Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Baywatch fantasy
Pamela Anderson is such a good sport! In a recent interview, she revealed that she has often indulged the fantasies of her boyfriends by adopting her Baywatch persona and re-enacting scenes from the much loved TV show. By way of illustration, she gave the following anecdote:
“One of my boyfriends wanted rescuing from the bed. So I jumped in the shower, got all wet, and frisky and then did the slow-mo run all the way from the shower to the double bed. I think he was pretty satisfied with the performance.”
If you think that was no big deal, do some research on how a “serious” actress like Sharon Stone reacts to men who expect her to behave like one of the characters she has played. You will find her whining about ex-lovers who hankered after “that woman on the screen” instead of her, for which misdemeanour they were haughtily rebuffed and shown the door.
Pamela, by contrast, has the sunny disposition of a woman who doesn’t overanalyse her relationships. She clearly has neither the expectation nor the wish for men to gaze into the inner depths of her soul. Consequently, she is more than happy to use the armoury in her acting repertoire to entertain her gallants. You have to admire a woman who doesn’t make a fuss and gets on with the job in hand, no matter how unusual the request.
Now Pamela is certainly a lucky woman who has milked her talent for every drop of sustenance it could provide, but that doesn’t mean her life has been free of aggravation. I’m sorry to say she is one of the growing band of celebrities who has been tormented by a stalker. In the same interview, she disclosed that the stalker had not only spied on her furtively but broken into her home to harass her in person. This disturbed individual was a woman who attempted to placate Pamela with the following invidious assertions:
“I’m not a lesbian, I just want to touch you.”
I’m glad to say that Pamela was not beguiled by these words and asked the police to intervene before any touching could occur. Had I been the stalkee, I would have told the stalker that not being a lesbian is nothing to be proud of. Pamela should have said that she wouldn’t want to be touched by a woman unless she was a lesbian, and a pretty damned hot one too!
When all is said and done, you have to give Pamela her due for still getting all this attention at the age of 49. Why is she still newsworthy? It can’t be because of her oversized bosom, which lost its ability to shock and amaze a long time ago. No one should dismiss Pamela as a walking pair of melons. My guess is that people find her uncomplicated personality engaging. It’s much easier to be loved by the masses if you’re an earnest simpleton who is devoid of any pretensions or conceit.
Labels: lesbian, Pamela Anderson, role play, stalker
Wednesday, June 08, 2016
Dolly's denial
As I suspected, the rumour that Dolly Parton is a lesbian was too good to be true. An American tourist on safari told me she had frequent slumber parties with a woman called Judy Ogle, who was supposedly her lesbian lover. He also asserted that the husband she claims to have has never been seen in public. It was Dolly herself who put these insinuations to bed in the best possible way:
“If I was gay, I would have come out of the closet just a-flying!” she declared in a recent interview.
Apparently her husband is just a publicity-shy fellow who shuns the limelight, whereas Judy Ogle is a bosom childhood friend who never intentionally touched Dolly’s bosom. You can’t assume someone is a kitty-muncher just because her name is ‘Judy Ogle’. Many people are burdened with suggestive names that don’t reflect their true nature.
Of course, I wouldn’t blame the Velcro vixens for hoping that Dolly was one of their number. Anyone can see that busty lesbians are in short supply, so Dolly would have given the sisterhood some much-needed chesticular gravity. The flat-chested, short-haired, trouser-wearing stereotype isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and recruiting a well-stacked player for the A-team would have won them new fans.
Another myth that Dolly could have helped to explode is that lesbians are not especially keen on booby action. I don’t believe that anyone who is attracted to women would downplay the jahoobies – certainly, no one attracted to Dolly could do so. Maybe Ellen Degeneres should make a public statement clearing up the misconceptions on this topic.
What Dolly has clearly demonstrated is that you don’t need to be gay to be a supporter of gays. She was quick to apologise when she found out that a female visitor to her ‘Dollywood’ theme park was told to reverse a t-shirt displaying a pro-lesbian slogan. After issuing a statement on ABC news, Dolly announced her support for gay marriage rights:
“Sure, why can’t they get married?” she said. “They should suffer like the rest of us do.”
This is all well and good, but I hope Dolly checked the t-shirt slogan was appropriate for a family venue. “Lesbian and Proud” would be fine, but “Hot Dyke Action at Pussies.com” should be reserved for the bars and clubs.
It seems the queer community are solidly behind Hillary for president, although I’m not entirely sure what she’s done for them. Is there anything she could do after getting elected, besides offering the usual words of support?
If I had Madame President’s ear, I would advise her to invite the surviving members of ‘Village People’ to perform in the White House. It would be great to see them prancing about in their costumes again. It’s a little known fact that ‘YMCA’ is a beloved classic among the gorillas of the Congo, even though we have no idea what YMCA stands for. That’s the great thing about pop music – you can enjoy the songs without having a clue what the words mean.
Labels: Dolly Parton, Hillary Clinton, jahoobies, lesbian, Village People
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Trumpy pumpy
Donald Trump! Donald Trump! He’s the only person the tourists on safari want to talk about. Scarcely a week passes before another fresh-faced actress has a nightmare about him. These starlets need to toughen up. “Better a nightmare than a wet dream” is what I say.
Although I’ve commented on Trump’s antics before, I resolved to hold my peace when he became a presidential candidate. A gorilla should remain aloof from human politics unless the politician in question is trying to imitate a gorilla. Trump looks a bit like an orang-utan, but I don’t think he’s trying to mimic one. A real orang-utan is more deadpan and laconic.
“So why are you breaking your vow now?” I hear you ask. Well, it came to pass that someone referred me to an article about Trump’s wife Melania. It’s a very long article which you shouldn’t bother reading unless you’re planning to spend time on the lavatory. You’d have to be pretty constipated too. However, it takes no time at all to observe the pictures of Mrs Trump, which indicate she’s an exceptionally attractive woman. Trump may have been a boorish oaf to say he had a prettier wife than his rival, but he certainly wasn’t lying.
Beautiful though Melania is, the article suggests she’s not the smartest cookie in the biscuit tin. Yet I would hesitate to describe her as a bimbo who married Trump for his money. Although it must have been part of the attraction, the article suggests she wanted an older man who was fatherly and (by her standards) wise. Some women need to be looked after by Daddy.
This led me to a thought about the likely aftermath of the upcoming election in November. When Trump’s Republican rivals dropped out of the race, I saw fear in his eyes. It was the fear of getting his buttocks caned by a woman. If Hillary wins (as she surely will), Trump would be a broken and humiliated man. After such a debacle, he would be in no condition to protect his wife, let alone keep her satisfied in bed.
Call me a fanciful ape, but wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity for Hillary to steal Melania’s heart and make her the second lady in the White House? It would be a moral fable worthy of Aesop to see a mighty braggart like Trump have salt rubbed into his wounds. And no woman could feel safer than when lying beside the president, with the secret service outside the door, peeping through the keyhole.
Some might say that such a sensational development would make America a laughing stock in the world. I dare say a lot of hostile pundits in the Eurasian landmass would be sniggering and making satirical remarks. But behind their smirking faces, they would be stunned and amazed by this act of audacity. The closeted lesbians in their own communities would be thrilled and energised, eager for the taste of liberation on their own tongues. For the first time since Neil and Buzz hopped about on the lunar surface, America would be speaking for humanity.
Labels: American politics, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, lesbian, Trophy wife
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Pammy's last hurrah
I am thrilled to the cockles of my groin that Pamela Anderson will be posing in Playboy’s last nude issue. It just goes to show that even a fusty old reptile like Hef can have a flash of inspiration. Call me a kinky ape, but I am far more interested in Pamela’s body now that she’s reached the ripe and raunchy age of 48. We gorillas prefer our meat cured and slightly chewy. I just hope they don’t airbrush the photos to make her skin look like polished plastic.
There are many things I admire about Pamela Anderson. Her critics think she’s an airhead, but she’s definitely not as stupid as she looks. Her critics might say that no one is as stupid as she looks, but they can go and suck on lemons. A woman who can make fifty thousand bucks by posing naked in Playboy doesn’t need to worry about snide comments from pettifoggers and guttersnipes.
The good news is that her sons have given their blessings to the venture:
“Mom you've got to do it,” said Brandon. “We're older, we're not embarrassed anymore of you. You know, we think you're great!”
“He was so excited he may have high-fived me!” added Pamela.
You’ve got to wonder how Pammy’s boys will turn out. My gut feeling is that they’ll be fine young men with a deep respect for women, even if the women in question are hoochies or harlots. That doesn’t mean they’ll date such women, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married Mormon girls, who would never dream of being unfaithful to their husbands unless they were carousing with other women, which doesn’t count as cheating in the Mormon religion. I make this proviso after learning about a new genre of lesbian pornography that the manager of the safari camp is currently enthusiastic about. It purports to show Mormon girls ecstatically exploring their erogenous areas.
“I’d convert to Mormonism to get a pair of wives like those two,” he said, while drooling over a video clip on his i-phone.
“Be careful what you wish for,” I remarked. “Your sex life might be limited to the role of a referee in a wrestling match.”
“Hmm,” said the manager frowning. “I was hoping to be the hooker in a rugby scrum.”
“Not much chance of that,” I replied. “They don’t play rugby in America.”
I now feel quite guilty about spoiling the manager’s fantasy. Christmas is a time for whimsy and make-believe, when fat jolly men empty their sacks under big bushy trees. You’re not supposed to tell children that Santa Claus isn’t real and the elves won’t turn up because they only want to play with themselves. I will have to cheer him up with news of how the Mormon faith is spreading outside America, to countries where rugby is played with a passion. Good things come to those who wait, as the Book of Mormon would have said if a gorilla had written it.
The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.
Labels: Hugh Hefner, lesbian, Mormons, Pamela Anderson, Playboy, rugby
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Spectre
I overheard some tourists on safari discussing the new James Bond movie.
“Have you seen it?” they asked me.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“We better stop talking about it so we don’t spoil it for you.”
“How very considerate of you,” I said. “But when it finally appears in the Congo I will have forgotten everything you say, so don’t hold your tongues on my account.”
The manager of the safari camp, who lacks the patience of a gorilla, will shortly be visiting London with his wife so he can watch it at a West End cinema. I have advised him to take his cattle prod with him.
The question on the lips of every Bond buff is whether Daniel Craig has completed his stint in the role. The producer, Ms Broccoli, has muddied the waters by claiming she wants to hang on to him for as long as possible. This is just luvvie talk. Speaking as Danny’s confidante and mentor, I know for a fact that his 007 days are over. Time is the pitiless eroder of all flesh, and Danny is far too sensitive about his appearance to risk another Bond love scene.
“What am I going to do about my moobs?” he asked me the last time we spoke on the phone.
“Cover them up, Danny,” I answered. “If the sweatshirt doesn’t work, try the male brassiere.”
There’s been a lot of idle speculation about who the next Bond will be, with some suggesting he should be gay or black. The most radical idea of all is to make him a woman. And by “woman”, I mean a human born with two X chromosomes rather than a man who’s had his dangly bits cut off. The idea sounds ludicrous on the face of it, but many great advances in art were ridiculed and belittled when they first appeared. Think of the Spaghetti Western, the garden gnome and the merkin.
My own view is that a female Bond might just work, but she would have to be a lesbian. And not just your typical slick-tongued harridan with hairy armpits, but a dyke so delicious that even heterosexual women would find her irresistible. You can’t have a Bond film without dolly birds being seduced, with or without the assistance of a strap-on.
A shortlist of actresses to play Jessica Bond is available in this website, but none of the candidates looks spunky enough to me. They’re all too girly to pistol-whip the bad guys and remove the panties of the bad girls with their teeth.
I would give the part to Amanda Donohoe, the English actress who performed the first lesbian kiss for a prime-time American audience in L.A. Law. Amanda is not a lesbian in real life, but nor is she the kind of lady who lies on her back and waits for the man to do his thing. If she got the part, we’d quickly forget the days that 007 was packing anything more than a Walther PKK in his trousers.
Labels: Amanda Donohoe, Daniel Craig, James Bond, lesbian
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
She said she said
Yoko Ono has revealed that John Lennon wanted to sleep with men but was too inhibited to explore his queer side:
“John and I had a big talk about it, saying, basically, all of us must be bisexual,” she recalled. “And we were sort of in a situation of thinking that we’re not doing it because of society.”
In evaluating Yoko’s claim, let us note that she is 82 years of age and no less batty than she was in the sixties, when she was organising “bottomfests” in Germany. Her “big talk” with John might have occurred in a hallucination fuelled by Siberian ginseng. It’s well known, of course, that the Beatles’ manager was gay and probably wanted to sleep with all four of them. But Brian Epstein was a private man who was terrified of getting caught with his pants down in an era when “gross indecency” could land you in prison. His intimate encounters were conducted anonymously with rent boys and Mediterranean gigolos.
If John Lennon really wanted to sleep with a man he would surely have made a pass at his song-writing buddy Paul, who was pretty enough to be a gay beauty queen. Maybe he secretly wanted to. The only sure way of getting to the bottom of this mystery would be to ask our local voodoo witchdoctor to convene a séance where he would allow Lennon’s spirit to take possession of his body. Before you snort in incredulity, please note that he has successfully channelled a number of dead singers, including Elvis Presley and Perry Como. I can reassure Elvis fans that their idol had no desire to sleep with a man, although it’s quite likely he wanted to sleep with his mother. I’d say that was pretty normal for a white boy from Mississippi.
But enough of tittle-tattle. As a gorilla who prides himself on fair-dealing, especially in jungle fruit, I disapprove of telling tales about the dead. If you want to know something about show business performers, have the good manners to ask them directly, preferably when they’re still alive. In some cases, of course, the performers will answer the question before it’s been asked. Did Miley Cyrus wait for people to inquire whether she and Stella Maxwell were munching their mutual macadamias? Not a bit of it! The couple staged a bean-flicking show so the media could obtain the photographic evidence. There’s nothing like pre-emptive disclosure to kill all the malicious gossip.
To prove that she’s still fond of men, Miley is planning to give a concert with an all-male band that I’ve never heard of called The Flaming Lips. The gimmick will be that both she and the band will perform in the nude while being sprayed with a milky liquid that may, in fact, be milk. Obviously they are many questions one could raise about this event, but why should we ask them now? Miley will tell us everything we need to know before milk is dry on her shapely little boobies.
Labels: bean-flicking, gossip, lesbian, Miley Cyrus, The Beatles, Yoko Ono
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Short shrift
A British woman has been given a “suspended sentence” for stabbing her boyfriend in the shoulder. Apparently this means she won’t go to prison. She has also patched things up with her boyfriend, who after recovering from his injury has resumed his courtship of her. Fortune favours the furious female, as we say in the jungle.
In fairness to the woman, the stabbing was not unprovoked. During one of their arguments, her boyfriend had called her “a dwarf and a midget”. Although she is undeniably short in stature, she had a right not to be called names by one who professed to be her lover.
The picture of the couple above displays the disparity in heights. It’s remarkable that she managed to reach the man’s shoulder. She must have plunged the blade while jumping in the air, which is no mean feat for a novice in the art of batto jutsu. It would have been much easier to deliver a wound to the belly or groin, causing untold damage to the man’s vitals. Maybe this was one of the mitigating factors that persuaded the judge to treat her leniently.
Another interesting aspect of this case is that the boyfriend initially told the police he had been attacked by an unknown assailant. The truth only came out after the couple had a brief separation. Did he reverse his decision to shield her from justice after getting dumped? If so, he is a man of weak character. You can’t go back on a decision to forgive a woman just because she won’t sleep with you. That’s behaving like a whiny little bitch.
Now it goes without saying that a petite woman is nothing like a dwarf. I speak as one who worked with dwarves during his circus career. Dwarves are bow-legged creatures with big heads who are sexually attractive to fetishists and masochists. Petite women are generally well-regarded and admired by the wider community. Some might say Miley Cyrus is an exception to the rule, but I wouldn’t agree with them. Look at the number of fans she has.
My favourite petite woman is Charlene Tilton, who played Lucy Ewing in Dallas. I remember some insufferable TV critic calling Lucy “the poisoned dwarf”, a nickname which sadly caught on among the boorish and the insolent. In my estimation she was the best character in the show, courageously fending off the sarcastic barbs of JR and the others while single-mindedly pursuing her own passions amid all the scheming and skulduggery.
It’s also worth pointing out that Charlene is no waif. Unlike Miley Cyrus, she has a remarkably full figure. On balance, I would say that it’s better for a petite woman to have an ample bosom. Otherwise, she might look too boyish and attract the wrong sort of man. Could this also explain why Charlene never had a bi-curious phase in her life? Maybe I’m wrong about this, but women who experiment with same-sex dalliances never seem to have big boobs.
Labels: Charlene Tilton, dwarf, Dwarves, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Full moon
Justin Bieber has produced a state of rapture in his fans by posting a picture of his bare bottom on Instagram. You’ve got to give him his due for that. Not since the Prince Regent’s accession to the English throne has an arse been greeted with such acclaim.
“OMG can I like this 1,000 times?" wrote one delirious devotee.
When I showed the picture to my females, they asked me whether Bieber was inviting people to pinch his bum.
“Pinch it?!” I guffawed. “Not on your nelly!”. A world famous pop-brat doesn’t expose his behind for a big hairy paw to leave red marks all over it! You might be allowed to kiss it if you could convince him you were genuine fans!”
My females sucked their teeth in amusement, possibly reflecting on the fact that they have never kissed anything which they didn’t bite one second later.
As for the manager of the safari camp, his main talking point was the lack of tan on the Bieber tush.
“Why would anyone want to show the world his arse was paler than the rest of his body?” he said. “It looks like an Easter Egg that someone forgot to paint.”
“The colour contrast does catch the eye, though,” I observed. “If you’re going to moon, you may as well produce moonlight.”
The exposure of the human buttocks is a funny old custom. In the film Braveheart, the Scottish clansmen mooned the English before charging into battle, implying that their enemy was not worthy of conventional repartee. They certainly got no verbal response from the English. If you talk to someone’s bottom, the only reply you can expect is a fart.
Although Bieber has been discourteous on a number of occasions, I doubt he intended to be so this time. His moon has more of a narcissistic quality about it, as if he genuinely expects people to love his butt cheeks as much as he does. One has to pity the pathetic toadies who actually met his expectation. Hero-worship is one thing, but when you start venerating your hero’s arse you’ve turned into an abject nincompoop.
Perhaps we should thank Miley Cyrus for redressing the adulation by savagely mocking Bieber’s butt picture, even to the point of posting of a photo-shopped version with a grossly inflated posterior. Her own fans were suitably delighted with her wit:
“omg. You are too funny. Love u girl.” wrote one of them.
Now Miley is famous for horsing around, but maybe she was also hinting that male tail is no longer her cup of tea. The gossip sites inform us that her new paramour is a model called Stella Maxwell, three years her senior. Apparently Miley can’t keep her hands off her. I personally think they make a lovely couple, but I hope Miley grows her hair long so she doesn’t look like the butch one. What’s the point of lesbianism if one of the lesbians has to behave like a man?
Labels: butt cheeks, Justin Bieber, lesbian, Miley Cyrus, mooning
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
Hurley's half-century
Elizabeth Hurley will be 50 this summer. If you ask me, she doesn’t look a day over 46. Those expecting a glorious jamboree to celebrate this historic event will be disappointed. Miss Hurley has revealed her plans for the occasion to a gossip magazine:
“I go to bed at 8.30 each night so it'll probably be something small and private with my family and maybe I'll do something wild and wonderful later.”
Could all those early nights be the secret of her regal beauty? I doubt it. The history books tell us that the Queen Nefertiti retired at sunset and aged like the Wicked Witch of the West. We jungle apes believe it’s the position you sleep in that affects your appearance. The healthiest posture for a gorilla is swinging in a hammock with the toes tucked below the chin. Upright humans, by contrast, should lie flat on their backs on an extra-hard mattress. The worst position for both humans and apes is reclining face down with one’s bum sticking in the air. That’s just asking for trouble.
I don’t know what position Elizabeth sleeps in, but I’d venture a guess that her pores get plenty of breathing space. Her skin is truly a marvel, but we shouldn’t let it distract us from her other qualities. I’m thinking particularly of her butt cheeks, which are due to appear on British TV. A preview of this pert rump can be found in an on-line newspaper, which also showcases her acting skills. Comment would be superfluous.
It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that Miss Hurley said she might do something “wild and wonderful” after her birthday. And if it has escaped your notice, I am now reminding you of the fact. I’m not going to waste your time and mine by trying to guess what she has in mind. There are too many wild and wonderful recreations in the solar system to guess what tickles Elizabeth’s fancy. I could probably whittle it down to 17 or 19 plausible alternatives, but what would be the point? We would still be groping in the dark.
Instead of indulging in such idle speculation, let me suggest an activity she could add to her shortlist. What I have in mind is a soirée with Tove Lo, the Swedish singer who recently described herself as a hobby lesbian. Miss Lo apparently has a boyfriend who does not object to her character-building pastime:
“We’re so good together and he’s very understanding,” she explained. “He gets it, so that makes it a lot easier.”
One wonders how he can live with the anguish. Be that as it may, a woman who likes to dabble in Sapphic diversions is most unlikely to refuse a date with Elizabeth Hurley. And if she’s not all talk, she should come up with something wild and wonderful to cap off the evening. There’s nothing wrong with playing at being a lesbian if you don’t have the gumption to take it up professionally.
Labels: early nights, Elizabeth Hurley, hobby lesbian, lesbian, sleeping positions
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Stolen Kiss
An on-line magazine has accused Madonna of “ruining everyone’s childhood” by publishing a cartoon of herself smooching Snow White. I’m just glad the seven dwarves didn’t get into the picture. Madonna should beat the rap on the legal technicality that it’s impossible to ruin the childhood of someone who is an adult. Once you have grown up, your childhood is either irretrievably spoiled or irreversibly coated in sugar candy. Short of getting into a time machine and chasing down your infant behind, Madonna is powerless to influence the matter.
She might have ruined the childhood of actual children, of course. But I suspect that most kids have other things on their mind, like inventing a text abbreviation for the word “bodacious”. Perhaps the Disney Corporation should interview Pinocchio to find out whether he’s developed a taste for crazy dyke action.
A potentially more serious charge about the cartoon kiss was made in the following tweet:
“Urgh Madonna! Snow White was supposed to be a 14 year old girl! Wrong just wrong!”
It’s a fair point, but wasn’t Snow White also kissed by a prince after the dwarves had exhibited her in a glass coffin? No one ever accused him of molesting an underage girl, even though she was in a coma and unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, the prince rubbed salt into the wound by marrying her shortly afterwards. There’s no point condemning Madonna for a peck on the lips if the girl is being ravished in a royal four-poster. In Snow White’s position I’d be grateful for the diversion.
It would interesting to carry out a survey of fathers with teenage daughters, asking them whether they’d prefer to have their child deflowered by Madonna or a moody young fellow with raging hormones. Madonna may like to present herself as daring and outrageous, but she’s pretty sentimental about girls of a similar age to her own daughter. My guess is that she’d execute the operation with extreme tenderness and sensitivity. Lesbian sex can be a beautiful thing if no one is trying to prove she can outdo a man.
You’ve got to be careful how you handle lesbians, though. The BBC has been accused of deliberately killing off female characters involved in same-sex relationships. I’ve not watched any of the TV shows in which this allegedly occurs, but I can understand the frustration of dedicated viewers. It’s like being told that oysters are off the menu just when you’ve acquired a taste for them.
The facts regarding the lesbian cull appear to be damning, but I’m not convinced that the BBC is responsible. Its culture has been lesbian-friendly ever since ladies’ tennis started to attract high ratings. It saddens me to say this, but I suspect that many young actresses do not want to be typecast as lesbian characters. They fear that once the public sees them in that way, they’ll never be offered a part where Zac Efron wraps his tail around their haunches. Isn’t that why Jodie Foster kept her Velcro in the closet until she was too old to play the love interest?
Labels: BBC, crazy dyke action, Jodie Foster, kissing, lesbian, Madonna, Snow White
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
A bull is saved
A gay Irish bull called Benjy has been saved from the abattoir. Good news like this doesn’t come along every day, so I’m making the most of it by clapping my hands and singing Hallelujah. The bull had been sent to a stud farm to impregnate cows, but unlike the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain he refused to act like a regular gun-slinging dude. Instead, he flirted outrageously with his fellow bulls, which did not impress the owner of the establishment. Realising that Benjy was a dud stud, he booked an appointment with a slaughterhouse to change him into a hunk of meat more lifeless than Channing Tatum.
Fortunately for Benjy, news of his impending butchery was reported to the press and reached the ears of Sam Simon, co-creator of The Simpsons. This soft-hearted cartoonist put his cash on the line to save the bull from a fate worse than butt sex. Maybe Benjy reminded him of Smithers, the gay manservant of Mr Burns who served his boss so devotedly. Whatever the subtext, the bull was spared and sent to a sanctuary in England, where he now mingles freely with other gay beasts.
Beef-eating carnivores should be especially pleased with this outcome. They can now tuck into burgers and steaks without worrying about whether they are feasting on the flesh of a gay martyr. If I were the CEO of McDonalds, I would guarantee that none of the meat served under the golden arches came from animals that were killed because of their sexual orientation or political beliefs. People who eat hamburgers have a right to know that the beef they are chewing comes from dumb livestock too reactionary to adopt minority lifestyles. Customers of the fast food industry shouldn’t be expected to navigate such political minefields.
One way of preventing this kind of persecution is to adopt sexual practices that transcend the gay/straight divide. A hermaphrodite sea slug that lives in the Pacific Ocean is provoking much wonder among Japanese scientists. Lacking fluency in Japanese, the BBC asked a museum curator called Bernard Picton to explain its mating habits:
“The penis from one fits into the female opening of the other one, and the penis from that one fits into the female opening of the first one, if you see what I mean,” he said. “I haven't seen anything like this before,” he added.
The most fascinating thing of all about this creature is that its penis is disposable. It discards it after mating and grows another one when the need arises, avoiding the burden of carrying useless baggage.
Humans often boast about how inventive they are, but they have never matched the sexual ingenuity of this sea slug. I suppose lesbians who wear strap-ons have come quite close, but even they would admit that attaching a plastic phallus to your loins isn’t quite as good as growing a real one. I hope this story will make humans humble as the Christmas season approaches. Those who recognise their own limitations will have more compassion for gay bulls and other oppressed fauna.
Labels: bulls, gays, lesbian, sea-slug, Smithers, strap-on
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
A spicy confession
Mel B, the Scary Spice Girl, has said she is no longer a lesbian:
“I was one of those for a few years but that was years ago,” she confessed on a chat show.
Call me an innocent ape, but I never knew she was ever “one of those”. Now that I do know, I don’t approve of her dismissing it as a bad habit she managed to kick. Being a lesbian is not like a fad for wearing Velcro underwear – there are serious issues to be pondered and important commitments to be made. The good lesbian is a pillar of her community, test-driving motorbikes and organising ladies’ bowling nights. If she is a famous diva, she should sing audacious songs to gee up the rank-and-file. The lesbian who only feathers her own nest is a freeloader at the party – the girl who eats all the cupcakes without helping to wash the dishes.
The ironic aspect of Miss Scary’s renunciation is that she was, by all accounts, a virtuoso in the Sapphic arts. Her debaucheries were astounding in their impudence and opportunism. A former playboy model called Luann Lee recalls how Mel followed her into a disabled toilet:
“I went into the handicapped stall because it’s bigger and I wanted to put my purse down and she just popped in with me. She said, ‘Do you mind?’ and came right in. She was a good kisser. Her lips are very soft and full and she has a tender touch. It was maybe a five-minute kiss and after that she started going for other areas.”
Would it be wrong to conclude from this that Miss Scary is a natural-born lesbian? I don’t claim to be an expert on such matters, but I can’t imagine a more flattering testimony.
The most startling revelation of all is that Miss Scary may have fondled her fellow Spice Girls. The precise nature of these intimacies has not been disclosed, although where lesbian acts are concerned, a little touching goes a long way. She did nevertheless claim to have kissed all four of them:
“Back in the day I had fun,” she told a goggle-eyed Howerd Stern. “I got my tongue pierced and I wanted to try out my tongue piercing and so I kissed them all.”
She did not say which of her bandmates was affected most deeply by her erotic advances. I would like to think she had the strongest designs on Miss Ginger, who would have surely reciprocated warmly. The thought of her dark limbs enwrapping Miss Ginger’s fleshy white body is a pleasing conjecture for primates of all species.
All in all, the record shows that Miss Scary was an enthusiastic dabbler in lesbian pursuits and took many positives from the experience. She should not have brushed off this important episode in her life as a youthful indiscretion. I would urge her to book an appointment with Ellen Degeneres to apologise and do penance. Even an ex-lesbian should sometimes be willing to eat humble pie.
Labels: Ellen Degeneres, Ginger Spice, lesbian, Scary Spice, tongue stud
Wednesday, April 09, 2014
Bone apart
I do hope Napoleon’s penis is returned to his descendants so they can dispose of it in a dignified manner. The unfortunate organ was detached from its deceased owner during an autopsy carried out by a resentful doctor. I have no idea what the doctor’s grudge was – the list of possible grievances that might be blamed on Napoleon is endless. Be that as it may, robbing a corpse of its masculine appendage is hardly ever justified. Maybe a transvestite who was too scared to have the operation while he was alive would have wanted to be buried in a dickless condition, but there is no reason to suspect that Napoleon was such a person.
The eminent todger was sold to an eccentric American in 1977 and currently resides in New Jersey. I know this because a “TV scientist” has tracked it down to get some publicity for his show:
"I've seen a lot of penises, from a Chihuahua to a Sperm Whale,” declared Mark Evans, presenter of Dead Famous DNA. “This is so withered.”
Stupid twerp. I’d like to see what his knob looks like after 200 years of aimless wandering inside a cigar box. And what a charlatan he is for pretending that a withered penis is an object of scientific interest. It is a sad commentary on the TV industry that this bumptious oaf has access to the airwaves and can pass himself off as a scientist.
I should make it clear that I have no admiration for Bonaparte, who was and remains an enemy of the gorilla nation. When he led his garlic-munching hordes into the Mother Continent, we gorillas immediately took up arms and offered our services to the Royal Navy. My ancestor, Bo’sun Bananas, was mentioned in dispatches by Lord Nelson after the Battle of the Nile. That noble ape despised the Corsican upstart, and I’m sure he would have wanted his remains to rest in obscurity. Making an artefact of his penis gives him undeserved publicity.
I wonder if Cameron Diaz is aware of this story. She has recently been hinting at same-sex dalliances, and hearing about a decaying penis might have pushed her along this path.
“I think women are beautiful – absolutely beautiful,” she enthused. “And I think that all women have been sexually attracted to another woman at some point.”
My advice to Cameron is to give it a go, but be careful about her choice of paramour. No one likes to see a lesbian couple where one of the women is a mannish type who wears trousers. Ideally, her lover would be as pretty and feminine as she is, making it impossible to guess who wears the strap-on. Leaving room for the imagination is never a bad thing if you’re in show business.
I wonder if Napoleon’s mistress Josephine ever had Sapphic yearnings. I wouldn’t have blamed her. No man who spends his life planning military campaigns is going to be a skilful lover. Lightning thrusts or surprise attacks never won a man glory in the sack.
Labels: Cameron Diaz, lesbian, Napoleon, todger
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Butt plug prank
The young lady pictured above is Jennifer Lawrence, who is supposedly a talented actress. I say “supposedly” because I have never seen her act. Fame spreads slowly in the African jungle. No one had heard of Charlton Heston until he said “Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape!” I never held a grudge against him for that – actors are paid to speak lines and the apes in that movie were impostors.
I am displaying a picture of Miss Lawrence because I wish to comment on an anecdote she told on a chat show. What happened was that someone sent a goodly number of butt plugs to her hotel room as a joke. She immediately hid the appliances under her bed so the maid wouldn’t find them. Alas, she underestimated the thoroughness with which these industrious hotel employees attend to their duties. After finding the implements, the maid placed them on her bedside table.
Now I don’t blame Jennifer for hiding the butt plugs. A lady should be discreet about the possession of such toys, particularly to strangers who might be tempted to gossip. But once they were discovered, she shouldn’t have allowed the incident to pass without comment. In her position, I would have made a point of thanking the maid for her diligence.
“I see you found the butt plugs and put them on the table, doubtless after giving them a good polish,” I would have said. “Thank you for arranging them so neatly – do you like them?”
The maid, out of politeness, would have answered in the affirmative, prompting me to insist that she took one as a gift. “Take this purple one and enjoy,” I would have said, pressing it into her hand. The generosity of a gorilla is never refused by any animal smaller than a rhinoceros.
I hope Miss Lawrence will take heed of my advice – she is evidently a comely lass with a bright career ahead of her, but must learn how to improvise in awkward situations.
A young actress whose fame has spread rapidly in the jungle is Miley Cyrus. This is mainly thanks to me. I have made it my business to tell everyone about her bold and brazen deeds, including the use of her rump as a bongo drum.
The latest news about Miley is her participation in same-sex coupling after splitting up with her boyfriend.
“Miley is definitely bisexual,” said a well-informed snitch.
And I am definitely pleased to hear about it, because it’s certain to help her career. Remember Anne Heche, the former girlfriend of Ellen Degeneres? She wasn’t a great actress by any means, but still got starring roles because everyone was interested in private life. As she was obviously the ‘femme’ partner in the relationship, her credibility in playing the love interest of leading men was not damaged.
I personally can’t wait to see Miley starring in a film role which exploits her talents to the full. I could write the script myself. The working title of movie would be ‘My Ass!’
Labels: Anne Heche, butt plug, Jennifer Lawrence, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
Exposing Hillary
A cry-baby movie director is complaining that no one will help him make a biopic about Hillary Clinton:
"When I approached people for interviews, I discovered that nobody, and I mean nobody, was interested in helping me make this film,” whined Charles Ferguson.
He sounds like a frustrated village gossip who’s annoyed because all the local snitches are shunning him. In his opinion, this refusal to spill the beans is a betrayal of American democracy:
“I don't think it's a victory for the media, or for the American people," he declared pompously.
The man is an ass and I’m glad his insidious project has been scuppered. You can bet your bottom’s last dollar that the film would have shown Hilldog in compromising positions with other women, which would have brought aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States, who are the last humans on Earth who deserve to be aided and comforted.
Speaking as a gorilla, it wouldn’t worry me at all if Mrs Clinton were a Velcro vixen. If any woman has earned the right to be a lesbian, it’s her. When you’ve been publicly cuckolded by a succession of empty-headed floozies, you’re fully entitled to a few private dalliances of your own, be they Sapphic or otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a Nosey Parker film maker should pry into your personal affairs and tell lurid tales to the world and his wife.
In any case, these Hollywood directors can’t be trusted to give an accurate depiction of the facts. The accursed Oliver Stoned served up a giant barrel of buffalo piss about the Kennedy assassination, which the ignoramuses of our time lapped up like cream from the she-elephant’s udders. The human masses have had their fill of fictionalised political codswallop and don’t need a film about Hilldog to shave further points off their waning IQs.
Oddly enough, the Republicans are also against the film, because they think it would give the former first lady unfair publicity for her next presidential bid. Now I’d like to see a woman in the White House as much as the next ape, but surely Hillary has missed the boat. She’s beginning to look like a crotchety old spinster whose finger shouldn’t be on anyone’s nuclear button. And don’t forget about Bill, who would insist on moving back with her so he could scent-mark his former territory. It would be like a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with the same cast as the original.
Of course, you’ve got to give Hillary credit for inspiring women to get into politics. Even a girl like Miley Cyrus, who is a novice in political affairs, is talking about her plans for world domination. One has to wonder what office of state she plans to hold, given that she’s telling everyone what a bad bitch she is. If I were president I’d appoint her Chief Dominatrix to make sure all the whips and nipple clamps were being used correctly. She could start by giving lessons to the Senators’ wives.
Labels: gossip, Hillary Clinton, Hilldog, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Blue is the bluest colour
The manager of the safari camp can’t wait to see the epic French lesbian film that won the Palme d’Or at Cannes.
“I had to sit through Brokeback Mountain with my buttocks clenched because my wife wanted to see it,” he said. “At last there’s a gay picture for the whole family!”
“That all depends on who’s in the family,” I observed. “I doubt it would have much appeal for the dowager aunt or the pet poodle.”
According to Variety magazine, the film has “the most explosively graphic lesbian sex scenes in recent memory”. I hope that doesn’t mean there’s fisting in it. I’ve never liked the practice myself. My old friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, says it reminds him of what he did to help mares give birth. We traditionalists believe that lesbians should stick to good old-fashioned carpet-munching and leave the more invasive procedures to the gynaecologist. Imagine having to call emergency services if someone’s hand got stuck in your birth canal. It’s not the sort of condition on which ambulance crews receive in-depth training.
A lot of women can’t fathom why men enjoy watching lesbian sex scenes, given that there’s no obvious role for them in the action. It’s a question that’s puzzled me too. Perhaps they imagine themselves doing a similar job to the referee in a boxing match, shouting out instructions, keeping score and breaking up clinches. I should imagine it would be easier than refereeing a real fight, where the contestants must abide by the Queensbury rules. There’s no need to penalise low blows in a Sapphic encounter.
No post about lesbians would be complete without discussing the latest exploits of Ellen Degeneres, who has recently acquired a $26.5 million mansion with her wife Portia di Rossi. Have you noticed how Ellen always wears men’s clothes when the couple appear in public? And that Portia is always referred to as her wife (and never vice versa)? This is Ellen’s way of telling us that she is the nominal husband in the relationship, which avoids the linguistic anomaly of having two wives in a marriage.
Maybe the opposition to gay marriage would be less strident if all gay couples adopted this convention, so that marriage remained a union between a husband and a wife. This would be easy to achieve for two men, when it’s normally pretty obvious who the wife is (e.g. Elton John in his marriage with David Furnish). Unfortunately, matters are rarely so clear-cut in a lesbian relationship. I really have no idea how they decide who wears the trousers.
Before you accuse me of being a nosey ape, I fully acknowledge that it’s none of my business how lesbians sort out their titular arrangements. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to know, of course. If any lesbian would like to let me in on the secret, she should send me a discreet email, which I would treat in the strictest confidence. Gorilla Bananas can be trusted not to spill the beans.
Labels: Ellen Degeneres, Elton John, fisting, gay marriage, lesbian
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Revenge of the lipstick lesbians
Some good-looking lesbians have made a video threatening to marry the boyfriends of women who oppose gay marriage. They are supremely confident of their ability to carry out this insidious threat, believing they have qualities that men dream of in a wife. I don’t know whether their bravado is justified, but they certainly made some very persuasive arguments in the video. Women with eligible boyfriends would be well advised to keep their opposition to gay marriage between them and their shrinks.
When the manager of the safari camp saw the video his eyes lit up.
“Do you think they’d have an affair with a man whose wife was against gay marriage?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t know my wife’s position on the issue, but I might be able to convince her it’s not a good idea.”
“Cuckolding married women who would deny them their rights is entirely consistent with their strategic outlook,” I replied. “But it might not be advisable for you to encourage them, given your wife’s propensity for sadistic revenge.”
“Good point,” said the manager glumly.
Whether or not one approves of punishing a woman for her reactionary views on gay marriage, I don’t think the lesbians have thought this one through. Their proposed plan of action is a classic example of cutting one’s nose to spite one’s face. A woman whose boyfriend jilts her for a lesbian would certainly be humiliated and quite possibly heartbroken. But in time she would get over it and find another suitor. There aren’t enough lesbians in the world to steal the boyfriend of every heterosexual woman who lacks sympathy for their cause.
The fate of the avenger, by comparison, is far more intractable. She would be lumbered with an unwanted husband who would insist on sleeping with her. Switching off the lights, as the girls in the video suggest, would not be an effective remedy if the fellow made obscene and triumphalist remarks while exercising his conjugal rights. I fear that such conduct is far from unlikely in a man who would impose himself on a lesbian.
For all their feisty eloquence, these lesbian ladies have yet to master the art of delivering a credible ultimatum. There’s no point threatening to do something contrary to your own nature and ambitions. You don’t make your enemies back down by promising to blow your brains out on their carpet. What they should have said was “If you continue to vote against our right to marry, we will put on our strap-ons and chase you into the nearest cathouse.” The prospect of being pursued by a swarm of agitated lesbians intent on ravishment should persuade most women to reconsider their views.
As a gorilla, I am all in favour of giving lesbians everything they want. The appropriate response to a lesbian insurrection is unconditional surrender. Let them marry, wear trousers and wrestle with crocodiles if they want to. The lesbians of the Earth should roam free and wild as Nature intended. Preserving such wonders enriches the ecosystem.
Labels: credible threats, cuckold, gay marriage, lesbian
Monday, February 06, 2012
Push-up contest
I have just received a sumptuous basket of exotic fruit from the manager of the safari camp. You might suppose the gift is a token of his esteem for my services to the safari industry, or for my numerous diplomatic efforts on his behalf, both with business associates and his wife. Richly deserved though such awards would be, they were not bestowed with the basket of fruit. He was actually settling a bet we had made on the outcome of a contest between Ellen Degeneres and Michelle Obama.
The president’s wife had appeared on Ellen’s TV show, where she accepted a challenge from her host to see who could do the most push-ups in front of the studio audience. The manager reacted with consternation to Mrs Obama’s willingness to participate in such a spectacle.
“Is she crazy?!” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know that butch lesbians work out like men and have all the male hormones? She’s going to embarrass her husband by getting publicly ass-whipped by a white woman! That girl’s got too much attitude for her own good!”
“I beg to differ!” I declared. “Having studied the arms of both women closely, I am firmly of the opinion that the said whipping will be inflicted upon Ellen’s scrawny white bottom. Would you care for a wager?”
“Damn right I would!” replied the manager.
The two women got down to it and started humping the floor. Ellen’s arms gave way after 20 pushes, while Michelle progressed smoothly to 25, where she stopped to avoid humiliating her opponent. The manager accepted his defeat meekly:
“This is a sad day for butch lesbians,” he said. “Any black woman will now think she can push them aside and steal their pretty girlfriends.”
It’s a pity that Mrs Obama can’t use her strong arms in the service of her country, being too old for the Marines and too attractive for the postal service. Perhaps she should travel around America punching rap singers in the mouth instead. It’s about time someone punished them for their surly behaviour and disrespectful attitude. A gimmick like that might appeal to millions of redneck women, winning her husband vital swing votes in November’s election.
Not everyone is a fan of strong-armed women, of course. Back in my circus days, the female acrobats fretted about what potential boyfriends would think of the quite modest muscular development on their upper arms.
“Ladies,” I said to them, “there’s no point covering up your arms to hide those little bumps. If a man you like notices them, flaunt them with pride and tell him they’re your arm-boobs. In my experience, men are always more favourably disposed to objects they associate with bosom flesh.”
My advice served the girls well, but only because their biceps were moderately bulging. Women who take things to extremes in the body-building endeavour are bound to appear freakish and unappealing. Having arms like Popeye the Sailor Man may scare off the gropers and bum-pinchers, but it won’t make your boyfriend jizz in his pants.
Labels: body-building, Ellen Degeneres, lesbian, Michelle Obama, push-up
