Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Getting her rocks off
Jennifer Lawrence has apologised to the people of Hawaii for posting a disrespectful story about their holy rocks. According to Jennifer, she felt a tremendous itch in her butt while filming near the rocks and couldn’t resist rubbing her rump against them. This loosened one of the stones, causing a minor avalanche that narrowly missed a member of the film crew. It was a serious incident, but Jennifer made light of it on Facebook:
“One rock that I was butt scratching on ended up coming loose, and it was a giant boulder and it rolled down this giant mountain and almost killed our sound guy. All the Hawaiians were like, 'Oh my God, it's the curse!' And I was sitting in the corner like, 'Haha! I'm your curse! I wedged it loose with my ass!’”
The Hawaiians are upset and they have my sympathy. I would not have hesitated to do as Jennifer did if my hairy behind was itching. This I cannot deny. The difference is that I would have performed a solemn ritual of penitence afterwards, thanking the rock for allowing me to assault it with my hindquarters. As a native of the Mother Continent, I know better than to mock sacred relics of the landscape, which generations of witch doctors and juju men have concocted spells to appease. Jennifer would be wise to make an offering to the spirits she has offended by her sacrilegious act.
There are a couple of issues arising from this incident that merit further discussion. To begin with, why was Jennifer’s butt so itchy? As a human female, her buttocks would be smooth and hairless, so not infested with the lice and other parasites we hairy apes must endure. Could she have been wearing some kind of lingerie that disagreed with her skin? If so, this would be another argument in favour of women dispensing with undergarments and allowing cool air to circulate around their nether regions. There’s no need for me to rehash the other reasons stated in earlier posts. The archives are linked for a reason.
The second question we must address is this: why didn’t Jennifer scratch her behind with her fingers instead of rubbing it against a rock like a grizzly bear? Most women have sharp enough fingernails to satisfy the itchiest of itches. Was she cowed by the out-dated human taboo against women scratching their butts in public? I never saw any women doing it in my circus days, so I assume they snuck off to a secluded place when they got the urge. Certainly the dwarves, who were all men, had no such inhibitions.
Given that we’re now well into the 21st century, it’s high time that an influential human female said: “Girls, It’s okay to scratch your behind if it’s itchy.” Who should make this long overdue declaration? Not Victoria Spice, whose bottom is too small. Nor Madonna, whom no one would take seriously. But if Taylor Swift said it, the whole world would sit up and take notice.
Labels: buttocks, itches, Jennifer Lawrence, juju, scratching, witch doctor
Wednesday, December 02, 2015
Aerial assualt
I draw your attention to a strange and disturbing news story from Kuwait, where an 8-year-old boy is standing trial for molesting his school teacher. The young fellow allegedly manufactured a paper aeroplane which he fired into the teacher’s “lower back region” – a polite Kuwaiti term for the bumcakes. The prosecutor has demanded a 5-year prison term for the boy, who was in shock when he appeared in court, telling the judge that he didn’t know why he was there.
Before denouncing the Kuwaitis as towel-headed apostles of the child catcher in Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, we should recognise that many women are extremely sensitive about their posteriors. In all probability, the teacher had a sizeable rump which was a major hazard for low-flying projectiles. To have such a sensitive area of her anatomy assaulted in this way would have deflated her self-esteem and inflated her body image. I hope she has received counselling from a psychologist to reassure her that her bum is not as big as she thinks it is. No woman should go through life believing that her rear-end is a legitimate target for paper aeroplanes.
As for the boy, he may be wholly innocent of any malicious intent. The news report indicates that he dreamt of becoming an aviation engineer. We can therefore assume that the paper aeroplane was expertly constructed and found its own banking curve. Lacking navigation tools, evasive manoeuvres would have been impossible when a large fleshy object appeared in its flight path. If I were the judge, I would call witnesses who saw the boy’s reaction when the collision occurred. Only if he clapped his hands and hooted would there be any solid evidence against him.
This doesn’t mean I approve of putting an 8-year-old child on trial, of course. The Kuwaitis have their own peculiar customs which would not be appropriate in a gorilla habitat. When I was in the circus, I often looked after the children of performers who had gone out for a night on the town. For human infants, a gorilla is the most awesome Super Nanny who ever took up the profession of nannying. I didn’t need to say much to them, but when I did they followed my instructions to the letter.
One on occasion, I saw a naughty boy poke a girl in the eye and make her cry. After consoling the girl, I ordered the boy to report to a certain clown and offer to pick the clown’s nose with the finger he had used to assault the girl. Knowing the clown as I did, I was certain that he would accept the offer. The boy was sullen, but assented to the punishment and returned with a soiled finger, which I told him to wash with soap and water.
This incident caused the other children to marvel at the wisdom of my judgments.
“Why can’t our parents be like you, GB?” they asked.
“Because they are not gorillas,” I replied.
The children opened their mouths in wide-eyed wonder and marvelled yet more.
Labels: big bum, buttocks, flight path, nanny, nose-picking
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
Feminist boobs and butts
I don’t know whether Miss Piggy deserves the award she recently won for being a feminist trailblazer. Although I’m not quite sure what feminism is, I assume it means more than making shrill noises in an emotional voice. Or does it? The award will be presented by Gloria Steinem, the feminist agitator turned dowager. Is she so different from Miss Piggy when you strip away all the posturing and pontificating? I’ve never met a human who didn’t have an inner muppet struggling to get out.
My friend Kola Boof used to be a feminist, but quit the movement after she was censured for gratuitously exposing her breasts. She now calls herself a “womanist”, which is basically a feminist who thinks that naked breasts are a good thing. Kola is a prolific writer whose books have earned 5-star reviews on the Amazon site. Many have been inspired by her tales of bare-breasted African women who triumph against all the odds. It’s the kind of bedtime reading that has a big effect on your dreams.
Now, snooty critics don’t take Kola seriously because of her exotic name. I find such attitudes unconscionable (a word I recently learned from an American tourist). The mockery of unusual names is a deplorable human habit that has bedevilled talented artists throughout the ages. A recent victim of this insolent behaviour is Ophelia Lovibond, a nubile young actress who has acquired nicknames such as “Ophelia Lovelybum”. She says she doesn’t mind, but it’s obviously not something a feminist would condone. How can you appreciate a woman’s acting skills if you’re constantly thinking about her posterior?
Another actress with an unusual name is Blake Lively, although maybe it’s seen as commonplace in the rarefied circles of Hollywood. Miss Lively recently claimed that her breasts vary in size during the day, requiring her to make frequent changes in apparel. I initially thought this was an apocryphal story to deflect attention from her name by giving people something else to make fun of. But then I realised she might not be joking because she’s currently nursing a baby. All the same, there must be a simpler solution than continually changing clothes to match the transformations of her bust. Aren’t women allowed to pad their bras in this age of feminist emancipation?
Labels: Breasts, buttocks, feminism, feminists, Kola Boof, Miss Piggy
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, October 08, 2014
Size and shape
A journalist has disrespectfully implied that Queen Victoria had a huge arse by disclosing the size of her knickers. The aforementioned undergarment was recently put up for auction with a reserve price of two thousand pounds sterling. It was worn by the monarch in her dotage and its waist is allegedly 52 inches.
I don’t know who the current owner is, but he should have donated it to a museum rather than allowing a bunch of undie-collectors to haggle over it. Anyone who would pay thousands of pounds for a big pair of panties cannot be trusted with a big pair of panties. When I think of how the royal bloomers might be defiled, it makes me want to thump my chest.
In discussing the size of Queen Victoria’s behind, one should never forget that she was widowed at a relatively young age. A big bum can be a great comfort to a bereaved matron who might suddenly feel weak at the knees. If she has to sit down on the nearest hard stool, her meaty rump will cushion the load.
Her buttocks were believed to be moderately fleshy when Prince Albert was alive. This helped to keep the sparks flying in their marriage, enabling them to produce a brood of nine. Having served the nation so effectively, the royal arse was entitled to expand when no longer required for duties of state.
The booty of Jennifer Lopez has received a much kinder press, possibly because people are scared of her. Latino women have a fiery reputation, so pundits likely to cross her path have praised her backside to cover their own ones. Even Diddy the rapper has jumped on the bandwagon by describing the Lopez butt as “a work of art”. He used to be her daddy-boo, so maybe he still dreams of kissing it. A witty plastic surgeon could have ruined his flattery by saying “Yes, and I’m the artist!”. J-Lo might have blown a fuse, but she would have been safe to handle with a pair of rubber gloves.
No one knows what Jennifer’s bottom will be like when she’s eighty years old. Maybe it will be big and round, or maybe it will just be big. A man who might be qualified to answer this question is William Shatner, who has personal experience of the relationship between age and body-shape. When asked how he had evolved since his first voyage on the Enterprise, he said:
“I’m a little more rotund than I was when I was doing the series but roundness is a good shape. It’s part of nature. My tip is to run as fast as you can.”
Shatner says he is open to offers for further Star Trek appearances, but could he still play Kirk? Maybe a clever writer could dream up a story where Jim is in a fat farm on Bulbous Major and solves a Vulcan murder mystery. Being too heavy to move around, he would achieve this through pure deductive reasoning while lying on a massage table. Spock would be green-blooded with envy.
Labels: arse, buttocks, Jennifer Lopez, knickers, Queen Victoria, rump, Star Trek
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Cleaning up her act
So it seems that Lady Gaga is going to censor her show for a concert scheduled in Dubai. Apparently some of her on-stage antics are too shocking and vulgar for the shy and sensitive folk over there. If I were a Lady Gaga fan living in Dubai, I’d be pinching my nipples in outrage. Fortunately I’m not, so I’m scratching my armpits in amusement.
Call me a naïve ape, but I honestly didn’t know there was anything risqué in a Lady Gaga concert. Now that I do know, I’m determined to discover what the silly floozy gets up to. According to one source, she likes to display her bare buttocks to her fans. I’ve seen too many baboons to find that shocking, but humans have a complex relationship with their bottoms. An accidental exposure isn’t usually offensive, but someone bending over and shaking their buns in your face is normally regarded as an insult. In Lady Gaga’s case, the issue is complicated by her creative impulse. I don’t think anyone should complain if she wiggles her rump to a well-chosen musical accompaniment. If you don’t like the performance, get out of the theatre.
Another source indicates that she likes to bare her breasts on stage. In my neck of the jungle that would be perfectly acceptable – the local humans would see it as paying homage to their ancient traditions. However, different cultural norms apply to titties in a desert society. Exposing them to the dry climate would cause them to wither and dehydrate, depleting the assets of the local sheikh, who might then have to barter one of his camels. If you live in a realm of scarcity, conservation of the booby stock is essential. Let’s hope Lady Gaga is aware of these cultural nuances and doesn’t provoke a ghazi to unsheathe his sword.
Should female performers be allowed to jiggle their jahoobies as a form of artistic expression? Personally I’m against it. I remember that awful scene in the The Graduate where Dustin Hoffman takes poor Katherine Ross to a strip club, and she is humiliated by a busty stripper who twirls her tassels in her face. Aggressive flaunting of the bosom is a form of intimidation not to be tolerated in any genre of entertainment. There is nothing wrong with incidental agitation, of course. A woman having a jog is all the more engaging if her boobies are bouncing up and down.
The actress Jessica Alba could give Lady Gaga a lesson in modesty. Jessica recently explained why she refuses to appear topless in any of her roles:
"I don’t want my grandparents to see my boobs," she told Glamour magazine.
It’s quite possible her grandparents would be proud of her breasts, but it’s equally likely they would feel shame or envy on seeing them. Jessica is absolutely right to play it safe. Will she show us her boobs when her grandparents have passed away? That is a question that should never be asked but often be contemplated.
Labels: buttocks, cultural sensitivity, grandparents, jahoobies, Jessica Alba, Lady Gaga
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Mother's milk
I’ve been studying photos of Alicia Richman, the Texas mother who donated 87 gallons of her breast milk to charity. She is nothing like the buxom matron I imagined her to be. Her figure, indeed, is remarkably svelte. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a dairy by the size of its cows. If the herd is contented, the milk will flow freely.
It all makes sense when you think about it. A woman who copiously secretes a creamy substance from her nipples has a fool-proof method of eliminating surplus body fat. Donating milk could be the next big thing for the health and fitness industry. Feel like having an extra helping of dessert? Go right ahead. Just remember to give your breasts an extra pumping in the morning.
Mrs Richman’s remarkable outflow has been recognised as a Guinness world record. She credits this achievement to her rigorous milking regime:
“I pumped at work, on vacations, in the car. And I never had to buy formula.”
Is it my imagination, or is there something weirdly obsessive about her behaviour? Anyone would think that having a white fluid sucked out of your body was enjoyable. One struggles to think of a precedent.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about Mrs Richman, he frowned and shook his head.
“I pity her husband,” he said. “He must worry about getting squirted in the eye whenever he fondles her boobs.”
This concern seemed exaggerated to me.
“Isn’t it possible to caress a woman’s breasts without squeezing them like udders?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “You haven’t done them justice unless you grope them firmly and suck them too. What’s he supposed to do if milk starts pouring into his mouth?”
“Drink it?” I suggested.
“Ugh!” grunted the manager. “I’d rather drink dishwater!”
I thanked the manager for sharing his perspectives and bade him a good day. It’s odd that he had such strong feelings of revulsion for Mrs Richman’s milk. I suppose he holds old-fashioned views about a man’s right to enjoy his wife’s jahoobies without being sabotaged by unwanted lactation.
Interestingly enough, a book has recently been published which claims that men are attracted women’s breasts because of subconscious memories of being suckled in their infancy. The authors argue that baby boys get such a high from the hormones in their mother’s milk that they spend the rest of their lives trying to recreate it. It’s a cute theory, but logic compels me to dismiss it as hogwash. Babies are clueless little critters who just want to be fed and protected. They don’t know the difference between a tit and a teddy bear.
The true explanation of why men find breasts attractive was given by Desmond Morris, the primatologist of Naked Ape fame. It’s because of the uncanny resemblance that a lady’s chest cleavage bears to a pert pair of buttocks. And why are buttocks sexy, I hear you ask? The answer is simple. Because they are buttocks.
Labels: buttocks, human milk, jahoobies, lactation
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Rumpology
A voluptuous English woman at the safari guesthouse reveals the secret of her sex appeal.
“It all about balance, GB.” she explains. “I’ve got a huge arse, but it doesn’t matter because my boobs are equally enormous. My top and bottom parts balance each other out and make my waist look smaller.”
I nod in agreement.
“Yes, you’ve got to look at body shape in a holistic way,” I say. “Look at elephants. Their arses are absolutely massive but you never hear them complaining about it. There’s nothing wrong with a big behind if the rest of the body is in good proportion. I’m glad you’re not one of those women who hate their bums.”
“If I did hate my bum I’d ask you to spank it for me!” she says saucily.
“And I would be glad to oblige,” I reply. “However given that my paw would only cover a small portion of your hindquarters, the punishment inflicted may be slight.”
“On the contrary, GB, my naughty bottom would be chastened by your long-armed follow through!” she insists.
I thank her for the compliment and study the object in question as she saunters off. It wobbles a certain amount, and yet I wouldn’t change a morsel of it. There is something very engaging about a woman who is comfortable in her own body. As she approaches the end of her stay, I begin to harbour squalid thoughts of giving her juicy buns a good squeeze. It is fortunate that I possess a high degree of self-discipline in such matters.
Anyway, this full-bottomed female reminds me of a fortune teller I met in my circus days. He claimed he could foretell a person’s fate by examining their buttocks.
“Every crease, crevice and crater is imbued with prognosticative significance!” he declared grandly. “I have just examined the ringmaster and he has a cleft rump!”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone has a vertical cleft, my dear ape, but few are privileged to have a horizontal one as well. In essence, there were four buttocks rather than two. The vulgar members of my profession call it the ‘hot cross bum’.”
“Well I never!” I exclaimed, amused at the ringmaster’s peculiar deformity. “Whatever does it mean?”
“The number four is generally thought to be unlucky in China, but in some dialects it sounds like ‘get fortune’. So the ringmaster is probably destined to have bad luck, with an outside chance of acquiring great riches.”
“That should keep him on tenterhooks,” I said. “However his only connection with China is his weekly noodle-fest at the Chu Chin Chow.”
“The wisdom of the Yellow Emperor is universal.” explained the rump-reader. “Would you like a quick appraisal on the house?”
“If it’s on the house, why not?” I replied, turning round and bending over.
“Hmm,” he mused. “Based on the thick covering of hair, I would say that you were a gorilla. Am I close?”
“Spot on!” I confirmed. “And to think I was sceptical about your powers!…phut… Oh I say, I’m sorry! It must have been the lentils I ate for lunch!”
“Fresh air, fresh air!” he gasped, staggering away. “Damn you, Bananas, open the door! You poisonous effusion is killing me!”
He survived to read more rumps, but was careful to inquire after his subject’s recent diet before future examinations.
Labels: arse, buttocks, hot cross bum
