Wednesday, October 31, 2012
I’m trying not to get excited about the new James Bond film. Not because I want to appear cool and blasé, but because the movie won’t be shown in the Congo until well into 2013. A prematurely excited gorilla is an undesirable phenomenon in a finely tuned ecosystem. It puts the other gorillas on edge, which can lead to bushes being abused and uprooted.
Longstanding readers of this blog will know that Danny Craig is one of my protégés. He offered to send me a pirate DVD of the movie, but I declined his generous offer:
“You mustn’t violate the copyright just to curry favour with me, Danny,” I said. “I’ll be satisfied with a lock of Naomie Harris’s pubic hair.”
I was joking, of course. A big hairy ape like me has no interest in human tufts.
Film reviewers have been counting the scenes in which Danny takes off his shirt. When a movie magazine asked him whether he minded displaying his chest like a hunk of meat, his response was phlegmatic:
“I don't care how many times I have to do it,” he said, adding: “It's going to be harder and harder the older I get.”
Sad but true. Those perfectly-toned pecs will eventually morph into man boobs, making Danny look like a transvestite on hormone therapy. I advised him to delay the inevitable by stimulating his chest muscles with electric shocks, but unfortunately he’s too squeamish. Only real secret agents can bear having electrodes attached to their bosoms.
The manager of the safari camp is always pestering me with his ideas for the Bond movies. I think he hopes I’ll pass them on to Danny. His latest brainwave is that James Bond should have a nubile sister who appears in the films:
“There ought to be a woman you can fantasize about without having to compete with 007,” he explained.
“Wouldn’t Bond get annoyed if someone shagged his sister?” I asked.
“Not unless he was a total hypocrite,” said the manager. “And besides, why would his sister give a damn about what he thought? She’d be a strong enough character to sleep with anyone she fancied and tell her brother to butt out.”
He might be on to something, but who would be suitable for the part? Obviously, she’d have to be a big name in her own right. Jessica Bond isn’t a role for an aspiring starlet, no matter how impressive her vital statistics. After gently racking my brains, I thought of Christina Aguilera, who has recently won acclaim for her ability to function without knickers:
“I don’t like wearing underwear,” she said on a chat show. “I like to be as free as possible at all times. It’s just who I am. It’s empowering. It’s pussy power!”
How fitting it would be for a fearless commando like James Bond to have a sister who fearlessly goes commando herself. Pussy power is also perfect for the part. I’d be tempted to give Christina the role without an audition and let the director worry about her acting skills.
Labels: chest exposure, Christina Aguilera, Daniel Craig, going commando, James Bond, pussy power
Friday, October 26, 2012
Too many vaginas
A correspondent accuses me of being obsessed about Lady Gaga.
“She’s not the only woman in the world, you know,” he quipped. “Why don’t you write something about Rihanna? I’d do her.”
Not knowing who Rihanna was, I asked the chimps to send me her file. It made fascinating reading. It seems she is another singer who has won acclaim by flaunting her talents in stimulating and inventive ways. A couple of years ago she was being hailed as a virtuoso lesbian - “the best fondler ever” according to one of her girlfriends. Now she’s complaining that men won’t ask her out:
“I'm waiting for the man who's ballsy enough to deal with me,” she declared. “And I have too many vaginas around me at this point.”
I’m not surprised that men won’t approach her if she’s surrounded by vaginas. A cordon of coochies is an intimidating barrier for the bravest of men. Harder to penetrate, I would say, than a moat filled with jellyfish and giant squid. I doubt even Sir Lancelot would have attempted to breach it without a siege engine and catapult.
My advice to Rihanna is to make the first move. If a man catches her eye, just whistle him over for a powwow. The best way of attracting a ballsy man is to show him you’re a ballsy woman. To check out his balls you’ve got to get them within reach. It may not be the traditional method of initiating a courtship, but what does tradition matter to a fabulously rich diva with eyes that could hypnotise a snake? The whole point of the feminist revolution was to empower women to do everything that men do, including wearing trousers, pissing upright and making booty calls.
If Rihanna continues to have no luck with men, she might consider visiting the women-only bar that’s just opened in Tokyo. The function of this establishment is to allow women to discuss love and sex in an intimate setting without being interrupted by men eager to add their two cents. The owner of the bar hopes that her customers will shed their inhibitions and exchange tips on self-pleasurement.
“Since most people view female masturbation as something of a mystery or taboo, it is not a usual topic at typical bars,” said Megumi Nakagawa.
I’ve always thought that teaching women how to masturbate was a beautiful and noble activity, on a par with healing the sick and feeding the hungry. Obviously it’s something best done by another woman – I wouldn’t presume to offer lessons myself, even though I’ve watched female gorillas do imaginative things to their nether regions.
The sad thing is that many women are too embarrassed to admit they need help with their fingerwork, much like illiterate people who are too ashamed to attend reading classes. Fortunately, the internet now offers a number of excellent bean-flicking sites that women can peruse in private. My favourite one is called yanks.com – I defy anyone to watch the clips without moaning and sighing in empathy.
Labels: ballsy men, bean-flicking, Rihanna
Monday, October 22, 2012
Scientists have discovered the fossil remains of a hyperintelligent woodlouse.
“No one would have expected such an advanced brain would have evolved so early in the history of multicellular organisms,” said an awestruck professor from Arizona.
The big unanswered question in why this brainy bug became extinct, whereas really stupid ones like the daddy-long-legs have survived to the present, entering buildings of their own free will and then crashing into walls like utter cretins as if someone had imprisoned them there. Could the woodlouse have been too intellectual for life in primeval earth, wasting its time playing chess and solving crossword puzzles instead of working out in the gym? Its brilliant brain wouldn’t have helped it escape from a big hairy spider – instead of running like hell it would have overanalysed the situation, making it an easy target. It reminds me of the nerdy doctors and lawyers who play paintball with regular Joes and get splattered from head to toe.
It’s probably just as well the woodlouse isn’t around today. The complex world of homo sapiens would be an ideal environment for it to thrive as a master criminal. A clever little bug could make its first billion by crawling into a mainframe computer and diverting funds to its offshore account. After that, it could run its criminal empire from a secret headquarters underneath a rock, sending out hit squads of killer cockroaches to eliminate its rivals and blackmail politicians. Pretty soon, all the aspiring hoodlums and gangsters would be paying homage to “The Woodfather”, pledging their loyalty by kissing the ring on its antenna.
Someone in dire need of a woodlouse brain is the man who made a scene at a restaurant because Richard Gere was flirting with his wife. The woman, a stunning blonde with melon-shaped breasts, was apparently “confused” when Gere started whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I don’t blame her. She must have been wondering whether he’d mistaken her for a man.
The husband reacted to the situation by growling at Gere like a cave man and chasing him out of the restaurant. He should have realised that film stars of Gere’s age are impotent – quite incapable of getting it up unless they’re primed with a cocktail of aphrodisiacs and strangled with a leather belt. Gere looks especially burned out to me. My considered assessment is that his libido matches that of an ageing slug. He may still have enough slime to flatter a woman with his well-trained tongue, but a man who has nothing but tongue can only go so far.
If The Woodfather were alive today, it would probably appoint Gere as its palace eunuch. It’s a job that perfectly matches his skill set. He could reprise his role in Pretty Woman by flirting with any prostitutes the woodlouse had hired for its own pleasure. That’s not something the hookers would mind too much. Being sweet-talked by Gere would put them in the perfect frame of mind to have a bug crawl under their skirts.
Labels: flirting, intelligent woodlouse, palace eunuch, Richard Gere
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Lesbian of the Year
As 2012 draws closer to its close, my thoughts inevitably turn to the Lesbian of the Year award. This prestigious title is usually won by a woman from the USA, where talented sapphists have excelled in show business, sport and prison security. The greasy pole got a lot less greasy for American lesbians after Ellen Degeneres wrapped her sinewy thighs around it and hoisted herself up to the giddy heights. This year might be different, however. There is a very strong contender from the Far East called Gigi Chao, a 33-year-old Chinese heiress who recently got married to an older woman of mannish appearance.
Gigi’s father, a billionaire tycoon from Hong Kong, not only refused to acknowledge her same-sex marriage but offered $65 million dollars to any man who could win his daughter’s hand.
"Gigi is a very good woman with both talents and looks,” wrote Papa Chao in his advertisement. “She is devoted to her parents, is generous and does volunteer work."
Gigi was then inundated with emails from eager suitors who had apparently fallen madly in love with her picture.
How would an impartial observer characterise Mr Chao’s behaviour? When I asked a professional woman at the safari guesthouse, she compared him unfavourably with a pustule on a scrotum. I don’t disagree with her assessment. Gigi would have been within her rights to tell her dad to go and fuck a goat, but her public reaction was anything but. When invited by a newspaper to comment, she said:
"At first I was entertained by it, and then that entertainment turned into the realisation and conviction that I am a really lucky girl to have such a loving daddy, because it's really sweet of him to do something like this as an expression of his fatherly love.”
Did you ever hear of such an understanding daughter? Truly, she must be a saint to have responded in such a way. Papa Chao is a lucky old coot to have such a dutiful child. He ought to build a $65 million temple to the Yellow Emperor as thanks for his good fortune rather than trying to bribe a gold-digger to get in his daughter’s pants.
It’s possible, of course, that Gigi was praising her father to preserve an outward show of family harmony. For all we know, she may be cursing him in private. Even if this were true, she would still have my admiration. A public spat between family members is an ugly and depressing spectacle. The Jerry Springer Show gives me the shits, so I only watch it when I’m constipated.
I should mention, in passing, that I’ve never fought with another gorilla when a human was present. Whenever we expect a visit from one of our hairless cousins, I ask my females to air their grievances before the guest arrives so they can vent any pent-up frustrations. Sometimes I get a few bites and punches; sometimes I get sat on for half an hour. It’s a small price to pay to avoid losing face in front of a human.
Labels: Gigi Chao, Lesbian of the Year, pustule on a scrotum, same-sex marriage
Friday, October 12, 2012
The manager of the safari camp got annoyed when I asked him whether he’d be guzzling a new range of alcoholic beverages from Germany. The innovation in the distilling process is to pour the liquor over the breasts of “glamour models” before bottling it.
“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” he huffed. “There’s no such thing as tit-flavoured booze and I’m not paying a hundred dollars for a bottle of vodka because it's been spilled over some bimbo's boobs!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much!” I thought before replying. “Do calm down, manager, I was only asking. I never thought a connoisseur of your calibre would be fooled by such a gimmick. I’m sure you wouldn’t buy their vodka if they let you suck it off the breasts.”
The manager rubbed his chin and cogitated before replying: “I doubt you could suck two fingers off a woman’s chest,” he said. “And you definitely couldn’t drink it in one swig. But I might pay the price of a single if they asked me nicely.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I remarked. “And thank you for sharing your expertise on this vital subject.”
The manager may well be right that only a fool would buy these spirits, but that’s hardly a fatal flaw in the business model. There are many fools in the world, and some of them will surely pay extra for alcohol that’s rinsed the rack of a nubile woman. Can we be certain, furthermore, that the dumpling-dowsing has no effect on the taste? I’d like to hear the verdict of a professional taster before coming to a firm conclusion.
Even if the liquor is chemically unaltered, it might well taste different to a man who knows where it’s been. Taste is a complex sensation affected by neurons firing in different centres of the brain. Back in my circus days, there was a clown who used to have a plate of sausages and beans while watching Benny Hill on TV. He said the beans tasted divine if he ate them when the bald fellow was getting head-slapped. As for the sausages, he saved them for the dolly-bird chase at the end. The taste of anything depends on the mood you’re in. I find bananas most appetising when I’m lying in my hammock watching the sun set; but they’re practically inedible if I’m sitting on a rock watching baboons mate.
None of this means I have any intention of sampling the bosom booze. We gorillas shun intoxicants that might make us foolish and cause us to behave like the crazy gibbon. I do wonder, nevertheless, whether the same idea could be extended to other foods. Would it be possible, for example, to insert a hen’s egg inside a woman’s birth canal so she could re-lay it? Perhaps it’s the sort of thing Lady Gaga might attempt if someone put the idea into her head. I should imagine a carton of her freshly laid eggs would fetch a handsome price in the market.
Labels: bosom-flavoured booze, Lady Gaga, re-laying eggs, taste buds
Monday, October 08, 2012
Would you eat this woman?
Her name is Clarissa 'The Fat Lady' and you don’t have to answer my question. I pose it purely because Brian May, the guitarist and ex-Queen, has advocated tucking into her flesh. Not because he thinks she’s tasty, I should hasten to add. His gastronomic advice was a response to her suggestion than humans should eat badgers, a species for which his affection is unbounded. I suppose he thinks people who’ve eaten Clarissa would have little appetite left for furry woodland creatures. She’s certainly got enough meat on her, although one fears it may be on the tough side.
Much as I admire Brian’s passion for the cause, I do have reservations about his tactics. Frankly, I don’t think telling people to eat fat ladies will gain much traction. The heyday of human cannibalism is long past. Names like Sawney Bean and Malietoa Uilamatu will echo through history as reminders of a golden age when men chopped up their enemies and put them into cooking pots. The humans of today have far weaker stomachs than those man-eating titans. Few will even consider eating each other unless they’re close to starvation.
I’m not convinced that championing the rights of badgers is good tactics either. From what I’ve heard, they are bad-tempered varmints who will happily make a meal of any critter that crosses their path. He who lives by the fang shall die by the fang. Why not campaign on behalf of cows and sheep instead? All they do is eat grass and look stupid. No one ever died from getting a stupid look.
In truth, I wonder whether pop stars do more harm than good for the causes they support. Look at that fellow Sting. He was supposed to be saving the rainforest at one time, but soon got side-tracked into tantric sex and other fatuous pastimes. As a result, people began to see the rainforest as one of his fads rather than an entity worthy of salvation. And why the hell does he call himself 'Sting' anyway? There's nothing cool about a painful prick that shoots out of a bee's arse.
Admittedly Brian May is a cut above Sting, having acquired a first degree in astrophysics and a PhD in guitar-string maintenance. The man is clearly an intellectual, and we surely have him to thank for words like ‘Gallileo’, ‘Figaro’ and ‘Fandango’ appearing in 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Yet all this erudition doesn’t make him an expert on badgers, ecology or the eating of fat ladies.
The only way of getting accurate information on zoological topics is to consult an unsentimental naturalist who writes down what he sees in his notebook. The role model I have in mind is Dr George Murray Levick, a member of Captain Scott’s ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. He observed the mating habits of penguins and was shocked by the orgy of debauchery, necrophilia and buggery he witnessed. That didn’t stop him writing it all down though. Never become an animal’s advocate until you know all its dirty secrets.
Labels: badgers, Brian May, cannibals, Fat Lady, penguins
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
I notice a spate of incidents in which sex dolls have been rescued from rivers and oceans. One presumes they were dumped there by their owners. Is it possible that men who buy sex dolls grow bored or disenchanted with their company? I find the idea quite upsetting.
I discussed this ugly development with the manager of the safari camp.
“Couldn’t they have offered them for sale on eBay rather than callously disposing of them in that fashion?” I asked.
“What makes you think anyone would want to buy a second-hand sex doll?” he replied. “If I ever bought one I’d want her to be a virgin.”
“You might be disappointed,” I said. “I’m fairly certain they’re tested in the factory before being shipped to customers.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the manager. “I pity the poor fool who has that job! I wonder if his wife gets jealous – if he has a wife.”
“Why would she mind unless he brought his work home with him?” I said. “Would your wife be jealous if you copulated with a sex doll?”
“Yes,” answered the manager.
I didn’t argue the point. He knows his wife better than I do and presumably has reasons for his belief.
I personally think it should be a crime to treat sex dolls like garbage. They may not have feelings, but they possess a stoic dignity that ought to be respected. The fact that they were mistaken for real women before being rescued from drowning shows how beautifully crafted the latest models are. The virginity issue is nonsense, of course. I’m sure they’re as good as new after a thorough douching.
Some of you might be wondering whether I own shares in a company that manufactures sex dolls. I am happy to answer your question. Yes, I do. I once asked the directors, at the annual general meeting, why we didn’t make dolls that looked like famous actresses or pop stars. They said the women would sue us. When I suggested asking them for permission, everyone just laughed.
One female celebrity who might agree to have a sex doll made in her likeness is Lady Gaga. She prides herself on being unconventional and “out there”, so maybe she’d take it as a compliment. Her latest avant garde exploit was to be photographed naked on the toilet. She claims she did it to highlight the eating disorders she endured in her adolescence. I don’t quite see the connection unless she suffered from constipation.
What fascinates me is how small the toilet bowl is compared with Miss Gaga’s bottom. I’m sure this isn’t because her bottom is particularly big. My theory is that she will only sit on small toilets because of a morbid fear of falling into the bowl. Maybe she did actually fall in when she was a little girl, and now has a phobia.
I admit the above is pure speculation on my part; but if I’m right, she ought to have plenty of sympathy for sex dolls that get dumped in the sea.
Labels: falling into a toilet, Lady Gaga, sex dolls