Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Under the mattress
Khloé Kardashian says she was scarred for life after hearing her parents have sex when she was a girl. Here is her recollection of the event:
“I fell asleep under my mom's bed... and I woke up to the bed shaking! I was too scared to leave so I had to wait for the whole thing! The moaning ... It was honestly wild!”
On first inspection, this story appears to be full of holes. Why would a girl fall asleep under her parents’ bed rather than on top of it? Her explanation is that she was playing hide-and-seek and no one could be bothered to look for her. Strange that she stayed under the bed like a gopher, but I suppose we’ll have to take her word for it.
The next point to clear up is how her father, who we now know was a woman in a man’s body, was capable of giving her mother such a good seeing to. How could he produce all that moaning and bed-shaking if he wasn’t really into it? I was certain this proved the story was a hoax until I discussed the matter with my females. They gave me two possible explanations:
1) Her father was a lesbian in a man’s body, so he was still capable of getting hot and horny with his wife;
2) Her mother did all the work while her father lied on his back and fantasized about Jean-Claude Van Damme.
I have to admit these are plausible theories, so maybe young Khloé really did have to listen to her parents’ conjugal romping. But that doesn’t mean I believe her claim about being “scarred for life”. That’s the kind of whiney complaint made by a human who’s never lived outdoors and seen Mother Nature in action. Believe you me, there are worse sights than your close relatives thrashing about like hungry crocodiles. And don’t forget she was only exposed to the sound effects. No jungle-dwelling ape is going to cluck in sympathy because of that.
Whatever effect this childhood experience had on Ms Kardashian, it certainly didn’t put her off sex. A quick look at her biography indicates she’s been going through men like tubes of toothpaste. Yet there is one aspect of her private life that does make me wonder – she seems to have a preference for basketball players. Why would that be? They are good at putting balls through hoops, but I’m not convinced it’s a skill that a sexually excited woman could put to good use.
More relevant, perhaps, is their height. I would guess they are longer from head-to-toe than the average bed. Could Ms Kardashian be unconsciously attracted to men who prefer not to copulate in beds because they don’t like their feet dangling off the edge? This is just a theory and I don’t pretend to have all the answers. If she really wants to get to the bottom of her issues, she should visit Kathmandu and bare her soul to the Kumari Devi.
Labels: bedroom noises, Kathmandu, Khloe Kardashian, Kumari Devi
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
It’s been a long time since I wrote anything about Mr Becks, the ex-footballer and possible ex-husband of Victoria Spice, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been ignoring him. My females are constantly asking for news about him, which I drip-feed to them like juice from an orang-utan’s armpits. In truth, he isn’t doing very much apart from the usual posing and preening, but that seems to be enough to keep his fans squealing in delight. His twitter page is suggestive of one who prefers to communicate in pictures, but I don’t hold that against him. A picture is worth a hundred hoots, as we say in the jungle.
The good news for collectors of memorabilia is that a sex toy manufacturer has produced a dildo that looks like Mr Becks. His face is imprinted on the business end of the device, but its shape does not match the contours of his body. In short, it is an effigy of Mr Becks in the shape of a phallus. Whether it bears any resemblance to his actual appendage is an open question. Amusing novelty item though it may be, I’d be surprised if many women used it to satisfy their carnal urges. Being an admirer of Mr Becks doesn’t mean you want his head inside your coochie.
Our local witch doctor is worried that enemies of Mr Becks will use the item as a voodoo doll:
“What is to stop jealous rivals sticking pins in the toy to curse him with the stings of The Evil One?” he asked.
“You ignoramus!” I exclaimed. “You cannot stick pins in a dildo. It is made of hard silicone plastic, not softwood from the Umbogo tree.”
“In that case his rivals should be told,” said the witch doctor. “He who breaks pins on a juju charm will have a limp pupuyoo for the rest of his life.”
“I will quote your cautionary words in my blog, so the enemies of Mr Becks will be forewarned,” I assured him.
As for the manager of the safari camp, he snorted in derision when I suggested giving the dildo to his wife as a Valentine’s Day gift:
“It doesn’t even vibrate!” he scoffed. “You can’t fob a woman off with an obsolete toy like that. A plastic dick is still a plastic dick, no matter whose face is on it.”
“I never realised your wife was so choosey,” I remarked. “Perhaps there are other women who will treasure it as a love token of considerable sentimental value.”
Be that as it may, I don’t expect it to sell like hot cakes. Only the most devoted groupies of Mr Becks would consider buying it, and even they might be put off by the embarrassment factor. If very few are sold, I will probably order one myself. It would soon acquire rarity value, and might eventually be worth as much as one of Liberace’s dildos. There’s an opportunity in every flop, as we say in the jungle.
Labels: dildos, juju, Liberace, Mr Becks, voodoo
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Tourists often ask me how a gorilla can prevent his stuff getting stolen in the jungle. I tell them I am an abstemious ape who carries few possessions and keep his valuables in a bank vault in Brazzaville. “What could a thief pilfer from a man that he could also pilfer from me?” I ask. They never come up with a valid suggestion.
However, the strange case of a Puerto Rican salsa singer has given me pause for thought. He claims that his sperm was stolen to be used in a manner of which he did not approve. This is not a form of theft I have any protection against, although I’d like to think the varmints around here have better things to do with their time. Hatching a plot to steal a gorilla’s jism is not what I’d expect of your typical jungle outlaw, not least because of the difficulty in fencing the loot.
The salsa singer, whose name is Maelo Ruiz, says his manly secretions were unlawfully procured by a woman called Karla Ankara Toledo Cova, who successfully impregnated herself to bear his twin daughters. He claims that she did not need to perform the delicate task of extracting the goods from his person, because he had taken the unusual step of storing his semen a sperm bank. He says he did this to enable his wife to bear his children if he suffered an untimely death. It’s an unusual precaution for a 49-year-old man to take, but his picture suggests he’s not in the pink of health.
Ms Toleda Cova, of course, has her own side to the story. As a former acquaintance of Mr Ruiz, she says he impregnated her in the conventional manner and is now trying to shirk his duties. I would not dismiss her claims out of hand, because her picture indicates that she’s not a woman who would struggle to persuade a man to plant his seed in her flowerpot. Mr Ruiz insists that he was not tempted by her voluptuous body and I want to believe him, but maybe he should take a lie-detector test to banish our nagging doubts. The fat man must go the extra mile to prove he didn’t eat the complimentary cookie.
If Mr Ruiz is telling the truth, what then? His twin daughters can’t be blamed for the manner of their conception, and they won’t be helped by sending their mother to prison. Although he has every right to be furious that a devious floozy stole and misused his potent nut-sap, there comes a time when the alpha male must stop thumping his chest and take a pragmatic view. If I were his lawyer, I would advise him to make a generous financial settlement on condition that Ms Toleda Cova withdraw her scurrilous allegations and hang her head in shame. Not a penny would she get until she publicly confessed her sins, disordering her hair and exposing her breasts in Homeric fashion. No mercy without penitence, as we say in the jungle.
Labels: bank robber, jism, personal security, sperm bank
Wednesday, February 03, 2016
Hiding the salami
The manager of the safari camp is laughing his head off at the news that the Italians covered up their nude statues for the visit of the Iranian president:
“His beardiness better not visit the Congo Basin Nature Reserve to see you apes shagging in the open air!” he guffawed.
“Especially not if you were his guide, pointing and hooting at every instance of primate copulation,” I remarked. “He would be well advised to crawl on the ground with his eyes on the mud.”
It would be all too easy to condemn the Italians for denigrating their own culture to pander to the prudery of a gangster in a turban. I give them credit for taking every precaution to avoid an embarrassing incident. No one can deny that men have been sexually aroused by stranger things than nude statues. Imagine what would have happened if an Iranian bigwig got a boner while being escorted round the Borghese Gallery by La Contessa di Contini. An Italian lady is not lacking in aplomb, but the goatish advances of a bearded despot might provoke her to snap her purse shut on his bulging pantaloons. The statues could take care of themselves, of course. Not even a sex-mad mullah would get any joy from something that cold and rigid.
Now the Iranian president is in Europe to negotiate trade deals with the wily occidentals. If I were the Italian trade minister, I would secretly offer him a consignment of the latest sex robots. The first batch could be sent to the Supreme Beardy to try out – once he had passed them halal, further deliveries could be made to the revolutionary guards and other die-hard supporters of the regime. It goes without saying that your average Ali Bulbul would not be allowed to own one – a key purpose of a theocracy is to ensure that the masses don’t partake in the deviant practices of the leadership.
There are a number of contradictory opinions on whether sex robots will be good for humanity. A group of academics have come out strongly against them, believing they will encourage their users to treat real people like robots:
“We think that the creation of such robots will contribute to detrimental relationships between men and women, adults and children, men and men and women and women,” said Kathleen Richardson of De Montfort University.
However the singer Ana Matronic thinks they will be a godsend for people who can’t have sex because no one wants to sleep with them:
“The development of robots could be very suitable for people who need the right person and might not be capable to form what we would consider a normal relationship,” she explained.
As a gorilla, I find it impossible to decide between these arguments. However, Ana Matronic is surely right that the robots should be offered to the needy and frustrated. Maybe they could be made available on prescription to people whose doctors won’t have sex with them.
Labels: Ana Matronic, beards, Iranian regime, nude statues, sex robot