fetched than the story of Tarzan being adopted by a female ape, which is not far-fetched at all, judging by the number of people who wept liked sissies while watching Greystoke in the cinema.
What I find most convincing about this tale is the absence of any physical contact between Simon and the aliens (who in addition to his mother comprised sundry characters in supporting roles). As Councillor Parkes explained:
“The reason why the extra-terrestrials are interested in me is not because of my physical body but what’s inside – my soul.”
How refreshing to hear a human admit that members of a different species have no interest in his body. Most humans who’ve had such encounters accuse the aliens of probing their bodily orifices or milking their gonads. I’ve always believed such abduction stories to be vain human fantasies. Extra-terrestrials have no irresistible urge to toy with the human body, any more than we gorillas do. As a fellow victim of such lampoons, I must defend their honour.
I do hope Victoria Spice has seen the recent TV interview of Mr Parkes. I feel sure she would empathise with his experiences and possibly invite him to a support group. Although she hasn’t been visited by aliens (as far as I know), she did recently have an out-of-body experience during a fashion show. The manager of the safari camp laughed like a drain when I mentioned this to him:
“If I had a body like hers I’d want to get out of it!” he quipped.
I’m not sure I agree with his ungallant remark. Victoria may appear horribly undernourished for a woman who can afford to keep her larder well-stocked, but she has done her duty as a wife and mother, producing a healthy brood of four. The proof of the oven is whether it has room for the pudding.
Perhaps Councillor Parkes should introduce Victoria to his alien mother, who is also as thin as a street lamp. She probably thinks women are squat, bulbous creatures, and might enjoy meeting one with a similar figure to herself. It takes all sorts to make a universe.
“If I had a body like hers I’d want to get out of it!” he quipped.
I’m not sure I agree with his ungallant remark. Victoria may appear horribly undernourished for a woman who can afford to keep her larder well-stocked, but she has done her duty as a wife and mother, producing a healthy brood of four. The proof of the oven is whether it has room for the pudding.
Perhaps Councillor Parkes should introduce Victoria to his alien mother, who is also as thin as a street lamp. She probably thinks women are squat, bulbous creatures, and might enjoy meeting one with a similar figure to herself. It takes all sorts to make a universe.
Labels: alien abduction, aliens, Tarzan, tiny nostrils, Victoria Spice
Monday, January 31, 2011
Balls of Sheen, Jizz of Becks
A tourist at the safari guesthouse speculates about the size of Charlie Sheen’s testicles.
“I’m guessing they’re bigger than golf balls,” he says.
The evidence he offers for this conjecture is a news report about a weekend the actor spent in Las Vegas, where he allegedly copulated with prostitutes on a revolving-door basis. I tell the tourist that such feats of debauchery, although impressive in their own terms, do not amount to conclusive proof.
“The source you cite mentions that Mr Sheen was ‘coked out of his head’,” I point out. “The aphrodisiac effect of that narcotic might enable a man with gonads the size of grapes to spend a weekend skewering whores.”
“You could be right,” agrees the tourist, “but without big balls he’d be firing blanks pretty soon. I guess you gorillas don’t have to worry about that.”
“We conserve our ammunition and try to make every shot count,” I reply modestly, resisting the temptation to boast or exaggerate. “The animals with the biggest ones in relation to bodyweight are a species of grasshopper. They enable the male to impregnate scores of females in a frenetic spree of hop-on, hop-off action.”
“Grasshoppers!” exclaims the tourist. “Who’d have thunk it? I’ll remember not to keep them as pets so I don’t get an inferiority complex!”
“You could eat them to get a superiority complex,” I suggest.
I later regret having discussed the issue of ball-size with the tourist. Although one should always be civil to guests, there’s no need to feed their delusions about the importance of a well-packed scrotum. For, as we say in the jungle, the proof of the bollock lies in the potency of its seed.
One man who has no deficiency in this regard is Mr Becks, having recently impregnated Victoria Spice for the fourth time. This happy news was greeted with joyous celebrations in the African bush – the elephants blew their trumpets; the rhinos swished their horns; the crocodiles thrashed their tails against the rumps of lounging hippos.
My females did their “squat-and-grunt” dance, offering prayers that the new arrival would emerge from the orifice that Nature intended, rather than being surgically extracted in the manner of its siblings. We gorillas are traditionalists on the question of childbirth, believing that a baby should come out the same way it got in. While it’s true that Victoria’s figure is not ideal for squeezing them through the birth canal, there are ways of preparing her for the required exertions. A tub of Vaseline and a zucchini can achieve great things in the right hands.
What I admire most about Victoria is the way she always manages to get knocked up when some floozy is claiming to have slept with her husband. It’s as if a sixth sense tells her when her marriage is under threat, prompting her to jump on Mr Becks while he’s doing the junior crossword puzzle. I don’t for one minute believe the scurrilous tales of infidelity in the gutter press, but it’s nice to see a wife who knows how to remind her man where his virile juices belong.
Labels: big balls, Charlie Sheen, natural childbirth, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Brainy Spice?
My eyes lit up when a man on safari described Victoria Spice as an “airhead”. Having just read a fascinating article about her lineage, I was well-placed to refute his ignoble assertion.
“I think not, my good man!” I declared. “A genealogist has discovered that her great-great-great grandfather was a radical artist who hung out with Karl Marx. Whatever you think of Marx, he didn’t waste time hobnobbing with airheads.”
“What does that prove?” retorted the man. “The total number of great-great-great grandparents is 32. Her other 31 must have been straw-chewing yokels and buxom wenches. Any brain-juice from Marx’s pal would have been diluted with a gallon of doofus syrup.”
“What shocking bigotry!” I protested. “Are buxom wenches necessarily dim-bulbs?”
“Name one that isn’t,” he challenged.
”Kate Winslet,” I replied instantly.
“Decent pair of jugs but no Einstein,” he remarked coarsely.
I parted company with the fellow, shaking my head and tut-tutting. Had I wished to continue the debate, I would have pointed out that buxom wenches were not likely in Victoria’s family tree, given that her own figure is somewhere between slender and cadaverous.
Human genealogy is a fascinating subject though. The further you go back in time, the more likely it is you’ll find some phenomenal breeder with millions of modern-day descendants. Half the human race has either King Solomon or Genghis Khan as an ancestor. The lucky ones are related to both. If you see an angry fellow who likes horses, swords and concubines, you know where he gets it from.
Geneticists have proved that the entire human species is descended from a woman who lived in Africa about 200,000 years ago. This mysterious über-mother, whom scientists have named Eve, eclipsed all her rivals in the mating and child-rearing stakes. What was so special about her? The scientists have no idea and assume she just got lucky – maybe she was having a dirty weekend on Mount Kilimanjaro when a massive tsunami struck.
Another possibility is that Eve had some kind of biological advantage. The manager of the safari camp is convinced that her breasts were exceptionally large. As well as providing a plentiful supply of milk for her considerable brood, they would have made her irresistible to potential suitors. The men of that epoch were not very subtle and tended to focus entirely on a woman’s jahoobies. It wasn’t until the great cultural awakening of the Cro-Magnon period that more diverse tastes developed and men began to notice a lady’s thighs and buttocks.
Yet such theories have little relevance to Victoria Spice, who was not put on Earth to be gawked at for her fleshy adornments. I remain convinced that the woman has hidden intellectual depths, invisible to the naked eye, but perceptible to the de-waxed ear. No wonder the odious Simon Cowell has refused to employ her as a judge on his tawdry talent show. He is just the sort of the conceited TV pundit that Victoria would upstage with her shrewd little comments.
Labels: jahoobies, Karl Marx, Mitochondrial Eve, Victoria Spice
