Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Does anyone feel sorry for Daniel Radcliffe, the Harry Potter actor? Okay he’s a millionaire, but millionaires can suffer. Do they not bleed if you prick them and smart if you tweak their noses?
When he was a child, he was an idol for millions of pubescent girls who dreamt of being his wizardess, to say nothing of countless full-bosomed women who yearned to smother his head. But those days are gone. Growing up, for Daniel, has been a painful transition from fresh-faced and boyish to bushy-eyebrowed and gnomish. Money is no antidote to the ravages of time.
Daniel is putting a brave face on his metamorphosis. He has starred in a handful of non-Potter movies, which were well received, although few people have seen them. And he recently informed Elle magazine that he’s taken to sex like a squirrel to nuts:
“I'm one of the few people who seem to have had a really good first time,” he said. “I'm happy to say I've had a lot better sex since then.”
Reading between the lines, you can see that he’s immensely proud of his copulatory deeds. His well-wishers should be pleased that he’s added to his toolbox since his Harry Potter days. However, most of his groupies still think of him as the former boy wizard. The actress Jennifer Lawrence, a girlhood fan of Harry Potter, admitted to screaming in excitement when she saw Daniel. Her enthusiasm fizzled out after they met, so a scream is probably all he got out of her.
Is Daniel wise to extend his acting career into adulthood? Maybe he should have followed in the footsteps of Shirley Temple, who became an ambassador. He would have certainly gone down well as Her Majesty’s emissary to the Congo. Wizards are feared and respected over here, and his face resembles a native species of owl. The local women would have shaken their booties at him before presenting him with a tribute of small rodents. He might well have become a celebrated figure of international diplomacy – “The Owl of Brazzaville”, we would have called him.
A career in entertainment is an unpredictable journey – some artistes are destined to be child stars who go no further, whereas others continue to perform in old age. I was delighted to hear that my friend Joan Rivers, whom we gorillas revere as a Great Earth Mother, recently officiated an impromptu gay wedding ceremony. Although marrying people isn’t technically show business, anything involving Mother Joan is bound to be a stand-up routine.
“It’s been so long since I had sex I’ve forgotten who ties up who!” she quipped.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this auspicious event, he said:
“I never knew she was a fag hag.”
“Not a fag hag, but a fag yenta,” I corrected him.
The manager is too ignorant to know the correct term for a Jewish woman who marries a gay couple. He is lucky to be acquainted with a learned gorilla who can educate him.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Planet of the Jackanapes
I got an email from someone asking me to comment on a new movie called Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.
“Why are you asking me? – I’m not a film critic,” I wrote in reply.
The answer came back swiftly:
“No, but as one who claims to be a gorilla you ought to have an opinion on the way your species is portrayed in popular entertainment, given the subtle influence of such perceptions on public support for conservation and other related projects.”
This erudite statement deserved a carefully-worded response:
“Fiddlesticks and tiddlywinks!” I wrote, ending the debate decisively.
At the time, I thought it was a suitable riposte to a snooty lecture from someone whose email address was Elvis.Godzilla@gmail.com. But on later reflection, I had to admit that Mr Godzilla’s argument was sound. Gorilla Bananas must not be silent when humans invent stories about their hairy cousins. The gullible masses will believe any old tosh presented to them on a cinema screen, even if it involves three-legged orang-utans juggling dwarves between their feet.
It will be many moons before the film is screened in the Congo, so I had a look at the official trailer to get a flavour. It was utter bunkum and farce. The “apes” in it are walking in upright postures, making grumpy faces and speaking American English in throaty, menacing voices. In short, they are surly humans wearing furry costumes, under which they must be sweating like horses.
This suggests the movie is a classic example of what psychologists call “projection”. Humans put their own dark side in another species so they can externalise the evil and struggle against it without having to purge their own souls. Admittedly, a trailer can only tell you so much. There may also be tender scenes of apes feeding humans berries by hand, but that won’t put bums on seats. People will go to this movie to see the Big Bad Ape, so they can enjoy the exhilarating fear that humans feel when there is zero risk of getting a hunk of flesh bitten out of them.
On the subject of humans pretending to be apes, I recently overheard an American tourist call Justin Bieber “a despicable little chimp”. The uncouth youth has been fined $80,000 for throwing eggs at his neighbour’s house, which is an unwise prank for a stage performer to play. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and Bieber’s devoted fans may now have to endure the agony of seeing their idol get a facial omelette while he’s warbling away on stage.
Bieber’s growing band of beraters have sent a petition to the White House, demanding that he is deported to his Canadian motherland. The Obama administration has wisely declined to get involved. If Bieber were sent back to Canada, he could buy a house on the border and throw eggs at his neighbours in Michigan, while mooning at an American flag. Much better to keep him in the USA, where there’s a good chance some angry redneck guy will kick his ass.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
"She brings a bright light to everything she is involved in and I am so delighted at her happy news," said the chief executive.
The danger for George is that she reserves her smiley face for work while lashing out like a scorpion at home. The woman who must be courteous and congenial in her professional life is all the more likely to box her husband’s ears.
Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I now feel sorry for Clooney’s ex-girlfriends, who were led to believe that George would never marry because of “commitment issues” or whatever. Now they know the truth: he thought they were too stupid to be his wife. These spurned spinsters must be feeling like airheads and bimbos, so I’ve sent an email to my mentor Dr Whipsnade, suggesting that he holds a summer school for them. Attending the good doctor’s seminars in philosophy, gastronomy and coquettery should help to restore their intellectual self-confidence.
Clooney’s fiancé comes from a small, middle-eastern sect called the Druze, who normally only marry within their community. George has reacted furiously to media reports that his prospective mother-in-law disapproves of the marriage on religious grounds:
“It’s a completely fabricated story!” he wailed, and went on to accuse the offending newspaper of “inciting violence” by “exploiting religious differences where none exist”.
The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. A statement from Mother Alamuddin herself would have scotched the rumour more conclusively, but I suppose the cat got her tongue.
It’s not the end of the world if George’s mother-in-law doesn’t approve of him anyway. He’ll be in the same boat as millions of other men, who manage to cope with the problem without provoking a deadly blood feud. If I were George, I’d try buttering her up with flattery and expensive gifts. If that didn’t work, I’d tell her to fly off on her broomstick. He shouldn’t say that if she really is a witch, of course. Many might be amused to see Clooney turned into a frog, but it would limit his acting roles to nature documentaries and romantic comedies with Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Perhaps George should have hired a committee of “relationship experts” to find him a bride. This is the concept behind a new reality TV show, where marriages are arranged for couples who agree not to see each other until their wedding day.
As a gorilla, I have a lot of admiration for this idea, but there is one fatal flaw: it is impossible to be sure that Human A will be sexually attracted to Human B before they have actually met. This has already led to one unlucky candidate feeling terribly let down after getting a husband she didn’t fancy. Is there a solution? I would allow them to sniff each other’s underwear before pairing them off.
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
The singer Ellie Goulding has taken the unusual step of denying that her breasts have been surgically enhanced:
“My boobs look bigger because my waist is smaller,” she explained. “People underestimate how you can shape your body. Since I stopped eating meat and fish, my body’s better than ever.”
I condemn the gossips and guttersnipes who goaded her into making such a statement. When a woman’s breasts grow bigger, the event should be celebrated like a bumper harvest of fruit. Mother Nature, in her glorious munificence, is showing us that her gifts are ripe and ready for plucking.
Miss Goulding added that she has always been terrified of cosmetic surgery:
“I’m petrified of anything like that. My friends will think it’s hilarious.”
Her fears are not unfounded. I’ve always found it strange that so many women will allow their bodies to be tampered with while they are unconscious. Reputation is no guarantee of success – a Harley street surgeon has recently been accused of a botched boob job. According to a report on the hearing:
A medical panel heard that breast implant specialist Mohammad Aslam tucked a pair of 4.5kg 1,600cc implants into Andrea Scott in 2010. But Scott, 36, who already had a set of 800cc implants, was left with breasts that were "too big and heavy," according to one breast expert.
Any fool can see what happened here. Dr Aslam must have lost his notes on the patient and crammed in as much silicone as he could to be on the safe side. Like many men, he finds it inconceivable that a woman could complain about her breasts being too big. Such misdeeds are inevitable in a profession that is a natural home for the tit fiend. It’s no accident that virtually all breast enlargement surgeons are men.
Hopefully women contemplating implants will hear about this story and, like Miss Goulding, consider natural alternatives. My old friend Smacker Ramrod believes that frequent sex will enlarge a woman’s bosom:
“I got seduced by a busty nurse when I was 18,” he once told me. “I could feel them expand when she pushed them against my face.”
“A method of measurement well known to Science,” I remarked. “But didn’t they later contract to their normal size?”
“No, she told me she needed bras with a bigger cup-size,” he replied. “I would have helped her pay for them if I hadn’t been a penniless student.”
“Well, it’s never too late to post someone a cheque,” I said. “Although perhaps she felt the benefits-in-kind were sufficient.”
I am sorry to say that Paris Hilton has recently been drawing attention to her jahoobies. There was a time when I spoke in this young lady’s defence, but the weight of evidence eventually forced me to concur with her detractors and lampooners. Will wearing revealing dresses pump the air back into her waning celebrity cult? Possibly not, but talking to the titties of a vacuous bimbo is more appealing than listening to her mouth.
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Getting her back
Robin Thicke, the singer who twerked with Miley Cyrus, has made a pop video beseeching his wife to return to him. I never knew the fellow had a wife – apparently he married a famous beauty called Paula Patton. She recently left him, reported to be cheesed off by a string of indiscretions, which may or may not have included the twerking episode with Miley.
The peculiar thing about the pop video is that it features a scene where Thicke is having his chest hairs groomed by a comely young wench. If he were a gorilla, this might signify nothing more than an extended delousing session, but the torso of a man is too naked to be stroked for non-erotic reasons. Given that this is so, why would a video intended to persuade his wife to return to the marital bed display the very behaviour that caused her to leave it in the first place? I can think of three possible reasons:
1) The man is a halfwit.
2) The man is a moron.
3) The man is a halfwit and a moron.
Having said all that, who is to say that she won’t go back to him? Women are very unpredictable in the way they react to cheating husbands. When Tiger Woods’ missus found out about his philandering, she attempted to drive him down the freeway with a long iron. No question of forgiveness there. Yet even an ultimate power-dame like Hillary Clinton decided to grit her teeth and persevere when the whole world knew that her husband’s appendage was a popsicle in Monica’s mouth. Did she exact her vengeance by taking her own lover, like a Russian queen? I am tempted to search for rumours using google, but that would open up a whole new plate of oysters.
What sort of woman is best-equipped to deal with a cheating spouse? My shortlist would include the actress Taylor Schilling, pictured below. The first thing to say about her is that she’s played a lesbian in a popular TV drama – this sends a powerful “Who needs your dick anyway?” message to any man who might be tempted to play fast and loose with her.
The second point to note is that she’s been cuddling the actor Zac Efron in a very public way, even though Master Efron is believed to be gay by those who speculate about such matters. This suggests the emotional fluidity of a woman who doesn’t pine for the attention of a macho man. If the hound chases after bitches, she’ll just turn her back on him and canoodle with the poodle.
Miss Schilling has yet to marry at the age of 29, and when she does announce her nuptials let us hope her future husband will be as faithful as the night is long. But if worst comes to worst, she has my permission to party with the lesbians and snuggle with the gays before finding a new spouse. It’s what her fans will expect of her.