Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Planet of the Jackanapes
I got an email from someone asking me to comment on a new movie called Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.
“Why are you asking me? – I’m not a film critic,” I wrote in reply.
The answer came back swiftly:
“No, but as one who claims to be a gorilla you ought to have an opinion on the way your species is portrayed in popular entertainment, given the subtle influence of such perceptions on public support for conservation and other related projects.”
This erudite statement deserved a carefully-worded response:
“Fiddlesticks and tiddlywinks!” I wrote, ending the debate decisively.
At the time, I thought it was a suitable riposte to a snooty lecture from someone whose email address was Elvis.Godzilla@gmail.com. But on later reflection, I had to admit that Mr Godzilla’s argument was sound. Gorilla Bananas must not be silent when humans invent stories about their hairy cousins. The gullible masses will believe any old tosh presented to them on a cinema screen, even if it involves three-legged orang-utans juggling dwarves between their feet.
It will be many moons before the film is screened in the Congo, so I had a look at the official trailer to get a flavour. It was utter bunkum and farce. The “apes” in it are walking in upright postures, making grumpy faces and speaking American English in throaty, menacing voices. In short, they are surly humans wearing furry costumes, under which they must be sweating like horses.
This suggests the movie is a classic example of what psychologists call “projection”. Humans put their own dark side in another species so they can externalise the evil and struggle against it without having to purge their own souls. Admittedly, a trailer can only tell you so much. There may also be tender scenes of apes feeding humans berries by hand, but that won’t put bums on seats. People will go to this movie to see the Big Bad Ape, so they can enjoy the exhilarating fear that humans feel when there is zero risk of getting a hunk of flesh bitten out of them.
On the subject of humans pretending to be apes, I recently overheard an American tourist call Justin Bieber “a despicable little chimp”. The uncouth youth has been fined $80,000 for throwing eggs at his neighbour’s house, which is an unwise prank for a stage performer to play. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and Bieber’s devoted fans may now have to endure the agony of seeing their idol get a facial omelette while he’s warbling away on stage.
Bieber’s growing band of beraters have sent a petition to the White House, demanding that he is deported to his Canadian motherland. The Obama administration has wisely declined to get involved. If Bieber were sent back to Canada, he could buy a house on the border and throw eggs at his neighbours in Michigan, while mooning at an American flag. Much better to keep him in the USA, where there’s a good chance some angry redneck guy will kick his ass.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
"She brings a bright light to everything she is involved in and I am so delighted at her happy news," said the chief executive.
The danger for George is that she reserves her smiley face for work while lashing out like a scorpion at home. The woman who must be courteous and congenial in her professional life is all the more likely to box her husband’s ears.
Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I now feel sorry for Clooney’s ex-girlfriends, who were led to believe that George would never marry because of “commitment issues” or whatever. Now they know the truth: he thought they were too stupid to be his wife. These spurned spinsters must be feeling like airheads and bimbos, so I’ve sent an email to my mentor Dr Whipsnade, suggesting that he holds a summer school for them. Attending the good doctor’s seminars in philosophy, gastronomy and coquettery should help to restore their intellectual self-confidence.
Clooney’s fiancé comes from a small, middle-eastern sect called the Druze, who normally only marry within their community. George has reacted furiously to media reports that his prospective mother-in-law disapproves of the marriage on religious grounds:
“It’s a completely fabricated story!” he wailed, and went on to accuse the offending newspaper of “inciting violence” by “exploiting religious differences where none exist”.
The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. A statement from Mother Alamuddin herself would have scotched the rumour more conclusively, but I suppose the cat got her tongue.
It’s not the end of the world if George’s mother-in-law doesn’t approve of him anyway. He’ll be in the same boat as millions of other men, who manage to cope with the problem without provoking a deadly blood feud. If I were George, I’d try buttering her up with flattery and expensive gifts. If that didn’t work, I’d tell her to fly off on her broomstick. He shouldn’t say that if she really is a witch, of course. Many might be amused to see Clooney turned into a frog, but it would limit his acting roles to nature documentaries and romantic comedies with Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Perhaps George should have hired a committee of “relationship experts” to find him a bride. This is the concept behind a new reality TV show, where marriages are arranged for couples who agree not to see each other until their wedding day.
As a gorilla, I have a lot of admiration for this idea, but there is one fatal flaw: it is impossible to be sure that Human A will be sexually attracted to Human B before they have actually met. This has already led to one unlucky candidate feeling terribly let down after getting a husband she didn’t fancy. Is there a solution? I would allow them to sniff each other’s underwear before pairing them off.
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
The singer Ellie Goulding has taken the unusual step of denying that her breasts have been surgically enhanced:
“My boobs look bigger because my waist is smaller,” she explained. “People underestimate how you can shape your body. Since I stopped eating meat and fish, my body’s better than ever.”
I condemn the gossips and guttersnipes who goaded her into making such a statement. When a woman’s breasts grow bigger, the event should be celebrated like a bumper harvest of fruit. Mother Nature, in her glorious munificence, is showing us that her gifts are ripe and ready for plucking.
Miss Goulding added that she has always been terrified of cosmetic surgery:
“I’m petrified of anything like that. My friends will think it’s hilarious.”
Her fears are not unfounded. I’ve always found it strange that so many women will allow their bodies to be tampered with while they are unconscious. Reputation is no guarantee of success – a Harley street surgeon has recently been accused of a botched boob job. According to a report on the hearing:
A medical panel heard that breast implant specialist Mohammad Aslam tucked a pair of 4.5kg 1,600cc implants into Andrea Scott in 2010. But Scott, 36, who already had a set of 800cc implants, was left with breasts that were "too big and heavy," according to one breast expert.
Any fool can see what happened here. Dr Aslam must have lost his notes on the patient and crammed in as much silicone as he could to be on the safe side. Like many men, he finds it inconceivable that a woman could complain about her breasts being too big. Such misdeeds are inevitable in a profession that is a natural home for the tit fiend. It’s no accident that virtually all breast enlargement surgeons are men.
Hopefully women contemplating implants will hear about this story and, like Miss Goulding, consider natural alternatives. My old friend Smacker Ramrod believes that frequent sex will enlarge a woman’s bosom:
“I got seduced by a busty nurse when I was 18,” he once told me. “I could feel them expand when she pushed them against my face.”
“A method of measurement well known to Science,” I remarked. “But didn’t they later contract to their normal size?”
“No, she told me she needed bras with a bigger cup-size,” he replied. “I would have helped her pay for them if I hadn’t been a penniless student.”
“Well, it’s never too late to post someone a cheque,” I said. “Although perhaps she felt the benefits-in-kind were sufficient.”
I am sorry to say that Paris Hilton has recently been drawing attention to her jahoobies. There was a time when I spoke in this young lady’s defence, but the weight of evidence eventually forced me to concur with her detractors and lampooners. Will wearing revealing dresses pump the air back into her waning celebrity cult? Possibly not, but talking to the titties of a vacuous bimbo is more appealing than listening to her mouth.
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Getting her back
Robin Thicke, the singer who twerked with Miley Cyrus, has made a pop video beseeching his wife to return to him. I never knew the fellow had a wife – apparently he married a famous beauty called Paula Patton. She recently left him, reported to be cheesed off by a string of indiscretions, which may or may not have included the twerking episode with Miley.
The peculiar thing about the pop video is that it features a scene where Thicke is having his chest hairs groomed by a comely young wench. If he were a gorilla, this might signify nothing more than an extended delousing session, but the torso of a man is too naked to be stroked for non-erotic reasons. Given that this is so, why would a video intended to persuade his wife to return to the marital bed display the very behaviour that caused her to leave it in the first place? I can think of three possible reasons:
1) The man is a halfwit.
2) The man is a moron.
3) The man is a halfwit and a moron.
Having said all that, who is to say that she won’t go back to him? Women are very unpredictable in the way they react to cheating husbands. When Tiger Woods’ missus found out about his philandering, she attempted to drive him down the freeway with a long iron. No question of forgiveness there. Yet even an ultimate power-dame like Hillary Clinton decided to grit her teeth and persevere when the whole world knew that her husband’s appendage was a popsicle in Monica’s mouth. Did she exact her vengeance by taking her own lover, like a Russian queen? I am tempted to search for rumours using google, but that would open up a whole new plate of oysters.
What sort of woman is best-equipped to deal with a cheating spouse? My shortlist would include the actress Taylor Schilling, pictured below. The first thing to say about her is that she’s played a lesbian in a popular TV drama – this sends a powerful “Who needs your dick anyway?” message to any man who might be tempted to play fast and loose with her.
The second point to note is that she’s been cuddling the actor Zac Efron in a very public way, even though Master Efron is believed to be gay by those who speculate about such matters. This suggests the emotional fluidity of a woman who doesn’t pine for the attention of a macho man. If the hound chases after bitches, she’ll just turn her back on him and canoodle with the poodle.
Miss Schilling has yet to marry at the age of 29, and when she does announce her nuptials let us hope her future husband will be as faithful as the night is long. But if worst comes to worst, she has my permission to party with the lesbians and snuggle with the gays before finding a new spouse. It’s what her fans will expect of her.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
The Passion of Kim Kardashian
A young artist from New York is making a name for herself by painting pictures of Kim Kardashian dressed up as the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and (for good measure) assorted she-devils.
"Kim Kardashian is God,” declared Hannah Kunkle, aged 23. “She's crazy, bodacious and has the nose job of an angel. I don't know if she's omniscient, but no one can deny she's omnipresent."
The acolytes of the Pope have not been shy to masquerade as art critics:
“The paintings are dumb and stupid,” said Father Michael Perry of Our Lady of Refuge Church. “Everyone knows who Kim Kardashian is and I don't care who she is. She has no impact on my life at all.”
John Gribowich, a seminarian with a degree in art history, offered a more considered judgement:
“Here she is as Christ, there she is as the Blessed Mother, and then there's a demonic image of her. I don't know how you can be all of those things. It doesn't make sense.”
The disgruntled Catholics have my sympathy on this occasion. Kim is not remotely credible as the Virgin Mary because her arse is too big, and I mean no insult to either of them by saying so. A virgin living in first-century Judea could not have acquired a Kardashian bubble-butt on a diet of pitta bread, hummus and the occasional olive. Hundreds of Big Macs and creamy milkshakes have given their lives to create that plump rump, which is a holy relic in its own right. Mixing up the iconography of different religions is a heinous sacrilege for which Hannah’s own behind should be spanked forthwith. I would do it myself if I lived in Brooklyn.
Portraying Kim as Jesus is equally absurd. Although no one can be sure what Christ looked like, the consensus of scholarly opinion is that he must have had a beard. The only men who shaved in the Roman Empire were Romans and eunuchs, and Jesus was neither. Given that Kim has electrocuted all her facial follicles, it is ludicrous to suggest she could pass herself off as Jesus. For this affront to common sense and decency, Hannah deserves a second spanking, delivered by the Pope himself.
On the other hand, depicting Kim as a demonic damsel is defensible. A succubus can take any form, so there’s no issue with appearance here. Furthermore, Kim is married to a man who resembles Satan in many respects, blessed as he is with a brawny chest and a goat-like sexual appetite. The she-devil pictures may not be high art, but they wouldn’t look out-of-place in a witches’ coven or the boudoir of a dominatrix.
After Hannah is spanked, the Pope should consider what action to take against the maker of a pop video which showed a partially-clothed couple kissing on the altar of a church:
“The behaviour in the video was a desecration of the church and caused most grievous distress to the parish priest,” a church statement said.
I bet did it, but the term “partially-clothed” is too vague to recommend a suitable penance. Which parts were clothed and which parts were showing?
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
The actress Mila Kunis is pregnant for the first time and anticipating the ordeal of childbirth with ill-disguised trepidation. She gave the following rebuke to expectant fathers on a late night talk show:
"Stop saying 'we're pregnant’. You're not pregnant! Do you have to squeeze a watermelon-sized person out of your lady-hole? No."
As for the father of her own child, she expects him to avert his eyes from horror show occurring between her legs when she gives birth:
“He'll be head to head, not head to vag,” she said. “I highly doubt he wants to see that being ripped apart and shredded.”
One gets the impression she doesn’t quite believe it’s physically possible for a baby pass through her birth canal. You might think her remarks were intended to be humorous, but she’s obviously trying to talk up her spirits. I’m sure the captain of the Titanic made similar quips when the band was giving its final concert.
The man who impregnated Mila is an actor called Ashton Kutcher, whom I know nothing about. Be that as it may, he should attend a prenatal fathering class so he can learn how to mollify his missus. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, used his experience as a vet to help his own wife deliver their brood:
“I told her to moo like a cow during her first labour,” he explained. “It emptied her mind of all human concerns and got her into animal mode. Our firstborn popped out like a bar of soap.”
“Did you deliver the child yourself?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t have the right license for that,” he replied. “But we hired a Nepalese midwife who couldn’t speak a word of English. It made the whole thing more like a veterinary experience.”
One would hope things go as smoothly for Mila, but I can’t say I’m optimistic. Her birth will doubtless be attended by a team of busybodies, barking out instructions instead of letting Nature take its course. You couldn’t blame a baby for staying inside the womb rather than entering a zoo like that.
On a more positive note, Mila is delighted that her breasts have got bigger in preparation for the new arrival:
"They're amazing!” she exclaimed. “They've tripled in size. I was a 34A: now I'm a 36C!”
This is very good news for everyone connected with Mila, and especially good news for the baby, who can look forward to a hearty meal after being rudely ejected from its cosy cubbyhole. A pair of boobies, brimming with milk, is just what you need to calm your nerves when you arrive in a strange place.
I hope Mila has invested in one of those suction devices that can harvest milk from over-lactitious women. She could donate her surplus to less bountiful mothers or the makers of gourmet ice-cream. I wouldn’t eat it myself, but she must have fans willing to pay top dollar for a taste of her titty fluid.
“Let others feed on what you don’t need” as we say in the jungle.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Scout has recently been in the news for walking around topless in New York City. She was protesting against Instagram for deleting her account after she posted a couple of booby pictures. To justify her action, she wrote an article on a girlie website complaining that her nipples were the victims of sexual discrimination:
“To me, nipples seem to be at the very heart of the issue,” she explained. “In the 1930s, men’s nipples were just as provocative, shameful, and taboo as women’s are now, and men were protesting in much the same way.”
When I told the manager of the safari camp about her campaign, he looked at the picture of her above and said:
“She has my full support. I’d rather look at her tits than her face.”
“It’s a pity you’re not able to say that to her in person,” I remarked. “I’m sure she’d thank you warmly before kicking you in the nuts.”
Even if women win the right to denude their dumplings, I doubt social attitudes will change in the way Scout wants. A woman’s breasts cannot be desexualised because they resemble the buttocks too closely. From a relatively young age, boys learn that staring at naked bosom-flesh is a forbidden treat to be savoured. As they mature into manhood, they find that persuading a woman to take off her bra is a labour worthy of Hercules. If ladies start flaunting their jahoobies willy-nilly, it would devalue the whole experience. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas if it were celebrated every day.
A possible compromise would involve giving Scout the right to bare her breasts whenever and wherever she wanted, without making it a universal right. If I were the mayor of New York, I would present her with a booby permit in a public ceremony in Central Park. The event would surely be a major tourist attraction – I foresee people cancelling their holidays to Rio and Acapulco to watch it. It might also help to get Scout’s show business career off the ground. Having a famous pair of hooters never hindered Dolly Parton in her dizzy rise to the top of the telegraph pole.
As for Instagram, they showed what cowardly pimps they are when a rumour got out that Rihanna’s page had been deleted after she put up some racy pictures of herself. They promptly issued a denial and the page mysteriously reappeared. Maybe a decision taken by a low-level employee had been hastily reversed to avoid annoying all the dirty old lechers who ogle her pictures with their tongues hanging out. The lesson for Scout is clear: if your breasts become money-making assets, there’ll be no shortage of flunkies who'll milk them for you.