Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Tit fatigue

What would you say if I told you that the human male is gradually losing his interest in women’s breasts? Perhaps you would ask me to clarify the meaning of the word “gradually”. A young man who spends five hours a day staring at pictures of jahoobies is obviously going to devote less time to the pastime when he gets his first car or learns how to play the bongo drums. But his diminished interest in bosom flesh would merely be a consequence of the day being restricted to 24 hours. You might say, with equal justification, that a piglet gradually loses its interest in squealing.

Nevertheless, the statement I invited you to consider is not pure conjecture. It is based on a survey conducted by PornHub, which totted up the most popular word-searches on its much visited website. They found that the number one breast-related phrase used was “big tits”, followed by “big boobs” and “huge tits”. Nothing surprising there. However, they also found that men in the 18-24 age group were 19% less likely than average to use “boobs”, “tits”, or ”‘breasts” in their porn searches, while those aged 25-34 were 11% less likely to do so. Men aged 55-64, by contrast, were 17% more likely than the average to search for boobs on the site.

There are still many breast men in the younger age groups, of course. The newspaper that reported on the PornHub survey asked the young men in its office what they thought of breasts:

“Yep, I’m a fan,” said Phil, 28.

“Yes, they are good,” agreed Paul, 32.

Adam, 29, whose name was changed to conceal his identity, admitted that boobs fascinated him. “Yeah, I do like boobs,” he said. ”‘Every pair of boobs is totally different for every female. I like all boobs.”

On the other hand, Harley, 25, said he was “more of a bum guy than a boob guy”.

My own view is that breasts will never go out of fashion. Human biologists have noted that a woman’s cleavage has evolved to resemble a pert pair of buttocks, which simultaneously evolved to resemble a ripe plum ready to be plucked and eaten. This would not have happened unless the human brain was hardwired to appreciate such sights and revel in the associated textures. You can’t turn the clock back on millions of years of evolution.

The young men of today only differ from previous generations in having seen a lot more bosom flesh from a much younger age. This might explain why they tend to look for other attractions when they visit porn sites. If you’ve already seen all the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci, you might want to give other artists a chance the next time you visit the Louvre. Tit fatigue, if it really exists, could only be a consequence of staring at too many jahoobies in too short a space of time. I should imagine that going on a temporary boob fast would rekindle the ancient urges pretty quickly. 

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Wednesday, August 09, 2017

Foot in mouth

The young lady pictured above is Miss Erin Clark, a 19-year-old student from Edinburgh, about to start her degree at the Institute of Political Studies in Paris. After searching vainly for affordable accommodation, she was delighted to receive a twitter message offering her an apartment in a highly suitable location:

“So, it’s a big studio flat with two beds, kitchen, toilets, a big wardrobe and a balcony,” explained the owner.

All was not as it seemed, however. The prospective landlord revealed that he would be living in the same property. Furthermore, he would require Miss Clark to perform some unusual services instead of paying rent:

“I’m submissive and I’ve got a foot fetish, so it would be free in term of money, but I’m asking for two services, licking your feet sometimes. And then, I wear a chastity device, you might wear the key of the chastity in a bracelet, so I’m not looking for sex, I’ve got the device.”

Offering Miss Clark the key to the “chastity device” seems to be a confidence-building measure, even thought the landlord himself regards the prospect with some kind of weird satisfaction. But she was not sufficiently reassured by this safeguard, making her excuses in the following tweet:

“I’ve lost my flat keys 4 times since September alone, it is not me you are wanting.”

I don’t blame Miss Clark for being sceptical. I have never seen a male chastity belt and don’t see how it would work effectively without also preventing the wearer from urinating. The possibility of the key is being mislaid is real, so it’s highly likely the landlord would retain a spare to liberate his organ when the need arose. This, of course, would render it ineffective as a safeguard.

It’s also hard to believe he would have stuck to the letter of the agreement in other respects. I think we can take it as read that “foot-licking” includes a full range of podo-erotic practices including toe-sucking. Once you let someone smooch your foot, it could easily progress to the ankle or even the knee. There’s no telling where it would end.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he laughed and rubbed his hands in glee.

“Hah, the French!” he snorted. “Trust them to proposition students with their kinky fetishes! I bet he would have smeared her feet with garlic butter and licked it off with a glass of red wine!”

“I never knew you were so knowledgeable about their culinary practices,” I remarked. “Perhaps you should write a gourmet guidebook for the novice.”

I don’t know whether it’s true that the French are more open about their fetishes, but it doesn’t reflect badly on them if they are. Miss Clark is lucky to have been approached by an honest pervert who attempted to negotiate a quid-pro-quo. A Scottish or English foot-licker might have charged her full rent without disclosing anything, hoping to ambush her feet at a vulnerable moment. It’s the sneaky types that do the most damage. 

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Wednesday, August 02, 2017

Big Jobs

A few days ago, the manager of the safari camp invited me to inspect one of his turds.

“You’ve got to look at, GB, it’s massive!” he exclaimed. “I’d like to know whether a gorilla could shit out something like that! I purposely didn’t flush so you could authenticate it!”

“My dear manager,” I replied. “You are gravely mistaken in thinking I am qualified to pass judgement on your excrement. I suggest you take a picture of the toilet bowl and send it to experts in the field.”

“And who might they be?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders and told him his guess was as good as mine. Maybe I should have given him the name of an elephant trainer. Or, indeed, an elephant.

Most humans, of course, have much greater inhibitions about discussing their solid waste. I don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing. Perhaps, on balance, it’s for the best. It would be very tedious if everyone left the toilet unflushed after producing a notable stool. But the other side of the coin is humans who hold it in because they’re too embarrassed to evacuate their bowels in an unfamiliar lavatory.

After doing my own research on the subject, I found an article claiming that 50% of women and 29% of men are worried about having to defecate in their place of work. Why more women suffer from this anxiety is an interesting question. Perhaps they think that shitting (and farting) is unladylike. It’s certainly difficult to imagine Audrey Hepburn or Julie Andrews having a dump – and yet we know they must have done it like everyone else. Perhaps they should have spoken more openly about their bowel movements – it might have dissipated the cloud of shame that hangs over the whole subject.

The article makes a number of helpful suggestions for how to lessen the angst of a workplace poop. Number one on the list is listening to music when sitting in the cubical. The idea is that you won’t worry about the noise you’re making if you can’t hear it yourself. This reminds me, somewhat, of an ostrich burying its head in the sand. But that doesn’t mean it’s ineffective in the circumstances. Anything that helps someone shit in peace has my blessing.

Number seven on the list is “Don’t be a dick to other office poo-ers”. I heartily endorse this. Heckling someone who’s having a difficult time in the lavatory is a prime example of boorish manners. No one who indulges in this sort of behaviour deserves any mercy when they’re parping and plopping themselves.

The most interesting point on the list concerns the financial implications – “when you poo at work, you’re getting paid to shit”. Although this is technically true, it also deprives you of a more leisurely poo in your own home. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, says that emptying your bowels on a day of leisure while reading a magazine is one of the great sensual pleasures of life. Is he wrong? 

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Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Legal issues

Can a gorilla be held in contempt of court? The manager of the safari camp warned me that a judge could send me to a zoo for a couple of weeks if I called him an idiot. He’d first have to find me, of course. There are regions of the dense Congo jungle that even witch doctors fear to tread. In any case, I have no intention of calling anyone names. There’s a big difference between denouncing a dubious decision and likening the fellow who made it to an ass or a donkey. A judge who refuses to tolerate such criticism is a judge that has grown too big for his boots.

I make these remarks because of a couple of legal rulings I feel obliged to comment on. The first one concerns Madonna, who went to court to prevent the auction of various “intimate items” she claims are hers. Apparently, she had an affair with a rapper and convicted felon called Tupac Shakur in the 1990s. Among the items for sale are a letter he wrote to her and some underwear he mysteriously obtained.

Madonna claims the items were stolen and I’m inclined to believe her regarding the letter. Unless Mr Shakur had forgot to post it, it must have been removed from her possession without her consent. But on the underwear, I’m not so sure. Even if she never gave them to the rapper, she might have carelessly left them in his house. Once you do that, it’s finders keepers. A woman can’t expect to retain control of her panties if she takes them off and neglects to retrieve them.

Madonna is no doubt worried that people will attempt to humiliate her by sniffing the panties and saying they smell like tuna fish, but a woman who has given her underwear to a gangster cannot credibly claim she has a reputation to protect.

The other legal judgement that piqued my interest concerns the Electoral Commissioner of Papua New Guinea, whose name is Mr Patilias Gamato. Mr Gamato got very upset when a blogger started calling him ‘Mr Tomato’ and published pictures of him with his head replaced by the said fruit. 

“He made some defamatory statements and also called my surname 'tomato',” said Mr Gamato. "I don't look like a tomato, I'm a human being.”

The judge took pity on him and issued a court order preventing the blogger from making any more tomato gags.

As one who is named after a fruit, I have little sympathy for Mr Gamato. There is nothing wrong with being associated with a much-loved salad ingredient. I would have advised him to change his name to ‘Tomato’ to pre-empt any jokes.

I can see the judge was trying to be kind, but too much kindness can turn a man into a blithering ninny. Anyone that thin-skinned will be a target for wags until the cows come home. Mr Gamato, I fear, will soon discover that there are worse insults than being called ‘Tomato’.

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Wednesday, July 19, 2017

King of the druids

A British tourist asks me to sign a petition on behalf of ‘King Arthur Pendragon’, a self-appointed 'druid elder', who is in dispute with an organisation that manages historical sites in England.

“My dear fellow,” I reply. “I could not possibly sign a document without knowing the particulars of the case.”

“English Heritage want to charge visitors £15 for parking their cars at Stonehenge,” he explains. “This violates the religious freedom of druids, who have been praying there for 5,000 years without parking charges.”

“Is that so?” I reply. “Well, worthy though this cause may be, a gorilla cannot take sides in a quarrel between humans. Nevertheless, you may tell King Arthur that I fully support his right to freedom of worship.”

“Hum,” says the man, frowning. “I’ll try my luck with the humans.”

I later find a newspaper report about the dispute, which clarifies a number of issues. It seems that the aggrieved druid changed his name to ‘King Arthur Pendragon’ because he thinks he is a reincarnation of the original King Arthur. However, the original King Arthur was a Christian, not a druid. And he wouldn’t have made a fuss about paying a parking charge of 15 pounds sterling. A king does not trouble himself about such trifling sums.

All of which suggests that this modern-day ‘King Arthur’ is a colossal ignoramus, who is more likely a reincarnation of Chico Marx or Meadowlark Lemon. I’m glad I didn’t sign the petition supporting his cause. Rather than being allowed to park free at Stonehenge, he should be banned from visiting the site altogether. The place is rapidly becoming a campsite for bearded charlatans and New Age cultists, which is spoiling the experience for bona fide tourists with cash in their pockets.

In truth, no one knows what Stonehenge really signifies. The prehistoric men who built it left no manuals or user guides. Everyone assumes it’s some kind of pagan religious site, but it actually looks like a pile of baby bricks assembled by a giant baby. Who is to say that it wasn’t used as a leisure facility? There are many games that humans could play at Stonehenge, including hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo. If baboons lived there, they would play a game called “pissing-down-on-people-from-the-top-of-a-boulder”. The neo-druids and baboons could contest their rival claims to the site in a sporting event. My money would be on the baboons.

Religion, of course, is a touchy subject for many humans. If any druids were to read this post, they might think I was mocking their faith, which could provoke them to leave a hostile comment. In reality, I know nothing about the neo-druidic religion. It must very different from the religion of the ancient druids, which included many practices that would now be illegal or grossly indecent. The modern druids may simply be harmless eccentrics who like wearing robes and chanting spells. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they should come out and make their case in a public forum. You won’t win anyone’s trust by lurking in the shadows like a thief.

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Wednesday, July 12, 2017


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.

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Wednesday, July 05, 2017

Shaping up

The manager of the safari camp is away on a business trip, so his wife is advising me on what to blog about. She suggests I comment on an article about a scientific study investigating what type of breasts men prefer:

“They found that most men desire women with perky boobs,” she tells me. “As a gorilla, you know very well that the real test of a tit is how much milk it produces. Why don’t you educate your readers about the foolishness of men?”

“A most fascinating topic,” I reply. “But I try to avoid preaching sermons in my blog. You can’t really blame people for their likes and dislikes. A lot of people find it strange that I like unripe mangoes.”

“Are you telling me that you prefer perky boobs?” she asks suspiciously.

“No, not a bit of it!” I protest. “As you say, it’s their ability to produce gallons of fresh milk that matters. I’ll study the piece and see what I can make of it.”

After reading I the article, I manage to acquire a grasp of the underlying theory. The scientists argue that men are finely attuned to a woman’s fertility indicators, presumably because they can’t determine whether she is in oestrus by sniffing her coochie (as we apes do). They argue that fertile women have more attractive breasts:

This is supported by evidence showing that women with larger breasts tend to have higher estrogen levels; breast size may therefore serve as an indicator of potential fertility. However, breasts become less firm with age and parity, and breast shape could thus also serve as a marker of residual fertility.

Thus, the perky boob hypothesis postulates that women with pliant bosoms are likely to remain fertile for a longer period, which makes them more desirable. Even men who don’t want to make babies are attracted to such women because their brains are hardwired that way. This is why they lust after women like Sharon Stone rather than Dolly Parton (or Chesty Morgan).

This is an interesting theory, but there is one detail that looks fishy to men. The men whose opinions were surveyed were from four countries – Brazil, Cameroon, the Czech Republic and Namibia. Are those countries really representative of the global population? Call me a suspicious ape, but I wonder whether the men of those nations are obsessed about jahoobies to an unusual degree. Brazilian beaches are certainly a notorious haven for bosom oglers. If so, there may be places where men test the fertility of women in other ways. Sniffing and tasting is usually more reliable than staring and groping.

I’m not saying the study is definitely wrong, of course. Perhaps men from all parts of the world do appreciate a perky pair of titties. However, I know for a fact that many men are more interested in the thighs and the rump. So I’m keeping an open mind on this one. You can’t make sweeping generalisations until all the data are in. 

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