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
Monday, June 20, 2011
Funny old world
international poll. I feel for them. In the 1920s, a brilliant young comedian called Adolf Hitler was on the verge of ousting Charlie Chaplin as the world’s premiere clown. Then the Germans put him in charge of their government – immediately his jokes grew stale, and by the outbreak of WW2 he had completely lost his comic timing. As the war drew to a close, even his moustache stopped being funny. Little wonder that he killed himself.
The Hitler debacle severely disabled the German sense of humour, making it virtually impossible for them to laugh at verbal gags. A recent example of this incapacity was seen in the dismissal of an office worker in Mainz for saying “Ja wohl, Mein Führer!” to his boss’s secretary. Although a court later re-instated the man, it did so on the grounds that he had deserved a warning before being sacked. His claim that the remark had been jocular rather than nostalgic fell on deaf ears. The only acceptable jokes in modern Germany are slapstick pranks, such as a wedding singer swallowing his microphone.
The dire post-war climate forced the few remaining funny Germans to emigrate. Once such luminary was Professor Heinz Wolff of Brunel University, whom I met many years ago in a VIP lounge.
“Professor Wolff,” I said, “I watched you perform on television and you made me chortle like a chipmunk. Do you employ joke writers or is it all your own material?”
“You misunderstand my role, Mr Bananas,” replied the egg-headed one sternly. “I am a scientist, not a comedian, and any humour in my remarks is incidental to their main purpose. I do not have a comedy act and would never perform in a circus as you do.”
“Come, come, Professor Wolff!” I protested. “You enjoy making people laugh as much as I do! If all you cared about was Science, you would stay in your laboratory doing experiments.”
The professor tossed his head in irritation, briefly dazzling me with the glare from his shiny pate.
“I admit I would enjoy making people laugh by performing experiments on you,” he said in a slightly menacing tone.
I decided not to rile him any further. You never know what these German scientists will do when they get a bee in their bonnet – look at Dr Frankenstein.
I am glad to say that Professor Wolff did not tone down his comic persona as a result of our tête-à-tête. The pinnacle of his career came later, when he gave his views on penis enlargements in an interview with Ali G. Being a seasoned wag, he was quick to point out that he didn’t need one himself, whatever his sympathies for men who were meagre in the meat-pole department.
Sadly, there is no medical procedure for a humour deficiency. Perhaps the Germans should pay more visits to the USA, whose citizens were voted the funniest in the poll. Many of them manage to make people laugh without even trying. Take Mr Chris Roller, for example, who believes he is God and has tried to sue famous magicians for misappropriating his divine powers. This excerpt from a talk show shows what a promising talent he is.
Labels: Germans, Heinz Wolff, Hitler, humour
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The idealism of youth
I’ve just found out about a wonderful charity that campaigns against deforestation. It was set up by young Norwegians and it’s called ‘Fuck for Forest’ (FFF). Their method of raising funds is to have sex in public and collect donations from sponsors and voyeurs.
These young people are truly the best of their generation. Never before have humans held orgies to ensure that we apes will still have trees to climb. Fans of pornography should also rejoice. They will now be able to watch porn with a clean conscience, knowing that their cash is going to a worthy cause rather than lining the pockets of a dirty old reptile like Hef. They will also have the privilege of seeing fresh-faced amateurs in action, rather than over-milked studs with over-sized meat poles penetrating over-used females with vaginas like buckets.
It amazes me that not everyone approves of this bold and big-hearted venture. Apparently, the mainstream conservation charities have refused to accept donations from FFF. Mr Horsten Torsten, chairman of the Norwegian chapter of the Rainforest Foundation Fund, made the following statement about them:
“These silly people just want to have parties and fuck. Those who care about rainforests should contribute directly to us. We will not accept money from the pockets of masturbators and other perverts. Besides, the girls have not shaved their pussies, which doesn’t work in the porn industry except in Japan. Everyone knows that.”
Mr Torsten should go and shave a reindeer’s pussy. If his stupid organisation doesn’t want to take their money, they should give it directly to field workers like me. I would happily set up a Congo office for FFF, using their cash to protect our beloved forest. Although there aren’t any logging companies in our vicinity, the trees face many threats: termites who chew them; parrots who peck them; monkeys who piss from great heights on them, showing an utter lack of respect. With a moderate amount of funding, I could settle their hash once and for all.
I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that Norway is the only country where humans agitate for the welfare of their hairy cousins. For many years, we gorillas have had a relationship of mutual empathy with the people of Wales. Their most famous son, Tom Jones, is an honorary gorilla of the highest standing, and a purveyor of music which can bring our females into season.
I’m glad to say that this tradition of succouring apes is alive and well in Wales. A 21-year-old student of Cardiff University has recently camped in a zoo to raise money for an ape charity. He hung out on Gorilla Island so that visitors would notice the many similarities between humans and us, such as our method of scratching itches.
My females were so touched to hear of Master Lewis Rowland’s sojourn in Paignton Zoo that they are pestering me to invite him to the Congo. It seems they want to smother him with their own effusive brand of jungle hospitality. I’ll have to make discreet inquiries about his sex life first – it wouldn’t be right for a human lad to lose his virginity to a gang of rampaging female apes.
Labels: eco-porn, orgies, saving the rainforest, The Welsh
Friday, June 10, 2011
An Australian senator has been forced to apologise for meowing at the country’s lesbian finance minister. It’s not clear whether he was mocking her gender or her sexual orientation. Whichever is true, there’s no reason for women to get huffy about being likened to cats, which are rather attractive creatures in spite of their airs and general moodiness. It’s better to be an animal that people stroke than one which they ride or milk.
I wouldn’t like to be in the minister’s shoes now that she’s revealed the chink in her armour. Australia is a nation renowned for its uncouth and vulgar jesters. If any of these pranksters see her in a restaurant, they won’t hesitate to put a saucer of milk on her table. Whenever she appears in public, she’ll have to listen to larrikins making pussy-pussy noises or telling her to lick her whiskers. She may as well wear a Catwoman costume to pre-empt all the jibes she’s going to face.
I used to laugh my head off when people tried to make animal noises in the circus. Most humans are only any good at mimicking dogs and pigs. The English aristocracy are not too bad at horses. Only men with very deep voices are capable of sounding like a gorilla. Tom Jones is one, and Davy Attenborough managed to imitate some of our grunts after soaking his scrotum in rum. I remember a pie-faced fellow trying to impress me with “Ook! Ook!” noises after watching me perform in the ring. He was hopeless.
“You sound like a castrated baboon!” I jeered. “You’d better get some hormones injected if you want to impress a female gorilla!”
In spite of rubbishing his performance, I didn’t mind the fellow having a go. Humans are perfectly entitled to express their inner ape in front of a real one. They might not get the approval they yearn for, but there’s no harm in trying.
When all is said and done, I salute Australia for putting a carpet-munching Sheila in charge of its financial affairs. Where are the gay women in high offices of state in America? Conspicuous by their absence if the rumours about Hilldog are false, which I certainly believe them to be.
The most eminent lesbian in America is Ellen Degeneres, who recently invited a beefy black man onto her show. It seems he became a pin-up for American women after exposing his hunky torso on an aftershave commercial. To please her mainly female audience, Ellen encouraged him to remove his shirt to wild acclaim.
If President Obama is re-elected next year, he ought to consider appointing Ms Degeneres to his cabinet. A woman of her populist instincts could keep him in touch with the voters and give him sound advice on when to bare his chest. She could also accompany Mrs Clinton on her overseas trips, ironing her panty girdle and licking her into shape before her encounters with foreign statesmen. Any tomcat who dares to meow at Hilldog will be paying a visit to the vet.
Labels: Ellen Degeneres, Hilldog, lesbian, meowing
Monday, June 06, 2011
My old circus chum Mario the Bum-pincher sent me a couple of news stories from his native Italy.
The first one is about a college student whose mother wouldn’t leave him alone. It seems she was ringing him a hundred times a day and visiting his lodgings without warning. He got her off his back by using the anti-stalking laws to persuade the courts to issue an order against her. She can now only phone him once a day and isn’t allowed to visit without permission.
I must say I don’t have much sympathy for the lad, who seems like a bit of a sissy. Pursuing litigation because your mother is harassing you is like scratching an itch with a pineapple. He could have easily put Mama in her place by letting her catch him in bed with a girl. When a mollycoddling mother finds a naked woman in her son’s bedroom, she knows the game is up. It doesn’t matter how tasty her ravioli is, she can’t compete with poontang.
The second story is about a crook who begged to be sent back to prison after serving a term for fraud. He told the police he would rather spend the rest of his days in gaol than live with his nagging wife. You don’t have to be a baboon to smell the buffalo crap in that one. No man chooses to stay in prison because his wife is vexatious. Italy is a big country, with many places for the henpecked husband to obtain refuge. My guess is that the fellow was on chummy terms with the prison governor, visiting his mansion every day to help with the household chores, and shagging his trophy wife on the quiet. Men have done stranger things than incarcerate themselves for totty.
Anyway, the reason Mario sent me these news reports was to demonstrate that Italian men are frequently tormented by the women in their lives, which places them under abnormal stress. They should therefore be viewed sympathetically, he argued, if they let off steam by groping the buttocks of strange women. When I later phoned him to dissent from this squalid suggestion, he forcefully reiterated his point:
“Supposing your females bugged you every minute of the day?” he asked pointedly. “You wouldn’t go out and squeeze some nice-looking ass?”
“Mario,” I said gravely, “my females could pester me until the parrots stopped squawking and I still wouldn’t go around pinching bottoms without permission. People do such things because they are dissolute and incorrigible, not because they are driven to it by events in their lives.”
“Hey, whaddya judging me for?” asked Mario indignantly. “Are you a priest now?”
I told Mario that although I had not taken the holy orders, many rank-and-file Catholics wished they had a pastor like me.
"They know a gorilla is supremely qualified to scare off the kiddy-fiddlers and kick the Devil’s arse," I explained.
“Haha!” laughed Mario. “Why doncha pinch the Devil’s ass instead?”
“Because I’m not Italian, Mario,” I replied.
That shut him up.
Labels: bottom pincher, Italy, nagging wife, stalking mother
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
A study has revealed that powerful women are just as likely to cheat on their spouses as their male counterparts. Someone should tell Angela Merkel. She’s been chancellor of Germany for over five years and still hasn’t put out. Could she be a dark horse who’s been quietly playing the field? I doubt it. A woman who’s getting laid frequently doesn’t look as tense and uneasy as Frau Merkel. The only kind of horse she is is a riderless one.
When I mentioned this disappointing lack of Merkelian action to the manager of the safari camp, he grinned with a knowing look in his eyes.
“She’s obviously not used to making the first move,” he said. “If I were one of Merkel’s aides, I would pay some young Wolfgang to bang her and let her take it from there. It only takes one polar bear to make a hole in the ice.”
Beneath the vulgar language, I detected a valid point. It’s quite likely that successful women are too intimidating for men to proposition, so they have to do the chasing themselves. Such forward behaviour may not be in Frau Merkel’s repertoire of political skills. I’m tempted to invite her to the Congo for some tuition from my females, who have never been shy of grabbing what they want with both hands. My only worry is that the aromas and rhythms of the jungle might turn her into a sex maniac before she’d returned to human civilisation. A randy woman in a community of apes might provoke gross and unnatural acts.
A powerful woman who shouldn’t need any assistance from her hairy cousins is Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. The first thing to note about her is her flame red hair – clear evidence of the orang-utan gene, which implies a high sex drive. I don’t know anything about her private life, but I’d bet you a hundred coconuts that she’s a tiger in the sack. Living in Australia should also help her extramarital ambitions. The country is full of larrikin men who wouldn’t think twice about cornering Ms Gillard in an official function and offering her the use of their didgeridoo. It’s true that her voice isn’t very sexy – she sounds like a frigid schoolmistress, in fact – but that may be part of her political act. There’s no point giving the leader of the opposition an erection when debating changes to the superannuation laws.
I’ve deliberately left Mrs Clinton until last. She’s obviously entitled to cheat on her husband, given the brazen debauchery that he has got away with in his long and distinguished career. My suspicion is that she’s one of those women who is only interested in very clever men, which narrows the pool considerably. She needs to go somewhere with a high egghead density to improve the odds of finding a suitable paramour.
Perhaps I'll contact the Oxford Union to suggest they debate the motion “This house believes that Osama had bigger balls than Obama”. Honour would demand that Hilldog accepted an invitation to participate, obviously speaking against motion. Although most of the boffins in Oxford are untouchable with a barge pole, there’s always the chance that she’ll bump into a smooth-talking hustler like my friend Dicky Dawkins, who could teach her a thing or two about genetic recombination. It’s a match made in heaven.
Labels: Angela Merkel, Dicky Dawkins, Hillary Clinton, Julia Gillard