Wednesday, October 29, 2014
The invention of sex
Scientists have discovered that the first sexual act was performed 385 million years ago by a pair of fish. It makes perfect sense to me. Fish are slippery, wiggly creatures that congregate in vast shoals. They could easily have sex with each other by accident. Furthermore, the fish tail is sexy enough to make mermaids attractive to men. Wrestling with a thrashing tail fin isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but there are macho types who get turned on by such challenges. The danger to the gonads is part of the thrill.
The discovery of piscine coitus was made by an eminent biologist who examined an ancient fossil of the species Microbrachius dicki.
"The male has large bony claspers. These are the grooves that they use to transfer sperm into the female," explained Professor John Long of Flinders University.
Full marks to the professor for his keen-eyed observation, but couldn’t he have inferred the existence of a sexual appendage from the creature’s name? If the Romans went to the trouble of giving a fish a Latin appellation, it’s likely that they intended to provide an anatomical hint.
Another interesting point is that the dickies did it side-to-side rather than in the missionary position (or doggie-style):
"The very first act of copulation was done sideways, square-dance style," declared Professor Long.
That’s just how I’d want to do it if I were a fish. In an ocean full of sharks, you’ve got to keep on swimming rather than lying on your back and dreaming of Mr Pouty. Maybe they had orgies with ten or twenty fishes swimming alongside each other – a wonder of Nature that would have curled the flippers of Jacques Cousteau.
However these ancient fish made love, I bet they were more dignified than Miss Daniele Watts. The B-list actress was recently arrested for pleasuring her boyfriend in a parked car. When the policeman turned up, she refused to show him her ID and accused him of picking on her because she was black. This couldn’t have been true because the officer was responding to a complaint. If she’d been smarter, she would have accused the person who snitched on her of racism. I should imagine he was a grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, whose nostrils twitched in fury as she straddled her white boyfriend.
What settles the issue for me is the fact that Miss Watts got her break in show business by appearing in a movie directed by Quentin Tarentino. We can therefore take it as read that one or more of her toes has been sucked by Tarentino. He would not give an unknown actress a part in one of his films unless she consented to his favourite perversion.
A woman whose toe has been sucked by Tarentino will have no sense of propriety. Having sex with her boyfriend in a public place would probably seem quite normal to her. If I were the judge, I would sentence her to a hundred hours of therapy with a pedicure specialist. We gorillas are merciful.
Labels: dogging, fish, mermaids, Quentin Tarentino, toe-sucking
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
I recently got an email from someone called ‘Mo Terboter’. I was inclined not to open it after reading that ridiculous name in my inbox. But curiosity never killed the gorilla’s cat, so I decided to have a peek at what this obvious mountebank had to say. For good or ill, his message his printed below:
Do you like playing computer games? There are some new ones you ought to have a look at in a site called Boob Jam. They put you in the position of a woman who’s tending to her titties. I did a google search for blogs about breasts and yours came up on page 1. You’re almost as obsessed about them as I am! Would you be interested in reviewing these games in your blog? More information about Boob Jam is in this BBC link.
He was lying about the google search. He probably found this blog inappropriately linked in some ape fetish site. I sent him the following curt reply:
Dear Mr Terboter
The answer to both your questions is ‘No’. I will not chide you for the lack of decorum in your message, as you obviously have no grasp of such niceties. I should be grateful, nonetheless, if you would refrain from further correspondence.
Although I certainly won’t be reviewing any of these eccentric computer games, the concept behind them is of anthropological interest. According to the BBC site, ‘Boob Jam’ was an on-line conference at which people swapped ideas for games about breasts. However nothing bawdy was allowed. They had to focus on everyday issues of bosom-maintenance rather than anything related to hanky-panky.
The originator of this concept is Ms Jenn Frenk, a “scholar of videogame culture and history”. She lamented the fact that breasts in video games were treated purely as sexual objects for people who did not have them, i.e. men.
“Accuracy in this context means better jiggle physics,” she asserted.
I have much admiration for Ms Frenk and her jiggle physics. She has every right to remind us that the female bosom came into being for reasons other than the rendition of cheap thrills. The vested interests that profit from the depiction of breasts as bouncy, globular fun pillows don’t want people to know what a burden they can be for their owners. Such problems are especially aggravating for bustier ladies like Dolly Parton, who suffered from back strain before her reduction surgery.
Yet, much as I sympathise with the difficulties women encounter in attending to their jahoobies, I can’t see the point of recreating them in a computer game. It is entirely feasible to provide succour to the afflicted without experiencing the affliction yourself. If a well-stacked lady told me how hard it was to find a comfortable bra, I would nod gravely and massage my thighs. My empathy for her predicament would not be enhanced by controlling a pair of computer-generated jugs. As far as I’m concerned, these booby games deserve the booby prize.
Labels: Breasts, Computer games, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, jiggle physics
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Facebook has been forced to apologise to the drag queens it mindlessly evicted from its community. The networking site recently adopted a policy of banning users with “assumed names”, causing it to delete the accounts of artistes such as Paula Pantyhose and Selina Sugartits. The wronged ladies were reinstated after they formed a pressure group to protest against this blatant persecution. You can’t get away with tranny-bashing in this day and age.
Some of you must be wondering whether I have a Facebook account which fell foul of this odious regulation. Yes and yes. Fortunately, I managed to confuse their Gestapo-like detection software by changing the spelling of my noble name. A gorilla who knows how to evade deadly snakes isn’t going to be outwitted by a soulless computer robot. I am nevertheless livid about being forced into this undignified subterfuge. That snot-nosed boy Zuckerberg may think he’s a clever dick, but I’ll make him regret the day he tangled with a jungle ape. The House of Bananas will avenge this insult.
I’d better return to the subject of drag queens before I start thumping my chest. They’ve been popular in Europe for many decades, but most Americans don’t see the point of them. Was there ever a famous drag queen from the USA? My memory may be faulty, but I can’t think of a single one. Perhaps the American public would view them more favourably if they understood their role in society. Their mission, as I see it, is to encourage men to explore their feminine side by putting on make-up, wearing pretty dresses and seducing lesbians. Gay men who become drag queens, like Conchita Wurst, grow beards to avoid attracting lesbians.
When I put this theory to the manager of the safari camp, he predictably attempted to refute it.
“Why would a man want to look like an ugly woman?” he asked. “It doesn’t make sense. If I were a woman, I’d want to resemble that redhead in Mad Men. A beauty with big boobs.”
“It is considered good manners to learn the name of an actress before praising her physical attributes,” I remarked. “Otherwise, you sound like a farmer inspecting a cow.”
“Don’t farmers name their cows?” asked the manager with a smirk.
I sucked my teeth pensively and nodded:
“My mistake,” I replied. “I should have compared you to a bull in a paddock.”
The manager snorted and stomped his hoof in an attempt at irony.
I later identified the actress in question as Christina Hendricks. Her photo is displayed below for readers whose memories require jogging. Obviously, no drag queen could hope to look like her without extensive surgery and hormone therapy. I don’t believe they’re trying to compete with her, in any case. The manager is a very confused man if thinks that being a transvestite means you want to grow big boobs and have your todger chopped off. He needs to get out more and observe the human animal in all its diversity, as I have done.
Labels: big boobs, Christina Hendricks, Conchita Wurst, Drag queens, Facebook, transvestites
Wednesday, October 08, 2014
Size and shape
A journalist has disrespectfully implied that Queen Victoria had a huge arse by disclosing the size of her knickers. The aforementioned undergarment was recently put up for auction with a reserve price of two thousand pounds sterling. It was worn by the monarch in her dotage and its waist is allegedly 52 inches.
I don’t know who the current owner is, but he should have donated it to a museum rather than allowing a bunch of undie-collectors to haggle over it. Anyone who would pay thousands of pounds for a big pair of panties cannot be trusted with a big pair of panties. When I think of how the royal bloomers might be defiled, it makes me want to thump my chest.
In discussing the size of Queen Victoria’s behind, one should never forget that she was widowed at a relatively young age. A big bum can be a great comfort to a bereaved matron who might suddenly feel weak at the knees. If she has to sit down on the nearest hard stool, her meaty rump will cushion the load.
Her buttocks were believed to be moderately fleshy when Prince Albert was alive. This helped to keep the sparks flying in their marriage, enabling them to produce a brood of nine. Having served the nation so effectively, the royal arse was entitled to expand when no longer required for duties of state.
The booty of Jennifer Lopez has received a much kinder press, possibly because people are scared of her. Latino women have a fiery reputation, so pundits likely to cross her path have praised her backside to cover their own ones. Even Diddy the rapper has jumped on the bandwagon by describing the Lopez butt as “a work of art”. He used to be her daddy-boo, so maybe he still dreams of kissing it. A witty plastic surgeon could have ruined his flattery by saying “Yes, and I’m the artist!”. J-Lo might have blown a fuse, but she would have been safe to handle with a pair of rubber gloves.
No one knows what Jennifer’s bottom will be like when she’s eighty years old. Maybe it will be big and round, or maybe it will just be big. A man who might be qualified to answer this question is William Shatner, who has personal experience of the relationship between age and body-shape. When asked how he had evolved since his first voyage on the Enterprise, he said:
“I’m a little more rotund than I was when I was doing the series but roundness is a good shape. It’s part of nature. My tip is to run as fast as you can.”
Shatner says he is open to offers for further Star Trek appearances, but could he still play Kirk? Maybe a clever writer could dream up a story where Jim is in a fat farm on Bulbous Major and solves a Vulcan murder mystery. Being too heavy to move around, he would achieve this through pure deductive reasoning while lying on a massage table. Spock would be green-blooded with envy.
Labels: arse, buttocks, Jennifer Lopez, knickers, Queen Victoria, rump, Star Trek
Wednesday, October 01, 2014
Behold Ed Houben, the Dutchman who has fathered 99 children by offering women his “exceptionally potent sperm”. The good news for women desperate to conceive is that the sperm is provided free of charge. The bad news is that he advises his clients to let him inseminate them naturally – the syringe option is less effective, he says.
He claims there is no shortage of woman willing to travel to his apartment in Maastricht to be impregnated in the time-honoured way. This allows him to be choosy, rejecting customers who can’t spell, weigh 300 pounds or have genital cooties. What is his secret? This is what he says:
“I try to be the perfect gentleman in every way and not look like the ex-murderer who just got sprung. In a short time, I have to make the assessment: What does this woman prefer? I always invite them to tell me what they want.”
This is all very charming, but I don’t believe it explains his popularity. I put it down to the most skilful piece of marketing since the invention of Brylcreem. By telling women he has already fathered scores of children, he makes them think he’s a super-stud who produces premium jism. It’s an old gorilla trick. The female feels like a Ferrari having high-octane fuel injected into her tank. Little does she realise that any cross-eyed goof is capable of impregnating a large number of females. If you turn a fire hose on a crowd, lots of people will get wet.
Houben is unquestionably a wily fox, but the service he provides is no great boon to humanity. A far more impressive feat was accomplished by doctors who have grown artificial vaginas in the laboratory. This is no mere party trick. Sadly, a small percentage of women are born with defective coochies that need to be replaced. Praise be to the goddess Chacharita that those who have received transplants are very happy with their new organs. All have reported “normal levels of desire, arousal, lubrication, orgasm, satisfaction and painless intercourse.”
No doubt, there are many curious men who would jump at the chance of testing out these miracle vaginas. I can’t imagine Houben turning down a transplantee who asked him to plough her furrow. When I told the manager of the safari camp about this breakthrough in regenerative medicine, he grinned like an alligator:
“Of course it makes them more desirable,” he affirmed. “What man wouldn’t want to say that he’s fucked a bionic pussy?”
“A man who’s never made fart noises with his armpits?” I suggested.
“Do such men exist?” asked the manager, walking off with a pensive look on his face.
What I’d like to know is whether these sterling snatches can survive outside of a woman. It would surely be fascinating to keep one as a pet and watch it respond to stimuli. The biggest problem would be knowing what to feed it. I’d be tempted to put a gobstopper inside it, which it could suck on whenever it got hungry.
Labels: coochie transplant, jism, lab-grown vagina, pregnancy