Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Bank robbery


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.

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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. 

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Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Cosmic couplings


News arrives of a coven of nubile young women who claim to have mated with aliens. How I would love to believe they are telling the truth. As a proud Earth gorilla, it thrills me that an advanced extra-terrestrial race would want to breed with our native fauna. The chosen ladies are certainly fine specimens with lissom figures and promising careers in the private sector. Your high-flying, planet-hopping alien isn’t going to point his antennae at the first frumpy wench who crosses his path.

The good news for Earth women who might be apprehensive about sharing their bed with a creature from the Horsehead Nebula is that the aliens are fantastic lovers:

“It was an incredible super primal, super raw, super primal sexual experience,” said Bridget Nielsen, a former marketing executive. “There was a real freedom and we were really going for it. It was the best sex I ever had.”

As well as being super-primal with the ladies, the aliens have no inhibitions about voyeurs:

“All of sudden I'm sat next to this green reptilian creature and immediately I'm so sexually turned on looking at this being,” explained Aluna Verse, a video game designer. “I was very surprised. We're making love in this classroom in front of everyone.”

I wonder how these inter-stellar studs got to be so good at pleasuring Earth females. Is it possible they’ve been visiting our planet for the last 10,000 years, mating with women in every haystack, cave and castle? Even a green reptilian creature could be a demon in the sack after centuries of practice with the horniest hoochies of human history. And they could learn all the latest tricks from porn videos.

Apparently, these intimate encounters have produced broods of happy half-breeds. You might think a philandering alien would make a beeline for Alpha Centauri after knocking up his Earth mistress, but the pregnancies are part of their master plan:

“They are creating a hybrid race to better humanity,” explained Ms Nielsen.

Sadly, the children have chosen to live on spaceships with their doting fathers. However they do occasionally visit Earth for family reunions. As it is against the rules to photograph them, their mothers have sketched portraits of their offspring for us to admire. And what handsome little creatures they are! Leonard Nimoy himself could not have wished for more adorable children.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about the Hybrid Baby Community, he snorted like a wildebeest swatting a fly with its tail:

“To call this a hoax would be an insult to hoaxes,” he scoffed. “These women must be kinky escorts trying to drum up publicity for their services.”

“You’re always such a party-pooper,” I said. “Why not offer them a free safari holiday if they will provide proof of their claims?”

“And what if the proof turns out to be false?” he asked.

“In that case I will give them a damned good spanking,” I replied. “Women should know what to expect if they tell huge whoppers to a gorilla.”

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Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Chinese soap opera


Strange events are taking place in China. Some might say that strange events have always taken place is China, but such apocryphal claims will not be entertained in this blog. A quick perusal of the Jimmy Choo History Almanac indicates that things were pretty humdrum during the Ming dynasty, when mandarins of the Imperial Court played ping pong to relieve the boredom. As long as they kowtowed to the Emperor and kept their beards well trimmed, no one would dock their pay for having a quiet snooze in the eunuch dormitory.

The latest incident of note from the Middle Kingdom concerns a pretty young woman called Xiao Xiao, who was dumped by her boyfriend for being too fat. The heartless rogue didn’t bother to soften the blow by saying he was “having issues” or had fallen in love with his sister. He simply told her that he was embarrassed to come home with a girlfriend who looked like “a fat little goose”.

The peculiar aspect of this tale is the manner in which Miss Xiao responded to being callously rejected in this fashion. She did not, as far as we know, hang out with a gaggle of girlfriends willing to endorse her tearful recriminations. Instead, she made herself slimmer in a jiffy by paying for a liposuction procedure. The fat extracted from her body was then used to make a bar of soap, which she sent to the scoundrel who jilted her with the following message:

“Yang Xiaolei, do you still remember last Spring Festival? Since I can't accompany you to go home this year, I used my own fat to make a soap and give it to your mother for bathing. Spring Festival is the time to give a gift to those low-class men who judge women by appearance.”

When I told the manager of safari camp about this story, he sucked his teeth and nodded.

“That’s the Chinese for you,” he said. “They always have their own way of doing things. A western woman would have had herself photographed with a handsome hunk and sent the picture to her ex with the message ‘In your face, buddy!’ Only a Chinese woman would think of using her dripping to make a bar of soap. You could spend a lifetime trying to fathom what goes on in their minds.”

“You don’t say?” I remarked. “To be honest, I find Hollywood actors more inscrutable than the Chinese. Especially George Clooney. Why is his face always so grumpy?”

As a gorilla, I find that humans tend to exaggerate their cultural differences. If you examine Miss Xiao’s statement, she said the soap was a gift for her ex-boyfriend’s mother. Why did she bring his mother into the discussion? It looks suspiciously like the kind of “Yo Mama” insult that was invented in the ghettos of America.

In truth, there are very few human tribes whose culture has not been contaminated by foreigners. Humans have been cross-fertilising each other since they learned how to jump on two feet.

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Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Asiatic delicacy


Have you heard of a country called Kyrgyzstan? When I asked the manager of the safari camp, he said it was the fairy-tale kingdom where Aladdin and Ali Baba fought a duel for the hand of Princess Pashmima Sugerbuns. Apparently it was air-to-air combat on flying carpets, but he can’t remember who won. After borrowing his Bazooka Joe Pocket Atlas, however, I discovered it was a real country caught in a sandwich between China and Uzbekistan.

The cause of my Kyrgizzy curiosity is a news story about a British man who got deported from the country for likening its national dish to a horse’s penis. The word “penis” is rarely spoken by British men, so he probably used some other colloquial term. Whatever the nomenclature, the Kyrgyzians were scandalised and outraged by his remark. A strike was called at his place of work and the country’s leading chef denounced the impertinent Englishman as an upstart and a calumniator. After toying with the idea of prosecuting him for “insulting national dignity”, the government decided to expel him. It is rumoured that British diplomats in Kyrgyzstan have started wearing kaftans to make their nationality less conspicuous. Some are expected to grow wispy beards.

Now, the picture above shows the Kyrgyzstani national dish, which appears to be some kind of sausage. Whether it resembles a horse’s appendage I cannot say, but it seems to have roughly the same dimensions as that of a zebra. Were the Kyrgyzians justified in feeling so slighted? If you ask me, it depends on what a horse’s dick actually tastes like (after being cooked and seasoned in the appropriate manner). If it’s as unappetising as it sounds, they would be entitled to take umbrage at anyone comparing it to their native hot dog. But for all we know, it may be a gourmet dish that tastes better than the finest Bratwurst. They should have done some basic research before getting in a tizzy about the first offhand description of their national cuisine.

Maybe Zac Efron could teach the Kyrgyzians how to take a joke. The 28-year-old actor has been telling everyone that his mother gave him a packet of penis-shaped pasta for Christmas:

“You know your mom's on point when she puts this in your stocking!” exclaimed Zac, greatly amused.

Personally I’m not convinced it’s as funny as Zac makes out, and it makes you wonder about the kind of relationship he has with his mother. Did she laugh at little Zac’s todger when he was a boy? He must have forgiven her if she did, and maybe it helped him shrug off the giggles of his girlfriends in later life.

The only remaining question is whether Zac will eat the pasta. It’s quite difficult to get the cooking time right if the size and shape are unusual. He should also carefully consider what kind of sauce would be suitable. I would favour a tomato-based sauce rather than a creamy one on this occasion. And mince would be preferable to meatballs.

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Wednesday, January 06, 2016

Old stars, new war



So it seems they’ve made a new Star Wars film called The Force Awakens. I never knew it had fallen asleep, but I suppose that’s what happens when the galaxy is at peace and there are no hostile spaceships to zap with a ray gun. The manager of the safari camp told me not to make jokes about Star Wars lest I offend any tourists who are fans of the never-ending space saga: 

They are more common that you might think,” he explained. “We once had a guest who called himself Jedi One Kenobi”.

“A name to scare the pants off any baboon who might be thinking of defecting to the Empire,” I remarked.

In truth, I wasn’t a great fan of the original movie. Han Solo was just a clichéd tough-nut adventurer who thought dames were a pain in the ass until Princess Leia penetrated the gooey substance inside his armour-plated shell. One would have expected better versions of the masculine hero to exist in the age of the spaceman. Chewbacca was a stupid braying teddy bear and Darth Vader clearly had some kind of throat infection. The only good thing was the light sabre, and I was surprised that no one got prodded in the posterior by one of those handy weapons. Wouldn’t it have been the obvious practical joke to play among the Jedi fraternity?

Although Carrie Fisher reprises her role as the princess in the new film, the female lead is played by 23-year-old Daisy Ridley, to whom Ms Fisher offered various pearls of motherly wisdom during the shoot:

“I told her not to go through the crew like wildfire,” she revealed on British TV. "When I was first in it, I never wanted anyone to have the anecdote, 'I slept with Princess Leia.'”

A wise precaution, but why would a leading actress fool around with lowly members of the production crew? Wouldn’t it be more tempting to have an affair with the leading man? Perhaps this opportunity never presented itself to Ms Fisher because of the unattractive hairstyle she had to adopt in the first movie. Like most women, she looks far more alluring with her hair down, and you couldn’t blame Harrison Ford for being picky with all the hoochies on set, ready to drop their knickers for him at the wink of an eye.

A fine example of what a good hairdo can do for a woman is seen in the example of Diane Rodriguez, Ecuador’s leading transgendered female, who is shown below with her transgendered husband. Could you honestly say who was who without the essential clue of their hairstyles? Ms Rodrigues recently announced that her husband was pregnant with her child, which could result in the first human baby to be breastfed by its daddy. From what I can see, mummy’s breasts look more appetising even though they contain no milk. Let’s hope this paradox doesn’t cause baby to bark up the wrong nipple.


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Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Pammy's last hurrah


I am thrilled to the cockles of my groin that Pamela Anderson will be posing in Playboy’s last nude issue. It just goes to show that even a fusty old reptile like Hef can have a flash of inspiration. Call me a kinky ape, but I am far more interested in Pamela’s body now that she’s reached the ripe and raunchy age of 48. We gorillas prefer our meat cured and slightly chewy. I just hope they don’t airbrush the photos to make her skin look like polished plastic.

There are many things I admire about Pamela Anderson. Her critics think she’s an airhead, but she’s definitely not as stupid as she looks. Her critics might say that no one is as stupid as she looks, but they can go and suck on lemons. A woman who can make fifty thousand bucks by posing naked in Playboy doesn’t need to worry about snide comments from pettifoggers and guttersnipes.

The good news is that her sons have given their blessings to the venture:

“Mom you've got to do it,” said Brandon. “We're older, we're not embarrassed anymore of you. You know, we think you're great!”

“He was so excited he may have high-fived me!” added Pamela.

You’ve got to wonder how Pammy’s boys will turn out. My gut feeling is that they’ll be fine young men with a deep respect for women, even if the women in question are hoochies or harlots. That doesn’t mean they’ll date such women, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married Mormon girls, who would never dream of being unfaithful to their husbands unless they were carousing with other women, which doesn’t count as cheating in the Mormon religion. I make this proviso after learning about a new genre of lesbian pornography that the manager of the safari camp is currently enthusiastic about. It purports to show Mormon girls ecstatically exploring their erogenous areas.

“I’d convert to Mormonism to get a pair of wives like those two,” he said, while drooling over a video clip on his i-phone.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I remarked. “Your sex life might be limited to the role of a referee in a wrestling match.”

“Hmm,” said the manager frowning. “I was hoping to be the hooker in a rugby scrum.”

“Not much chance of that,” I replied. “They don’t play rugby in America.”

I now feel quite guilty about spoiling the manager’s fantasy. Christmas is a time for whimsy and make-believe, when fat jolly men empty their sacks under big bushy trees. You’re not supposed to tell children that Santa Claus isn’t real and the elves won’t turn up because they only want to play with themselves. I will have to cheer him up with news of how the Mormon faith is spreading outside America, to countries where rugby is played with a passion. Good things come to those who wait, as the Book of Mormon would have said if a gorilla had written it.

 

The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.

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