Wednesday, February 25, 2015
The British TV adventurer, Bear Grylls, has said he would order his son to eat him if they were stranded in the jungle without food. For this statement alone, he should be banished from the rainforests of the world and forced to live on milk and cookies for the rest of his life. A self-described “survival expert” who cannot find food in the jungle is a worthless humbug. We gorillas think of our habitat as a giant salad with plenty of protein snacks available if you don’t mind putting wriggly things in your mouth.
One has to pity his son, of course. I don’t know how old he is, but the thought that he might one day have to chomp on his daddy’s carcass must be giving him nightmares. I dare say it’s also ruined his appetite. A big-headed TV personality like Grylls no doubt believes that his flesh is tasty, but its flavour is probably no better than porcupine or wart hog. If he’s really serious about the whole thing, he ought to cut a piece of meat from his rump and try it himself. Don’t ask your child to eat something you wouldn’t touch yourself.
Now cannibalism is a dark dietary practice from man’s primeval past, so far removed from the experience of modern humans that one rarely finds it discussed. My friend Harry Hutton, the roving English teacher, explored the topic in one of his early blog posts by posing the following question:
You are trapped on a desert island with the Spice Girls. Food and rum have run out. You are weak from hunger and there is no hope of rescue. Which Spice Girl would you eat first? (Scroll down to vote).
As a vegetarian gorilla I abstained from the vote on principle. My favourite Spice Girl is Ginger, and she’s certainly the one I’d prefer to nibble if someone put a gun to my head. But eating her flesh would be out of the question. The problem with polls of this sort is that they involve a moral paradox. The Spice Girl you’d most like to bite should the last one you’d actually want to devour if you’re not utterly devoid of sentiment in confronting such dilemmas.
Scenes involving cannibalism are mercifully rare in the movies. The only example I can think of is the ending of a film called The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Helen Mirren’s lover has been murdered by the gangster who owns her, so she takes revenge by forcing him to eat her lover’s body, expertly cooked by a gourmet chef. As the gangster feels the vomit rising in his throat, she encourages him to sample the dish by saying:
“Try the cock – it’s a delicacy. And you know where it’s been.”
There should have been a warning before the closing credits that this remark was facetious and not based on culinary research. A man’s todger contains no muscle tissue and doesn’t even qualify as offal. You’d be a fool to try it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Charlie Sheen’s announcement that he intends to run for president has been greeted with hoots of delight in the Congo. The parrots are squawking, the crocodiles are grinning and the baboons are displaying their rumps.
“I wish I could vote for him,” said an excited chimpanzee. “It’s about time the humans had a leader who’s a bigger fool than the commander of the ape brigade.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I replied. “And he won’t be the leader of all the humans anyway, only the richest and fattest of them.”
There’s a long way to go before Charlie gets elected, of course. The road to the White House is snaky and strewn with potholes. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into his “truth and transparency” platform, but it remains to be seen whether it impresses the voters. I’m not a fan of transparency myself – if nothing is opaque, where is the shade to shelter from the sun? The only transparent creatures are jellyfish and the like, whose internal organs are visible to the naked eye. If humans could see their own insides it would give them the collywobbles.
As for truth, it sounds good in principle, but didn’t an American general say “You can’t handle the truth”? He had a good point. How many Americans know that Yellowstone Park is a giant volcano that could erupt at any minute, cooking their country in a pile of superheated ash? As the Bard once wrote, “Tis better to live in ignorance than piss your pants to no purpose”.
Now, I’m not saying that Charlie would be a bad president – high-minded campaign slogans can quickly be shelved after the battle is won. Yet he must be stopped for one overwhelming reason: his election would further delay the historical necessity of a lady president. My ears are still burning from Gloria Steinem’s bitter remarks after Hillary lost the nomination to Obama. Surely no one in America wants to hear that again.
Is Mrs Clinton girding her luscious loins for another shot at the top job? I confess it’s very difficult for a gorilla like me to read her body language. Although I’d be happy for Hillary to win, I don’t think she would beat Charlie. A Washington insider has no chance against a Hollywood pro – Ronald Reagan proved that. Charlie could only be defeated by a woman who’s a bigger exhibitionist than he is.
You can probably guess the candidate I have in mind. She recently displayed her talent for political theatre by exposing her butt cheeks at the Grammy Awards:
"I wasn't mooning, I just lifted my dress up,” she explained. “Mooning is like naked butt. Everyone's seen my naked butt.”
Does anyone doubt that Madonna’s version of “truth and transparency” would kick Charlie’s campaign into the quicksand? It would also breathe new life into the American system of representative government. No country can call itself a true democracy until the people have seen their leader’s naked butt.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, sent me a video which was made to raise money for a worthy charity. Apparently it earns a few pennies every time someone views it.
“If you pass it on to ten other bloggers, who each pass it on to ten more, it will soon get millions of hits,” he explained.
His calculations may be inaccurate, but I’m happy to get the ball rolling. The greatest landslide on Earth could be triggered by a dung beetle kicking some poo downhill.
The video begins with an earnest male college student asking random women whether they will raise money for charity by riding a “Sybian”. This contraption is a vibrating saddle designed for the purpose of pleasuring a lady’s nubbin. (If you already knew what it was, I take off my imaginary hat to you – I only found out after watching the video.)
It would be wrong to suggest that the women who agreed to mount the machine should be celebrated in the annals of hoochiedom. They remained fully clothed and seemed genuinely surprised that the device was so effective at stimulating their nether regions.
“I hope my boyfriend doesn’t see this!” gasped one young belle. “I may not need to have a date tonight,” quipped another.
All but one of them jumped off the Sybian before it could shift the San Andreas fault. Most of them laughed in embarrassment as they did so, which I thought was a sweet and ladylike response. The one woman who permitted her pantyworks to explode made the on-lookers feel like unwilling participants in a peep show.
Be that as it may, I consider the video to be first-rate entertainment. Far superior, to be sure, than the atrocious Fifty Shades of Grey that will soon be appearing in a cinema near you.
“I’d like to wipe the movie poster on my butthole and call it ‘Fifty Shades of Brown’!” exclaimed one disgusted film buff.
The actress who plays the female lead has described the elaborate preparations she made for the part:
“I was going to be naked, so I wanted to look good,” explained 25-year-old Dakota Johnson. “I did a lot of working out and had more waxing than any woman should have.”
A crash program of yoga would have been more helpful for a role which involves getting tied up in a variety of positions. Smooth skin is no substitute for supple limbs when you’re being toyed with by a fiend who likes to immobilise his victims before pouncing. Maybe Mr Grey was a spider in a previous life – it would explain why “I don’t do romance” was one of the brilliant lines he used to seduce women. Spiders never do romance, but they’re very adept at preparing their partners for the kill.
Where does Miss Johnson’s career go from here? A sensitive drama about a couple who make love in a straitjacket? An erotic thriller about a woman tied to a railway line? If I were her agent I’d advise her to get on a Sybian.
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Pride and cowardice
So Colin Farrell is saying that Ewan McGregor should be proud of his prodigious todger without specifying what Ewan should say or do. He’s already displayed the impressive organ in three highly acclaimed movies, although I have to admit I have no recollection of seeing it. Is it possible for a masculine appendage to be enormous and self-effacing at the same time? It sounds unlikely, but we who live in the jungle know that unlikely things are possible. I once heard a parrot squawk the Hare Krishna mantra.
Be that as it may, I hope Ewan McGregor does not heed the advice of his fellow thespian. The last public figure who boasted about the size of his penis was Clarence Thomas, the US Supreme Court justice. He quickly became a laughing stock, and few Americans can now hear his name without smirking or rolling their eyes. An actor would fare no better: Nick the Dick’s career nosedived after the infamous hot dog prank. In light of such events, Ewan has been wise not to blow his own trumpet.
There are more important issues regarding the male genitalia in any case. A team of Brazilian doctors recently published a report on dangerous sex positions and arrived at this startling conclusion:
“Our study supports the fact that sexual intercourse with ‘woman on top’ is the potentially riskiest sexual position related to penile fracture.”
When I mentioned these findings to the manager of the safari camp, he reflexively lowered his hands to shield his private parts.
“No more cowgirl positions for my wife,” he said grimly. “How the hell can a penis get fractured anyway?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, manager,” I replied. “The article says it’s only the foreskin that gets ruptured in such cases. You’ve got nothing to worry about if you’re circumcised.”
“Well I’m not!” snapped the manager. “And it’s every bit as bad as it sounds!”
I shook my head wearily and ambled to the gift shop to inspect the voodoo artefacts. There’s no point trying to reassure someone who thinks every cloud has a clap of thunder in it.
It goes without saying that sex is far more dangerous for women than for men. As well as the risks involved in getting pounded by the Ewan McGregors of the world, they have to endure the ordeal of childbirth. I have only once seen a woman give birth and it is not an event I would like to witness for a second time. The exertions involved made me think of a hen trying to lay an ostrich egg.
I hope the manager of the safari camp will come to realise that his foreskin is an insignificant scrap of flesh in the greater scheme of things. Its petty injuries are mere flesh wounds in the great writhing body of human suffering and self-sacrifice. Maybe his wife will help him to put things in perspective. I should imagine she’ll have something to say when he refuses to lie on his back.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Franny and Warnie
So it seems that two thousand Filipino traffic cops were forced to wear nappies because of the Pope’s visit. I suppose a few of them might have enjoyed the experience, but the vast majority must have felt like utter cretins. One imagines they were too ashamed to look their wives in the face after returning home from work. The Mayor of Manila issued this diaper decree so the road patrollers could attend to their duties without sneaking off to answer a call of Nature. Ensuring the smooth progression of the papal convoy was clearly too important a task to be jeopardised by anyone taking a leak.
It’s not known whether Pope Franny wore a nappy himself – it probably wasn’t necessary because his vestments are wide enough to conceal a bedpan. Realising that the traffic cops might blame him for their predicament, he shrewdly attempted to deflect their resentment by encouraging mothers to suckle their babies in the Sistine Chapel. The subtext intended for the nappy-wearing officers is as clear as the holy water in the papal douche:
“Yes, I made you feel like babies, but being a baby isn’t all bad – you get to suck on a woman’s titties.”
Now some people are saying that the current High Pontiff has relatively liberal views on birth control and recreational sex. While I’m prepared to believe that he’s less of a curmudgeon than ex-Pope Benny, he needs to do more to nail his colours to the mast. A good way of getting the message across would be to grant an audience to Shane Warne, the legendary Australian ball-spinner, who is probably the most famous fornicator of the Catholic faith. Warnie recently lived up to his reputation by seducing an Adelaide mother-of two, who was suitably dazzled by his tricky fingerwork:
“He’s very strong in the bedroom,” said 43-year-old Kim McGrath. “He asked me to keep my high heels on while he spanked me.”
What I admire about Warnie, apart from his masterly spanking technique, is that he arranged his date with Ms McGrath on Tinder. A celebrity who uses the same dating site as the average Bruce and Sheila is better, in my view, than a sleazy big shot who persuades a friendly pimp to get escorts for him. Ms McGrath was certainly thrilled to have attracted Warnie’s attention, although one cannot condone her spilling the beans to the press. It seems she couldn’t contain her excitement.
The relevant point for the Holy See is that both Warnie and Ms McGrath are single, so no adultery was involved. It gives Pope Franny the perfect opportunity to prove his liberal credentials by inviting Warnie to the Vatican for a wine and wafer party. In return for the honour of being blessed by the Holy Father, Warnie could meet him in the confession box and fill him in on all the juicy details. They’ll be playing cricket in Rome and Buenos Aries when Warnie’s deeds are revealed to the faithful!
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Jack of one trade
Jack Nicholson is pining for one last fling at the age of 77.
“I would love that one last romance, but I'm not very realistic about it happening,” he said. “What I can't deny is my yearning.”
Maybe he ought to ask Shirley MacLaine out on a date. I thought they made a lovely couple in Terms of Endearment, a film which has a cult following among the apes of the Congo Basin. I don’t know what Shirley is up to these days, but I’m sure she’d be game for anything that didn’t involve the frontbend contortion.
Jack used a memorable line in that movie to persuade Shirley to submit to his wicked desires. She was telling him she had to play hard-to-get to avoid being likened to the star-struck floozies he habitually consorted with.
“Not much danger in that unless you curtsy on my face real soon,” he replied.
Come to think of it, Shirley hated that remark and almost slapped his face, but she still went to bed with him! That’s the kind of power Jack had over women – his roguish charm was irresistible. No wonder he’s feeling down because he’s bereft of female companionship as the ravages of time inflict their retribution.
I actually wonder whether having your face slapped is better than sex for men of Jack’s age. The blood rushes to their craggy cheeks without requiring exertions that might involve excessive huffing and puffing. And if jowl toning is too tame for them, they can always hire the services of someone like Princess Lucina. This formidable Englishwoman, whose real name is Lorraine White, has recently won permission from Stockport Council to keep her “pleasure dungeon” open for business in a respectable part of town. Miss White told the hearing that her clients were generally restrained or gagged, but the punishments she inflicted were not too severe:
“It involves a lot of humiliation, doing domestic work and dressing up in women’s clothes,” she explained.
Her neighbours raised no objection, believing that the customers she attracted were good for the local economy. A man who pays hard cash to be bound and gagged is likely to be a generous tipper in bars and cafés.
Would you believe that the Princess has a blog? It only contains three posts though, the last one being published over a year ago. All of them are very short on words (but not pictures). She seems to be one of those novice bloggers who gives it a try but quickly runs out of inspiration.
Perhaps one of the accomplished lady bloggers who visit here should befriend the Princess, giving her advice on how to compose regular posts, entertain her readers and build up a loyal following. She, in return, could offer tips on the finer points of caning men’s buttocks and stabbing their flesh with stiletto heels as they grovel and whimper on the carpet.
I like to see women sharing ideas in a sisterly way – it’s the hallmark of a progressive society.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
A man in England has paid for his goldfish to have an operation. Not cosmetic surgery, I’m glad to say, but a procedure to relieve it of constipation. The vet managed to unblock the offending poop-duct, and the fish is now convalescing in a beaker of Lucozade. Animal lovers are praising the goldfish owner for spending a considerable sum to save a creature worth loose change, but I suspect that guilt was the motivating factor. Humans are renowned for giving their pets food unsuited to their digestive systems.
Back in my circus days, there was a clown who fed his parrot sausages and baked beans. When I questioned the suitability of this cuisine, he said “How would you like to live on a diet of bird seed and nuts?” There was no point answering such an asinine question. The parrot naturally suffered from wind, but that didn’t bother its owner, who taught it to say “Feeling farty!” before blowing one off. It gave you some warning, I suppose.
If you’ve been reading this post studiously, you will remember that I mentioned cosmetic surgery in the first paragraph. This was no flippant aside, because I have recently been thinking about disturbing news from Brazil. A former beauty queen called Andressa Urach is currently recovering from life-threatening complications arising from buttock enhancement surgery. She underwent the operation prior to participating in the Miss Bumbum pageant of 2012, in which she finished runner-up.
Do the tournament organisers have any responsibility for Miss Urach’s doleful condition? On the one hand, she’s an adult who did what she did of her own free will. But on the other hand, the impresario has a duty of care to his cast. I would be racked with guilt if any of my protégés injured themselves in their eagerness to please me. If these Bumbum events are to continue, they should introduce a rule requiring all the bumbums on display to be 100% natural, with immediate disqualification for any contestant with surgical modifications. It would be no different, in my view, from banning athletes who’ve taken performance-enhancing drugs.
When I mentioned this idea to my friend Smacker Ramrod, he gave it his unqualified blessing. The main attraction of such pageants, he said, was to fantasize about rubbing your face against the contestants’ fleshy parts. A pre-requisite for such pleasurable imaginings, he added, was that the flesh in question was composed of living tissue rather than an inorganic substance. He would rather rub his face on a natural wobbly woman, he said, than a female body made taut with gelatinous implants.
I would like to think that Smacker is speaking for the vast majority of red-blooded men. Whether or not this is so, his endorsement has encouraged me to write to the producers of the Bumbum pageant, advising them to adopt my rule. I will suggest that they call it “the Bananas rule”. I’m not a vain ape, but it would please me to leave a small mark on human history.