Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Student project
I’ve been looking at a Powerpoint presentation prepared by Miss Lizzy Fenton, a student at the University of Minnesota. This was not a piece of coursework for her degree. The title of the presentation is “Why You Should Date Me”, and she emailed it to a chap she had a crush on.
The data in the presentation imply that Miss Fenton would be the most desirable girlfriend since Anna Nicole Smith wrapped her luscious thighs around the withering loins of J Howard Marshall. One of the slides has the heading “My Boobs Exhibit Steady Growth Over Time”, followed by a graph showing Lizzy’s cup size has increased from A to DD over the last four years. If the trend continues, her jahoobies will resemble a pair of 240mm artillery shells by 2025.
Another slide has the heading “Monogamy Not Your Style: No Problem”. Rather than saying she would be happy with polygamy, Lizzy argues that she is capable of being three different women. This would be achieved by alternate hairstyles, different pairs of spectacles and variations in her facial expression. She also claims she can change her personality from “mysterious and seductive” to “geeky and kinky”.
The last slide has the heading “Still Not Convinced: Listen to the Critics”. These “critics” include Lizzie’s Mom, who may not be an impartial judge. However, the ex-girlfriend of the fellow she has a crush on is quoted as saying “She’s definitely an upgrade. Nice work, old sport.” There are also endorsements from Channing Tatum and the New York Times.
It would be all too easy to dismiss Miss Fenton as a ridiculously forward floozy who has turned the delicate rites of human courtship into a joke. I prefer to see her as a resolutely modern woman who believes in asking directly for what she wants. This is a more honest strategy than playing hard-to-get in the hope that some chowderhead will chase after you. The “presentation” may be utter balderdash, but it’s the kind of nonsense that brings a smile to the face.
You must be wondering what response Lizzy got from the man she was trying to impress. You need wonder no longer, because she published the email he sent her. It was a very short one:
“This is very nice. Please stop contacting me.”
I’d say this was a very poor reply to a piece of work that must have taken hours to put together. A gentleman of the old school would have praised the quality of the slides, while politely explaining why he did not find the arguments sufficiently compelling to take the matter further. The man’s name is Carter Blochwitz, which could explain why he reacted in such a curt and timid fashion. Anyone given the name “Carter” is likely to be nervous about being approached in a humorous way. Who could forget the famous limerick that starts:
The first mate’s name was Carter
He must have heard that one a thousand times when he was at school.
Labels: floozie, jahoobies, PowerPoint
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Shameless acts
I admit to feeling sorry for the English floozy who was arrested in Malaysia for stripping off on a holy peak. How was she to know that her stunt would offend the local mountain gods, causing them to instigate an earthquake measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale? The local tribespeople wanted her to atone for her sacrilegious act by offering the gods ten buffalo heads, but unfortunately she didn’t have any. The Malaysian authorities then took the law into their own hands by charging her with “causing a nuisance”, which is apparently an imprisonable offence in their country.
Had I been the girl’s defence lawyer, I would have made a plea for mercy by pointing out what she didn’t do. Had she performed her nude caper in one of the Mediterranean resorts frequented by British tourists, the locals would have slapped their foreheads in astonishment at her moderation. In the Costa del Sol, the English woman who strips naked is expected either to perform oral sex on the nearest drunken oaf, or douse her body with an alcoholic beverage for the drunken oaf to lap up like a thirsty wolf. The incident would typically be recorded on a mobile phone to provide her with a serviceable memento. Those who are too inebriated to remember the fun they’ve had now take the precaution of capturing it on a digital device to prove it to themselves afterwards. Such are the blessings of modern technology.
The girl’s father has described her as “a very intelligent, stoic young woman”. I suppose we’ll have to take his word for it. The thin mountain air might have turned Tolstoy into a giddy-headed fool. Now that she’s back at sea level, she should validate her father’s words by giving a seminar on meditating in windy places.
Humans from conservative Asiatic countries often remark on the shamelessness of libertine westerners. What they fail to realise is that repressing feelings of shame is sometimes a virtue. Consider the case of Boris Becker, the former tennis maestro, who impregnated a woman in a restaurant in less time than it takes an Olympic sprinter to win the 100 metres. After DNA tests proved his paternity, he humbly accepted his fate, agreeing to a generous divorce settlement with his wife and maintenance payments for his illegitimate daughter.
The girl, now aged 15, is an aspiring model, and her father is suitably doting. Far from being ashamed at having procreated in circumstances that would make a baboon blush, Becker has described the brief coupling as one of the more felicitous events of his life:
“If that's what I'm remembered for, then I'm proud,” he told a British TV network.
I think Becker’s conduct provides a useful lesson for saucy English wenches who prance around naked in exotic holiday destinations. If you’re going to take your clothes off, make sure you get knocked up by a famous sportsman who thinks doing it standing up is an effective method of contraception. The semen of the alpha male is worth its weight in Estée Lauder face creams.
Labels: Boris Becker, floozie, nudity, public nudity, sacrilege
Friday, June 24, 2011
Hef is spurned
I sent a condolence card to Hef on hearing that his 25-year-old fiancé had jilted him shortly before the date of their wedding. Hef and I have had our differences in the past, but I’m not the sort of ape to kick a man when he’s down. In actual fact, the only men I’ve kicked were strutting so conceitedly that they were practically airborne. I wrote a little message in the card, advising Hef against stifling his sorrows with Viagra and orgies. A man of Hef’s age has to take his debauchery in small doses to avoid dehydrating his vesicular glands.
When I first heard the news, I assumed that the bride-to-be had got cold feet because the prenuptial agreement had been too stingy. Then I discovered that Hef was so smitten with Miss Crystal Harris that he intended to marry her without a pre-nup of any kind. Did you ever hear of such a thing! She would have become the most eligible future widow in America! Could she have suffered an acute attack of revulsion at the prospect of Hef rubbing his reptilian face over her milky-white flesh? No, that can’t be true: she must have got accustomed to such ordeals during her time as a playmate in the mansion. A woman who prostitutes herself for a wage doesn’t refuse to prostitute herself for a fortune.
Media gossips have not been slow to suggest other reasons for the cancelled wedding. One sordid allegation is that Crystal was offered half a million bucks to turn Hef down at the altar in front of millions of gawping TV viewers. A humiliation of that magnitude would have made Hef grimace like a badger with its tail in a trap, arguably justifying the fee. If this rumour is true, one would hope that pangs of conscience persuaded Crystal to abort the dastardly scheme. She may have also realised, as the fateful day drew near, that behaving like the nastiest hussy in America would not have advanced her career prospects.
Crystal gave her own explanation in a tearful TV interview, claiming that her fiancé’s promiscuous lifestyle had given her second thoughts. Noting that Hef was constantly being canoodled by blonde floozies like herself, she said that playing the part of Mrs Hef would have been too painful for a maiden of her homespun sensibilities.
“Marriage is supposed to be about two people,” she remarked succinctly.
This is very true – but did the implications of being hitched to the world’s most famous lecher only dawn on her a few days before the wedding? I’m not the sort of ape to accuse a woman of lying, but you have to wonder.
It’s possible, of course, that Miss Harris is simply not very bright. The world is full of stupid beautiful women who get into a muddle after receiving a marriage proposal from a rich man. If that’s the real explanation, we should wish Crystal well and advise her to consult an agony aunt the next time a suitor asks for her hand. If she keeps on breaking off engagements at the last minute, people will start calling her names like “flippertigibbet”, which might tarnish her reputation.
Gorilla Bananas is taking a short vacation and will return on Monday 4th July.
Labels: bimbo, Crystal Harris, floozie, Hugh Hefner, hussy
Friday, August 31, 2007
The cuddly princess
A tourist asks me about my plans for the tenth anniversary of Princess Diana’s sad demise. I reply that we gorillas rarely commemorate deaths – that sort of thing leads to fruitless moping, and the ape who mopes without fruit is lacklustre and lethargic. If you’re going to mark someone’s end, pick an enemy so you’ll have something to celebrate. I always pour myself a glass of pineapple juice on the day that “Sawtooth” Mangola exploded after swallowing a diving cylinder in the Congo. He was the biggest, nastiest, ugliest crocodile I ever saw, and his reptilian remains turned part of the river into a handbag-flavoured soup.Diana’s tragic accident occurred in my final season with the circus. I confess I cried like a baby, although probably not for the princess. Still, tears are tears, and I distinctly remember calling Diana “our chicken”. If you knew how valuable chickens were in Africa you’d realise what a compliment that was. But I have no desire to dwell on the sorrowful events of that fateful day. Leave the post-mortems to the ghouls: we who love life should savour sweet memories of the princess in her prime.
I always admired Diana as one of the foremost cuddlers in public life – and whatever you think of her, she wasn’t the worst person to get a hug from. As she matured as a woman she got quite fleshy about the upper body, and no man or beast could complain about her bosom. Perhaps some were repelled by the mawkish expression on her face, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to change her mood. Picture a young man lamenting some misfortune being comforted by the princess. As she puts her arms around him, he turns his face to her ear and whispers these tender words:
“I’d really love to fuck you.”
Imagine the change in Diana’s demeanour! I am quite confident that unless the fellow resembled a beagle she would have smiled coyly and given him a wink. For the princess was surely la femme qui aimait les hommes. I personally have no doubt that she was excellent in bed. Little things about her suggest as much: the fact that she “adored” the gallants she slept with rather than merely “loved” them; the fact that she teased and flirted with the old buffers who befriended her; the fact that she was fawned upon by Dodus Al Fayed, the playboy who perished by her side. Contrast Diana with the professional lady who refers to her husband as her “partner” and treats pleasantries from male co-workers with sour-faced suspicion. There’s not much doubt which type of woman most men would prefer in the sack.
Now the late princess wasn’t everyone’s blue-eyed girl and people are quite entitled to be cool about her. But don’t condemn her purely because you disapprove of royalty. We gorillas would never make character judgements from a person’s occupation. Did we throw coconuts at Naomi Watts because she starred in that appalling movie King Kong? Indeed not! We knew she was just an actress doing her job and let her groom us like any other visiting starlet. By all means criticise Diana for being a silly floozie who courted the newspapers she pretended to despise. But attacking a princess just for being a princess is wrong. In the wise words of Sheriff Buford T Justice, that’s pure and simple old-fashioned Bolshevism.
Labels: Bolshevism, Diana, floozie
