Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Snakebite
I’m no fan of snakes, but I confess to a sneaking admiration for the rattlesnake that bit a man from Florida in the face. This incomparable oaf had tried to kiss the rattler for reasons that remain mysterious. His neighbour claims that he had boasted he could “kiss the Devil” and get away with it. Evidently, the rattlesnake was made of sturdier stuff than Satan and sent the audacious nincompoop to hospital with a life-threatening dose of venom. He is no longer in critical condition, but his frontal lobes remain impaired.
Now we jungle apes have an inborn aversion to snakes, but it has to be admitted that the rattlesnake is a far more honourable foe than most of the crawly characters that infest my neighbourhood. For one thing, it advertises its presence with a sinister noise, giving you the chance to decline combat and make a hasty retreat. And the above-mentioned incident proves that it shows no mercy to lecherous men who attempt to seduce it with kisses. If Donald Trump had tried to grab a rattlesnake by the pussy, his tiny bitten hand would have quickly swollen to a medium-sized one.
Sadly, not all snakes are as brave and defiant as the resourceful rattler. Google images contains a surprising number of pictures of snakes being embraced by naked women. I think the images are supposed to be erotic, but the hapless serpents don’t look as if they’re enjoying themselves. What is the point of forcing them to pose in those unnatural positions? I don’t see anything sexy about a snake being fondled by a woman.
Snakes are not the only animals that have fallen prey to the deviant carnal appetites of humanity. Does anyone remember the man from Sudan who was forced to marry a goat he had taken advantage of? It was a shotgun wedding that punished the poor animal more severely that its abuser. The bearded bride died two years later from undisclosed causes. Maybe it committed suicide to end the agony of its marriage.
We gorillas, of course, are not immune from the attentions of infatuated humans. The King Kong syndrome is alive and well in giddy young ladies of a certain disposition. Back in my circus days, I received a number of requests from women who wanted me to shower them under a waterfall. I generally told them I was too busy and gave them a brochure about holidays in Niagara Falls. On one occasion I agreed to cool off a sweaty-looking girl with a garden hose. A few women attempted to grope me, but I never pressed charges – one has to make allowances for overexcited fans.
The hope for the future is that animal sex robots will satisfy humans with the urge for cross-species love. It shouldn’t be difficult to construct something that looks and sounds like a sheep or a goat. A replica gorilla would be a much greater challenge, though. I’d like to see the robot that can grab a pair of maracas with its toes.
Labels: bestiality, Rattlesnake, sex robot, snakes
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
Skin without fur
The manager of the safari camp is highly agitated about an actress called Lucy Watson, and thinks I should share his excitement.
“She’s taking off her clothes to protest against the fur trade,” he explained. “Aren’t you grateful that a gorgeous woman is exposing her body to protect furry animals like yourself? I’m grateful and I’m not even furry!”
“I am hairy, manager, not furry,” I replied. There’s a profound difference between the two. My fine body filaments are not suitable for making coats. The fuzz beneath your armpits would do a better job.”
“That’s just splitting hairs!” guffawed the manager, delighted with his own wit. He sauntered off with a big grin on his face.
Now what of Miss Watson? Her justification for appearing on posters in a state of undress is to inform the general public that she’d rather be naked than wear fur. It’s a preference that does her credit, but I doubt it will change many minds. Off the cuff, I can think of two groups of humans who would pooh-pooh her notion:
(i) those who live in cold climates;
(ii) those who have saggy bottoms.
The former will find her argument fatuous, while the latter will view it as smug and conceited. And let’s not forget men like the manager of the safari camp, who will ogle the poster without any real concern for the issue. I fear that displaying her naked body is more likely to harden opinions than win converts.
The plain fact is that you can’t credibly protest against skinning animals without expressing support for alternative fabrics. Making a fetish of nudity won’t do. If Miss Watson wants to nail her colours to the anti-fur mast, she should wear acrylic instead of running around naked. The Velcro vixens of the ‘Dykes on Bikes’ movement are doing more for the cause than she is.
The grey area between fur and man-made fabrics is wool. Is it wrong to shear sheep against their will? Although they don’t appear to enjoy it, they must feel better afterwards. If I were encased in a thick coat of wool, I would happily allow a beer-guzzling Australian lout to shave it off. Sheep are simply too stupid to know what’s good for them.
Fleecing sheep when they get too shaggy may be ethical, but it goes without saying that they shouldn’t be molested in the interim period. I was sorry to see a news report of yet another hoary old pervert who’s been arrested for sheep abuse. The judge had to scold the jury for giggling at the flustered witnesses who testified against him. You don’t appreciate how disturbing such incidents are until you’ve seen them with your own eyes.
The existence of men who find sheep sexually attractive is an enduring puzzle. Some say that the hindquarters of a ewe are seductive when she trots across a field, but I think her bleating is a likelier explanation. One has to pity a creature that can fake orgasms without intending to.
Labels: bestiality, fur, hair, Lucy Watson, nudity, sheep
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The ballsy man syndrome
“Daddy, what are those grapefruit doing in the sack between your legs?”
Not an easy one to answer if you’re trying to set an example of modest self-deprecation to the younger generation.
Big-balled men can easily avoid such questions by wearing baggy pants, but few of them have the patience to look after children. Back in my circus days, there was a brawny Puerto Rican who performed stunts on horses. His name was Miguel de Bolas and his nut-sack was visibly well-packed. I once spit out a cherry stone in his direction and it hit him between the eyes, which prompted him to say:
“Hey buddy, I fock your modder in de ass!”
This was one of his favourite salutations.
“A wise man does not put his appendage in places he cannot extract it from,” I replied aphoristically.
He was not a wise man, of course. Most of his evenings were spent in taverns, looking for women to bewilder and men to insult. After one of these excursions, he surfaced next morning with bruises on his face. When the ringmaster asked him what had happened, Miguel said “You should a seen de udder guy.”
Suspecting that his macho behaviour was related to his oversized gonads, the circus doctor gave him female sex hormones, telling him that the pills would keep his skin healthy. We knew the treatment was working when he praised Rock Hudson:
“Dat guy was better-lookin' den der womans he kissed,” said Miguel, after watching a re-run of McMillan and Wife.
You don’t say things like that about Rock Hudson unless the male and female aspects of your personality are in balance.
Miguel’s case history makes me wonder what happens to virile men when they grow old. Empirical evidence on this question is provided by a 74-year-old Brazilian man who is planning to marry a goat. Aparecido Castaldo has fathered eight children from four different wives, so we can reasonably surmise that his testicles have served him well and are probably in rude heath as we speak. However, Senor Castaldo has no intention of consummating his nuptials with the lovely Carmelita, who ate her first wedding dress and will be provided with another. He explains his intentions thus:
“Whenever someone says I am doing something wrong, I reply the goat does not speak, ask for money to go shopping, and doesn’t get pregnant – and she can’t talk.”
Fascinating that the qualities he most admires in his fiancé are things that she doesn’t do rather than does. He isn’t concerned that she won’t be able to make him a cup of tea, but maybe none of his previous wives did that either. The moral of the story seems to be that a former stud will fall in love with anyone who refrains from nagging him and eats all the leftovers.
Labels: bestiality, big balls, marriage, parenting
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
Friday, September 11, 2009
Forbidden love
I’m feeling a bit sorry for the man from South Carolina who was arrested for making love to a horse. He was convicted of molesting the same animal last year, so it must have been true love rather than a wicked horse-shagging fetish. The woman who owns the mare caught them in the act and predictably put all the blame on the man, holding him up at gunpoint until the police arrived. She insists that her animal was raped, but I’ve not yet seen the man who can overpower a horse without getting his teeth kicked down his throat.
“Sugar was acting strange and getting infections,” said Barbara Kenly, the mare’s gun-toting owner.
Maybe she was, but that’s hardly evidence of sexual abuse. Mary Ann Faithful was behaving strangely and getting infections when she was touring with The Vibrators, but that didn’t mean she was being unlawfully interfered with.
I hope the judge gives him a suspended sentence on condition that he makes an honest mare of Miss Sugar. The weather in South Carolina must be pretty good at this time of year, so they ought to have an outdoor wedding. Let him escort the bridled bride through the grassy glades, to be joined in holy wedlock in the paddock. All the filly bridesmaids would be whinnying with tears in their eyes when the 22-carot wedding shoe was hammered into Sugar’s foot. “Memories are made of this,” as the late Dean Martin said.
Now I shouldn’t give you the impression that I approve of interspecies coupling. Of all the primates, we gorillas are the least interested in that sort of thing. The movie King Kong was a gigantic and offensive hoax. Chimpanzees are keener about it than us, but the biggest dabblers of all are our human cousins (as if you needed me to tell you that). Horses are the just the tip of the iceberg for homo sapiens. And don’t think that women aren’t as capable of it as men. There is an infamous scene in a movie by Jean-Luc Godard in which the farmer’s mistress removes her bare bottom from an enclosure full of suckling calves. One assumes it had been there long enough to get a good polish.
Such depravities would not appeal to the female gorillas in London Zoo, who have been pining for some hairy action since their resident silverback died last December. Rather than attempting to molest their keeper, they have persuaded the zoo management to fly in a new male from France called Yeboah. He’s a good-looking boy, although I must say I’m worried he might not be up to the job. Female gorillas are rowdy at the best of times, but the ones that live in England are absolutely wild. They pick up their bad habits from watching the local women.
I’ve sent a message to Yeboah advising him to stay well clear of the females during hen nights and other occasions involving all-girl revelry. I hope he can handle what he’s got coming.
Labels: bestiality, hen nights, Jean-Luc Godard, Mary Ann Faithful
