Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Telling tales

I’m no fan of Madonna, but I do take exception to Rupert Everett calling her “the Antichrist”. The Book of Revelation makes it crystal clear than the Antichrist will be an amphibious beast with ten horns and seven heads. Madonna may look like that when she’s having an orgy, but that doesn’t mean she can bring about the Armageddon and give Jesus a good run for his money.

He can’t get his story straight, because he also called her an “old, whiny barmaid”. This is no more accurate than “the Antichrist”. In my experience, barmaids are friendly buxom women who pull levers and push tumblers. Madonna couldn’t do that if she tried. Nor is she is particularly old for her age. The “whiny” part is more plausible, but how would Mr Everett know? You have to be pretty intimate with a woman to evaluate her whininess, and that’s not something he’s known for doing.

As well as calling her names, he told everyone this scurrilous anecdote about her:

“I went out to dinner with her and Sean Penn and she was wanking him off under the table. She was furious that I said that in 1985. So what? I thought it was rather romantic.”

I don’t blame Madonna for being angry about such loose talk. Her relationship with Penn was short-lived and she probably regrets having touched his todger. And Everett is clearly lying about finding it “rather romantic”. For a heterosexual couple to perform a sex act in front of a gay man is clearly an ugly, taunting type of behaviour. He probably flounced out of the restaurant in a huff.

Another reason for Madonna being upset about the anecdote is that it may not be true. Maybe she just playfully grabbed Penn’s crotch and the “wanking” aspect is poetic exaggeration. This is the perennial problem with show business memoirs. The author is under tremendous pressure to spice things up to make the book a best seller. No one ever made a pile of cash by sticking to the facts.

Tom Jones is one entertainer who would not need to invent stories for his autobiography. There are hoards of women who say he serviced them like a bull and they can’t all be lying. But he may not want to reveal the saucy details out of respect for his dearly departed wife. You have to respect him for that.

One thing Sir Tom is happy to discuss is whether he is actually a black man. He made the following statement to a British newspaper:

“When I first came to America, people who had heard me sing on the radio would be surprised that I was white when they saw me. Because of my hair, a lot of black people still tell me that I'm just passing as white.”

Last year, he announced he was having a DNA test to settle the issue once and for all. He hasn’t disclosed the results, but I predict that all his ancestors living 100,000 years ago were black.

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Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Sudden impact

There is absolutely no reason for me or any other gorilla to have an opinion on breast implants. Nevertheless, I do remember pontificating on the topic in previous posts. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I’m pretty sure I chided women who artificially inflate their bosoms. I might have quoted a saying of a mythical ape called Old Melonhead:

Be satisfied with what Mother Nature has bestowed upon you, for the fate of those who defy her is grievous to behold!

I now see it was quite wrong of me to lecture women who hire surgeons to enhance or reshape their boobs. A news story from Australia has forced me to open my mind and amend my judgements. What happened was that a 45-year-old woman collided with a kangaroo while riding her bicycle, causing her to receive a fearful blow on her chest. Fortunately for Ms Sharon Heinrich, her voluptuous silicone boobies came to the rescue and saved her from a mortal injury:

“My breast implants probably saved my life,” said Ms Heinrich, after being told her she was lucky to be alive.

Her sizable implants were naturally ruptured by the accident, so the quick-thinking surgeon replaced them with even bigger ones:

“Santa brought me 10 DDs in 2000, and it turns out they were 320 millilitres in size, but this time the surgeon put in 400 millilitres,” explained Ms Heinrich. “Australia can be a harsh country, so it’s best to be safe now,” she added. “I suppose I should be thanking the kangaroo.”

Much as I applaud her for holding no grudge against the kangaroo, she ought to have inquired after its health. I hope a bush ranger visited the scene of the accident to see if the creature needed medical assistance or counselling. The bush police should have also taken statements from witnesses to the incident. Although we can’t be sure who was to blame for the collision, a wild creature in its natural habitat normally has the right of way. The kangaroo may well have a valid insurance claim.

In light of Ms Heinrich’s fortunate escape, one could argue that breast implants are a vital safety precaution for cyclists, akin to air bags in motorcars. The main problem with making them compulsory is the expense involved in fitting them. And the same requirement would have to apply to men to avoid gender discrimination. It goes without saying that you can’t have men with titties riding on public highways – the accident rate would rocket because of motorists staring at them in horror, amusement or lust.

A more feasible solution might be the padded bra, filled with a firm yet elastic substance that kangaroos would bounce off without injury to either party. If that turns out to be the solution, we should name them in honour of Sharon Heinrich, whose brush with death sparked off the search for solutions. I should imagine that many advances in technology have been inspired by a woman’s jahoobies. 

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Wednesday, June 15, 2016

The opposite of sex

Has Salma Hayek gone off sex? This is what she said in a recent interview:

“Sex is not the key to a happy marriage, but it's a side effect. Although not every day! If it's every day, it loses its charm.”

At the age of 49, she has every right to be less horny than she was at the height of her fecundity, but I can’t help getting the impression that the carnal pleasures have been relegated to a fairly minor role in her life. An educated gorilla knows how to read between the lines.

Of course, it’s far from clear that her 54-year-old husband would be able to deliver conjugal service on a daily basis. As a Frenchman he probably thinks he’s capable of that and more, but I suspect he’s secretly relieved that Salma isn’t more demanding. The last thing a man of his age needs is an insatiable wife.

She went on to make the intriguing suggestion that scuba diving is a satisfactory substitute for sex:

“I'm a diver, and I think this is the most sensual thing. It's liberating to move in the water, to float, to observe things that you cannot control, to be in touch with your breathing. I find that sexy.”

Fascinating though this perspective may be, I’m not taking a dip in the Congo River to test whether it’s correct. It contains too many hungry crocodiles that have no appreciation for sexy breathing exercises. If Salma wants to explore her sensuality by behaving like a fish that’s fine by me, but I’d advise her to keep well clear of dolphins. Anyone who’s familiar with the work of Sir Davy Attenborough knows that those slippery beasts are relentless sexual predators. They would not hesitate to press their advantage on a lone woman floating about in an erotic stupor.

I reckon the problem for famous actresses is that their lives and careers have become so sexualised that they find the whole thing unappealing. Even Sharon Stone has lost her appetite for casual fornication at the age of 58:

“At this point, I get more satisfaction from a smile, a laugh, a warm conversation or a really sexy look,” she told a magazine for retired people. “You know the way a man can look at you? Where you know he really sees you?”

Call me an innocent ape, but I’m not quite sure what this sexy look involves. When we gorillas make eye contact, it’s usually to scare off intruders or put cheeky upstarts in their place. My guess is that very few men have the cojones to look Sharon Stone directly in the eye – the image she’s created for herself in her movies is just too intimidating. Consequently, whenever she gets a friendly grin from a fellow who hasn’t seen her films, she’s ready to jump into bed with him. I'd wager a number of wily opportunists have put this theory into practice, but we won’t hear the details until they publish their memoirs.

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Wednesday, June 08, 2016

Dolly's denial

As I suspected, the rumour that Dolly Parton is a lesbian was too good to be true. An American tourist on safari told me she had frequent slumber parties with a woman called Judy Ogle, who was supposedly her lesbian lover. He also asserted that the husband she claims to have has never been seen in public. It was Dolly herself who put these insinuations to bed in the best possible way:

“If I was gay, I would have come out of the closet just a-flying!” she declared in a recent interview.

Apparently her husband is just a publicity-shy fellow who shuns the limelight, whereas Judy Ogle is a bosom childhood friend who never intentionally touched Dolly’s bosom. You can’t assume someone is a kitty-muncher just because her name is ‘Judy Ogle’. Many people are burdened with suggestive names that don’t reflect their true nature.

Of course, I wouldn’t blame the Velcro vixens for hoping that Dolly was one of their number. Anyone can see that busty lesbians are in short supply, so Dolly would have given the sisterhood some much-needed chesticular gravity. The flat-chested, short-haired, trouser-wearing stereotype isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and recruiting a well-stacked player for the A-team would have won them new fans.

Another myth that Dolly could have helped to explode is that lesbians are not especially keen on booby action. I don’t believe that anyone who is attracted to women would downplay the jahoobies – certainly, no one attracted to Dolly could do so. Maybe Ellen Degeneres should make a public statement clearing up the misconceptions on this topic.

What Dolly has clearly demonstrated is that you don’t need to be gay to be a supporter of gays. She was quick to apologise when she found out that a female visitor to her ‘Dollywood’ theme park was told to reverse a t-shirt displaying a pro-lesbian slogan. After issuing a statement on ABC news, Dolly announced her support for gay marriage rights:

“Sure, why can’t they get married?” she said. “They should suffer like the rest of us do.”

This is all well and good, but I hope Dolly checked the t-shirt slogan was appropriate for a family venue. “Lesbian and Proud” would be fine, but “Hot Dyke Action at” should be reserved for the bars and clubs.

It seems the queer community are solidly behind Hillary for president, although I’m not entirely sure what she’s done for them. Is there anything she could do after getting elected, besides offering the usual words of support?

If I had Madame President’s ear, I would advise her to invite the surviving members of ‘Village People’ to perform in the White House. It would be great to see them prancing about in their costumes again. It’s a little known fact that ‘YMCA’ is a beloved classic among the gorillas of the Congo, even though we have no idea what YMCA stands for. That’s the great thing about pop music – you can enjoy the songs without having a clue what the words mean.

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Wednesday, June 01, 2016

Penile poetry

A man in Burma has been sentenced to six months in prison for having an insulting poem about the country’s president tattooed on his penis. It’s a form of political dissent that might have been invented by the Marquis de Sade. Or possibly a baboon. Had I been the defence counsel, I would have argued that the words inscribed on a man’s todger are his own private affair. A malcontent who genuinely wanted to insult the president would have penned a letter rather than expressing his disapproval in a place that few would venture for light reading. I doubt even the man’s wife would have paused to admire her husband’s verse while attending to other duties. It’s the kind of service that only a call girl would provide, and expect to be generously tipped for.

Given the inaccessible location of the incriminating evidence, I’d like to know how the Burmese police found out about it. The most likely snitch would have been the tattooist, who might have given the police an anonymous tip-off to avoid getting nabbed as an accessory. I pity the policeman who had the job of checking that the words were defamatory. It’s not a form of investigation that falls within the normal definition of police work, and I hope the judge allowed him to testify from behind a screen. No one wants to be known as the official cock inspector.

It seems that free speech is under attack all over the world. A German comedian recently got into hot water for suggesting that the Turkish president was romantically involved with a goat. Would you believe he is now being prosecuted under an ancient German law that prohibits insulting a foreign head of state?

A British journalist has responded to this outrage by holding a competition to compose the most obscene limerick about the Turkish president. It’s a bold act of defiance, but I’m not convinced that human poets are savvy enough to imagine anything more lurid than goat-love. They should first spend a few months in Africa observing the hyenas and baboons to get their creating juices working.

If you’re thinking of entering the competition, I regret to inform you that the prize of one thousand pounds sterling has already been won. As if to prove my point, the winning entry elaborated on the goat theme. I reproduce it below in its full and uncensored version:

There was a young fellow from Ankara
Who was a terrific wankerer.
Till he sowed his wild oats
With the help of a goat
But he didn’t even stop to thankera.

The most amazing thing about this limerick is that the man who composed it might well be the next prime minister of the United Kingdom. I wonder what will happen if, at some future date, he has to host the Turkish president on an official state visit. Fortunately the British don’t serve goat at their state banquets, although many of their senior politicians are good at making bleating noises, which may test the limits of the Turkish president’s patience. 

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