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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Marianne Faithfull says she is proud to have escaped the “straitjacket” of being Mick Jagger’s girlfriend. She makes it sound like a feat worthy of Houdini. It’s quite possible, of course, that Jagger did tie her up while attempting some devilish perversion. The 1960s are remembered as a decade of feverish experimentation, particularly for pop stars who spent the greater part of their leisure time as high as a kite. Yet, he doesn’t strike me as the possessive type in his relations with the fairer sex. Why would he chase after fallen apples when he could pluck a new one from the tree?
Whatever Mick did to her, she couldn’t have enjoyed it that much, because she cheated on him with Keith Richards, describing her debauchery as “the best night ever”. Keith had been eager to seduce her after his own girlfriend had been ravished by Jagger, and he later rubbed salt into the wound by claiming that Mick’s todger was too puny to have satisfied Marianne. There is truly no honour among cuckolds.
Ms Faithful may think of herself as a liberated woman, but her behaviour seems quite dated to me. Hopping from the bed of one famous man to another is what Helen of Troy did to secure her place in history. While it’s true that Marianne had her own musical career, her fame was obviously fuelled by her antics with the Rolling Stones. Her status was never comparable to that of Lady Gaga or Miley Cyrus, who are queen bees rather than concubines.
Miley has recently been in the news for having her bottom spanked with a Mexican flag. It must have been a token spanking, because a piece of cloth cannot smack a lady’s rump with the required force. Her stunt has nevertheless outraged the Mexican authorities, who have threatened to prosecute her. They are too easily offended if you ask me. Isn’t it obvious that Miley’s gesture was a submissive one, generously declaring her peachy posterior to be the property of Mexico? If the Mexicans don’t want it, there must be a dozen other tortilla-eating nations that would be delighted to claim it as a national asset.
Maybe the Mexicans are annoyed because Miley is an American, whom they subconsciously blame for the loss of Texas and California. Those festering wounds were later aggravated by scores of Hollywood westerns depicting them either as helpless peasants or bandits with bushy moustaches. It’s well-known that most Mexicans of that era were actually like Zorro – fearless swordsmen of noble birth whose moustaches were curly rather than bushy.
Let’s hope that Miley avoids a jail term for her well-meant stunt. Perhaps she could make amends for the unintentional offence she caused by starring in a movie showing Mexico in a positive light. I’d like to see her play an Aztec queen who eats tortillas and beans while being spanked with fly whisks made from the plumage of exotic birds. After watching a film like that, I would salute the Mexican flag whenever I saw it.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Kiss of horror
My heart bleeds for Erica Valentine, the woman with an unusual kissing phobia. The 36-year-old model (pictured above) hasn’t had a date in over two years because of her fear of oral cooties.
“So many things go through my head so it makes kissing impossible for me,” she explained. “I've only ever had three boyfriends and I ask them all sorts of questions such as when they last brushed their teeth.”
Erica did live in wedlock for eight years, but the strain of a smoochless marriage was eventually too much for her husband. He left after impregnating her, possibly feeling he’d been used like a sperm bank. I hope she doesn’t give up on love. She might yet meet a man who is content to pleasure her from behind, his lips sealed with duct tape as an added precaution. A suitable advert in the personal columns would surely attract many offers. A chaperone would obviously be required to weed out the fiends and perverts.
Could Erica be cured of her complex by a shrink? It would certainly be fascinating to explore her subconscious mind. Her phobia might have originated in nursery school, when a greedy boy tried to suck a sweet out of her mouth. Hypnosis might be an effective therapy. Put a suggestion in her brain that her saliva is more deadly to germs than the toilet cleaners advertised on TV. You could test whether it worked by asking her to kiss a walrus or a warty old toad. Kissing a man would be a piece of cake after that.
Had Erica been born a gorilla her phobia would be unimportant, because kissing is unheard of amongst the hairy primates. When I told my females about the tongue-wrestling humans get up to, they hooted in hilarity. I am confident that human infants raised in a gorilla band would have no interest in kissing each other when they reached puberty. They would all be like Tarzan, who had no idea his mouth could be used for sexual purposes until Jane started sitting on his face.
How humans acquired the kissing habit is one of the great mysteries of anthropology. You don’t see couples spooning in a hunter-gatherer band. I reckon the practice began when humans started living in houses, which the women were expected to look after while the men were away at work.
Picture a man arriving home at the end of the day, looking forward to putting his feet up and relaxing in a vegetative state. Before he can sit down and begin the important task of scratching his nutsack, his eardrums are assaulted by the incessant chatter of his missus. After years of annoyance, he finally comes up with the solution – pressing his lips against hers to shut her up.
One can only wonder how the first woman to be kissed reacted to her first kiss.
“Are you out of your mind, you mad brute!” she might have hissed. “You’d better not do that again until I’ve taken off my lipstick!”
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Catch the hacker!
The despicable rogue who hacked into the private nudie album of Miss Jennifer Lawrence is a fugitive. The FBI are on his trail and Godspeed to them, but they won’t be able to catch him if he flees to the Congo. The jungle over here is too dense for federal agents and the monkeys would piss on their suits. Having a lethal weapon in your possession doesn’t mean you can comb every bush. I reminded the manager of the safari camp of our civic duty to apprehend the scoundrel and deny him sanctuary:
“We must get a mug-shot of him in case he turns up on our doorstep,” I advised. “If we catch the blighter, my females will guard him until he’s sent back to America. They’ll make him rue the day he trespassed in the trinket box of a high-ranking female!”
“You’re talking as if it’s the crime of the century!” chuckled the manager. “I don’t approve of hacking, but I doubt the photos show anything that’s not in her movies. I think her erect nipples were on display in American Hustle. Google it if you don’t believe me.”
“I will do no such thing!” I declared hotly. “That would make me no better than the idiots who’ve been gawking at the stolen pictures!”
Now the villainous hacker goes by the alias of ‘OriginalGuy’ and has communicated with his evil henchmen in a public on-line forum. Here is one of the messages he posted:
“This is the result of several months of long and hard work by all involved. We appreciate your donations and applaud your excitement. I will soon be moving to another location from which I will continue to post.”
The pride he expresses in their achievement is quite pathetic. Every single one of them must have ogled hundreds of pictures of naked women on the internet, which makes it a statistical certainty that they’ve already seen a body-double of Miss Lawrence. There is nothing extraordinary about Jennifer’s jahoobies – they didn’t turn into sugar plums just because she joined the A-list. Nor do I believe she keeps nude photos of herself to titillate people. She probably wants to keep track of how exercise and diet are affecting the shape of her rump. It’s an important issue for a woman in her line of work.
On the subject of shapely rumps, Miss Cara Delevinge was recently photographed biting the pert bottom of Miss Jourdan Dunn, her fellow supermodel. This orthodontal act was performed in public and the evidence is displayed below for your inspection. Publishing the picture is entirely legal and shows the good clean fun you can enjoy without hacking anyone’s account.
The photo is far from perfect, of course. The lighting isn’t good and Cara’s teeth are indenting the fabric of an expensive frock. It would have been preferable, in an artistic sense, to have seen her biting bare flesh. Full marks to the girls for making an effort, though. Adventurous deeds like theirs will put the hackers out of business.
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
Ice bucket challenge
I’ve noticed that a lot of humans have been dousing themselves with buckets of ice-cold water. One mustn’t mock them because they’re doing it in a good cause, but I don’t see the point of the exercise, unless the good cause is finding work for unemployed towels. When I decide to support a worthy charity, I reach into my jungle sporran for a gold coin and toss it in the direction of the authorised collector. Buckets of cold water, if any be loitering in attendance, are emptied into the Congo River to cool off the crocodiles.
To my human friends who would like to accept the challenge but are fearful of screaming like a sissy, I offer the following advice: it won’t feel so bad if you prepare yourself for the ordeal by roasting yourself on a spit for two minutes. The manager of the safari camp was not moved to action when I made this suggestion, but his wife’s eyes lit up in apparent enthusiasm:
“I like to have a cold shower after my weekly Zumba session,” she said. “You could easily climb above the cubicle and throw a bucket of cold water over me. It’s okay for a gorilla to see me naked because it’s like being examined by a doctor. But wait for me to shampoo my hair first.”
I scratched my armpits in contemplation before making the following reply:
“Madam, I am flattered by your confidence in my tossing ability and gratified by your faith in my clinical objectivity. However, what you propose is work for a chimpanzee rather than a gorilla. If you wish, I will dispatch a competent bucketeer to your cubicle at an agreed time. He may not be as poker-faced as me, but I will instruct him to refrain from hooting or whistling.”
She told me she would like to meet the chimp first, so I agreed to arrange an interview.
Now, an actress called Olivia Wilde has performed the feat with a liquid other than water. In a video clip posted on YouTube, she spoke these words to the camera before soaking herself:
“I hope it's okay, I couldn't find any water, so I'm going to use breast milk. It took me all night to make this.”
The contents of the bucket did look like milk, but I’ll change my name to Latte Macchiato if it came from her udders. I suspect her improbable boast was an attempt to talk up the value of her boobs. An up-and-coming actress is always looking for ways to increase her bargaining power with the movie moguls. Yet I’m far from convinced that the milk-producing capacity of her jahoobies indicates how appetising they would look on film.
It’s possible, of course, that Miss Wilde was simply making a joke. If so, it was much less funny than the shrieks she emitted after drenching herself, which made her sound like a dowager having her knickers pulled down by a dwarf. What definitely wasn’t funny was all that milk going to waste. When I think of all the hungry baby dwarves, it makes me want to weep.