Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Scarlett's denial
Scarlett Johansson has said that she’s “not a nudist by nature” and I believe her. Exposing her soft, creamy skin to the elements would be a foolhardy pastime to practice on a regular basis. In my part of the world, the mosquitoes and leeches would be queuing up to taste her tender flesh and gorge on her blood, which doubtless tastes better than a tomato smoothie. If I saw Scarlett sleeping naked in the jungle, I would order a chimpanzee to fetch a box of cling film from the safari camp, so I could wrap her up like a slice of melon. Naked actresses are no less worthy of conservation than African wildlife, and I’m sure my friend Davy Attenborough would agree with me.
The intention behind Scarlett’s remark was to assure critics that the nudity in her latest film role was essential to the plot, and not a brazen attempt at titillation. In this film, Scarlett plays an alien femme fatale who kills the men she seduces in order to harvest their bodies. Not having seen the movie, I cannot explain the motive for these egregious deeds. One would hope those extra-terrestrial chicks aren’t like female spiders who make a hearty meal of the poor dope that impregnates them. I wouldn’t want to see Scarlett practising cannibalism on the big screen – it’s not a healthy dining habit and the African tribes that did it suffered from heartburn and halitosis. Stick to green vegetables and insects if you want to live long and prosper.
Let’s hope that no mentally disturbed woman engages in copycat behaviour after seeing the film. That could lead to tiresome lawsuits, which are the bane of humanity. I groaned and thumped my chest when I heard that Miley Cyrus is being sued by a workman who was hurt while erecting the giant tongue used in her stage act. One would have hoped he had more dignity than to claim he was injured by a tongue. My advice to Miley is to settle this quickly before the lawyers descend like vultures.
Back in my circus days, a clown once threatened to sue me for injuring his buttocks during our act. There was a little swelling, but nothing that couldn’t have been cured by sitting on an ice pack for a few hours. I offered him a month’s wages from my own pocket.
“Take the cash and I will moderate the force of my kicks,” I told him. “Otherwise be prepared to suffer for your art.”
He wisely took the money and got his arse massaged by a professional.
Much as I dislike lawsuits, I have no fear of testifying in court should the need arise. I was once called as an expert witness in a libel trial in London.
“M’Lud!” I declared. “No human in a gorilla suit could tempt a real gorilla into the unnatural acts described in the journal. The anatomies are incompatible!”
I’m proud to say that my evidence decided the case.
Labels: lawsuits, Miley Cyrus, nudity, Scarlett Johansson
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Tiger's latest birdie
So Tiger Woods has announced he is “dating” Lindsey Vonn, the all-American skiing champion. Is it my imagination, or does she resemble every other woman Tiger has charmed with his swishing club shaft? If I were Tiger’s agent, I would have urged him to go out with a transitional brunette just to prove he isn’t colour-prejudiced. I wouldn’t have advised him to date a black woman, of course – a suggestion so outlandish might have caused him to choke on his tongue, which wouldn’t have helped his accuracy with the driver.
As a gorilla, I don’t see why men find blond women so alluring. Admittedly they do look the part in Scandinavia, where they blend into the Nordic landscape like artic foxes. But I always find it damnably difficult to tell their faces apart when they congregate in large numbers. I wonder if Hef has name badges for the playmates in the mansion, so he can keep track of whose turn it is to knead his leathery buttocks. Maybe he doesn’t particularly care and lets the girls draw straws.
Now a few blond women do stand out from the crowd. Scarlett Johansson is one and Angela Merkel is another. They complement their strengths and weaknesses so perfectly that they ought to be a double-act. As the gene for human blondness is a relatively recent mutation, they must have a common prehistoric ancestor who was the Mother of all blondes (Moab). The alpha males of that epoch must have fought for the privilege of mating with her, while the alpha females no doubt pulled her hair and made bitchy remarks about peroxide. Being the first of a new strain is never easy.
Yet in truth, I find red-haired humans more interesting than blondes. The genetic mutation that gave rise to their condition is a very ancient one, shared by our orang-utan cousins. It is said to be associated with extrovert behaviour and a healthy libido, which is why you should always expect the unexpected from a redhead.
Take Cynthia Nixon, the actress who portrayed Miranda in Sex and the City. There she was playing happy families with her husband and two children, when quite out-of-the-blue she ran off with another woman and joined the tuppence-licking sorority. Her conduct reminded me of Clyde, the mercurial orang-utan in Every Which Way But Loose, who would stick out his arm without warning to punch people in the face.
Who is the world’s leading redhead? I would give the title to Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. A lot of people find her accent unbearable, but I think it makes her sound like a school mistress addressing the roughnecks and bushwhackers in their own barbarous dialect. There is no doubt that millions of men have sexual fantasies about her, and are frustratedly searching for pornographic images to indulge their obsession. If she retired from politics today, she could easily earn $500 an hour as an escort, which is a more honourable way of making a living than giving paid speeches to assemblies of toadies.
Labels: Angela Merkel, blondes, Cynthia Nixon, Julia Gillard, Scarlett Johansson, Tiger Woods, tuppence-licking
Monday, May 09, 2011
Scarlett's phantom pregnancy
Scarlett Johansson has denied that she’s carrying Sean Penn’s baby and I, for one, believe her. The bulge in her belly could have many innocent explanations, such as a bout of dropsy or too many side orders of potato wedges. She might even be hiding a gopher beneath her sweater like a mommy kangaroo. Most actresses go through a sentimental phase about animals. We gorillas will always remember the visit of Daryl Hannah, who approached our hairy community like a girl in search of a piggy-back ride. A kindly female patted her on the head and gave her some roots to chew.
There’s another reason why Scarlett is unlikely to be pregnant – I seriously doubt whether The Pennster’s man-seed is up to the job. Actors who’ve led dissolute, drug-taking lives often end up with lackadaisical sperm that chase their own tails rather than making a beeline for the nearest egg. The couple must have had carnal relations, of course. A woman doesn’t shack up with one of Hollywood’s leading men unless she’s ready and willing to spread her legs for him. Refusing to oblige would have certainly provoked a huge tantrum from Penn, possibly culminating in Mel Gibson-like threats to burn the house down.
One thing that doesn’t surprise me is Scarlett taking to an older man. Those of you who’ve seen the film Lost in Translation will know what I’m talking about. In that movie, she plays a bewildered young woman who wanders around Tokyo looking for someone to talk to. Amid the unsettling hordes of inscrutable Japanese, she finds an American man played by Bill Murray, who soothes her troubled soul with his mellow reflections. It was obvious, even then, that Scarlet hankered after a craggy-faced Daddy figure who would tell her bedtime stories while balancing her on his knee. You may say that she was only acting, but A-list thespians habitually draw on their own emotions to make their performances convincing.
Speaking of older men, the relentless hounding of Silvio Berlusconi is beginning to get on my nerves. The latest accusation against him is that he encouraged a pair of party girls to make love to a statue of the god Priapus, whose broken todger he had previously repaired. Is this supposed to be a crime? What would be the point of restoring a statue’s manhood if you didn’t intend to help it use its new equipment? If a man is prosecuted for being a pimp to a restored work of art, the emasculated sculptures of the world will remain forever dickless.
The allegation I utterly refuse to believe is that Berlusconi has had sexual congress with multiple high-class harlots in his “bunga-bunga” parties. Aside from the fact that “bunga-bunga” means “masturbation” in the Congo, the statue incident proves beyond doubt that he prefers watching to participating. A wily old goat like Silvio knows better than to endanger his health by allowing whores to milk his waning gonads. When a man gets to his age, vicarious titillation is a safer option than the real McCoy.
Labels: bunga-bunga, phantom pregnancy, Scarlett Johansson, Sean Penn, Silvio Berlusconi
Friday, December 18, 2009
Scarlett fever
It’s a shame I didn’t run into Scarlett Johansson during her recent visit to Africa. I might have given her some useful tips about our native gels and lotions. Trekking around the jungle in hotpants is all very well, but it does make a woman with milky-white flesh an obvious target for the mosquitoes. Her legs must have stood out like bananas in a green salad. Had I known she was coming, I would have sent her a natural ointment to rub on her thighs after her morning shower.
Be that as it may, I have no doubt that Scarlett’s visit was a tremendous morale boost for the local women. For far too long, they have occupied a servile position under the prevailing “Big Man” culture. The sight of a gorgeous young actress surrounded by an entourage of fawning male flunkies would have conveyed a powerful message. Scarlett, indeed, was quick to express solidarity with her bullied and harassed black sisters.
“I’ve always found that women have power in numbers,” she remarked. “We draw strength from the support of other women.”
Tell me about it! When I was in the circus, I soon realised that advancing my interests depended on establishing close bonds with the all-girl acrobat team. So I engineered what biologists call “a symbiosis” and political scientists call “an alliance”. I curried their favour by performing chores such as carrying baggage and apprehending peeping toms. They, in return, let me borrow their grooming products, which are frankly far more useful to a gorilla than any number of human females.
We also backed each other up at staff meetings. When the ringmaster ludicrously suggested that I dress up in a genie costume for Christmas, all I had to do was grunt disdainfully for the girls to vigorously pooh-pooh his proposal. No motion was ever carried without the support of what became known as the “Bananas and Cream Consortium”.
This political education served me well when I returned to the jungle and acquired a harem. Female gorillas are not technically women, but they are sisters under the fur and the similarities outweigh the differences. The way to handle them is as follows: first, guess what they want to do; then, order them to do it. This puts them in a quandary, as they cannot defy my commands without abandoning their own plans. Hence they usually do as I direct, while gesturing obscenely as a way of demonstrating their independence. I laugh it off as a show of high-spirits from within the ranks.
Sadly, African men are not as adept as managing their females as we silverbacks. They lack a little something called finesse. That’s why my friend Kola Boof, the self-styled womanist, believes that nothing short of a full-blown matriarchy will suffice. As well as being a wily political agitator, she has written many poems eulogising the indomitable spirit of the jungle queen who wields a deadly machete and proudly exposes her breasts. This is surely the kind of philosophy that Scarlett should seek to promote if she is serious in her desire to empower her sex. I must send her one of Kola’s books for Christmas.
Labels: gels, Kola Boof, lotions, Scarlett Johansson, womanism
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Intimate souvenirs
Are you fond of a mystery? I’m puzzling over the identity of the pervert who paid $5,300 for Scarlett Johansson’s used tissue. After blowing her nose on the Jay Leno show, she put the item in a sealed bag which was auctioned on e-Bay. In this commercial age, the snot of a beautiful actress is a highly marketable commodity in the deviant ghoul community. My prime suspect is that filthy devil El Barbudo, who once confessed to having erotic fantasies about women with runny noses. I should imagine the bearded degenerate would immerse the tissue in a slimy gel to create a poultice for his private parts. It might go some way to abating the savagery of his sexual urge.
Another possibility is that that a mad scientist has acquired the tissue to extract Miss Johannson’s DNA and create an unspecified number of Scarlett clones. He would indoctrinate them from birth to conform to his evil plans, no doubt involving wanton promiscuity and the exposure of copious milky-white flesh (unlike the real Miss Johannson). Horse-whipping is too good for these modern-day Frankensteins.
Not everyone is obsessed with mucus, of course. I know from experience that the intimate possessions of a performing artist are like gold dust to his (or her) fans. In my circus days, a young woman once offered me a tidy sum for the pantaloons I wore during my act. As I had several spares, I could have borne the loss with equanimity. However my suspicions were aroused by her large breasts, which she seemed to be flaunting at me.
“What do you want them for?” I asked, referring to the pantaloons.
“They’re for my boyfriend,” she answered.
“Are you sure his bottom is big enough?”
“Oh yes, he’s got a huge arse. And he’s really big and hairy, like a…um…bear.”
“Won’t he be worried that people will laugh at him? They’re not really the latest thing in men’s fashion.”
“He’ll only put them on when we’re alone. I’ll cut a slit in the crotch so he can shag me while he’s wearing them.”
As you can imagine, I wasn’t too impressed by her readiness to rip apart the groin of one of my nattiest garments.
“Is that so?” I said sternly. “And what will you be thinking of when he ravishes you in the trouser-wear you have so casually desecrated?”
Her only response to this question was to giggle hysterically and punch me repeatedly in the arm. This caused me little pain, but I felt it lacked the reverence due from a true devotee. When she had calmed down, I asked an errand boy to fetch me a notebook and pencil.
“Here is the name of a theatrical supplier who sells the pantaloons,” I said, handing her a chit. “I trust this will be adequate for your purpose. I cannot involve myself in human mating practices, however indirectly.”
“But they won’t smell the same!” she protested.
“Smells are for flowers, baby!” I declared in the voice of a Harlem gangster, waving my hand to dismiss her from my presence.
Smells are very important, of course, but one shouldn’t hand them out to fans like autographs. It will be a cold day in the Congo before anyone bottles my essences.
Labels: pantaloons, Scarlett Johansson, snot
Monday, July 16, 2007
Blond faith
Miss Scarlett Johansson has been occupying my mind recently. She reminds me of a young woman I met, many years ago, when performing with the circus in Stockholm. As my act drew to a conclusion, I noticed her staring at me intensely from the ringside. She stood up and stretched out her arms as I passed her on my way to the exit.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
Labels: Scarlett Johansson
