Wednesday, April 19, 2017
I’m sorry to say I received no Easter gift from the manager of the safari camp. He’s getting very stingy in his old age. However, his kind and generous wife lent me an issue of Marie Claire to read, for which I thanked her profusely. If you think it’s strange that a gorilla should receive a woman’s magazine with gratitude, you have a very limited view of what we find interesting. Marie Claire (and publications like it) is a window on the mind of the human female, which is one of the unfathomable mysteries of anthropological science. No learned ape would refrain from immersing himself in such literature.
As I thumbed through the magazine in my hammock, I came across an interview with a young lady called Janelle Monae (pictured above). Although I’d never heard of her, I assumed she must be someone important, otherwise why would Marie Claire be interviewing her? Ms Monae seems to be a pop musician with an interest in social and political issues. One of her statements immediately caught my eye:
“People have to start respecting the vagina,” she declared.
I can’t see why anyone (apart from the usual villains) would fail to comply with this entirely reasonable demand. I have always respected the vagina, and would not hesitate to admonish any fool who took its name in vain. The coochie is the hallowed portal from which we mammals emerge into the realm of breathable air. Her next statement was far less impressive:
“Until every man is fighting for our rights, we should consider stopping having sex.”
This makes no sense. If men fought for the rights of women, there’d be no one to fight against. It would be like a boxing match where both fighters were on the same team and beat up the referee. Women, of course, should fight for their own rights, with a few grumpy men resisting them to make the contest interesting.
As for the sex strike threat, that would be like cutting off your pigtails to spite your wig. The only people who’d benefit would be the sex toy manufacturers. I don’t for one minute believe that such a strike could ever be solid. Hordes of strikebreaking hoochies would sneak around having sex with men on the quiet. And what about all the gay men? They would not be harmed by the strike at all. They would go on shagging each other while making catty remarks about all the sex-starved women. The defeated and dejected strikers would return to work with their tails between their legs.
I don’t want to be too hard on Ms Monae for making these foolish proposals – she obviously hadn’t thought too hard before formulating them. I would advise her to hire an aide to carefully vet her policy ideas and throw out the stupid ones. In the meantime, she should continue having sexual relations with men who tickle her fancy. No one ever made their mark on the world by being sexually frustrated.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Lady Victoria's lovers
As a chivalrous ape, I feel moved to defend Lady Victoria Hervey (pictured above left) from the cruel mockery of the mob. She is reportedly “mortified” about the existence of a secretly filmed sex video in which she is ravished by Mel B and her oafish husband. She fears that the video will be used as evidence in on-going divorce proceedings between Mel B and her husband (although I can’t for the life of me see why).
Nevertheless, the crass and lumpen elements of the on-line media have jeered at her apprehensions, declaring that she who cavorts with the Scary Spices deserves her fate. Their logic is defective, to put it mildly. Consenting to a threesome with a married couple does not give them the right to make it public knowledge, far less secretly film the event for later disclosure. The lack of sympathy for Lady Victoria cannot be unconnected with her aristocratic status. One gets the impression that those who are currently lampooning her would have hooted and cheered as the blade of the guillotine descended on poor Marie Antoinette.
A further mitigating point is that Lady Victoria was apparently the victim of a wily entrapment, quite unaware of anyone’s intentions until the last second. Here is an account of what happened given by a close friend:
“It was all a blur and everyone was very drunk. She told me one minute they were laying in bed watching a movie together, then they got carried away and Stephen was on top of her and Mel was kissing her. Next thing she can remember they all woke up naked in bed in the morning.”
This description suggests what occurred was in a grey zone between aggressive seduction and date rape. Mel B should hang her head in shame for using her celebrity status to lure Lady Victoria onto the marital bed, slyly waiting for the opportunity to force kisses on her stupefied lips, making her flesh putty in the hands of her predatory husband. It’s the sort of behaviour that gives pop stars a bad name.
Thus far, I have offered no opinion on the practice of three-in-a-bed romps. It’s not my business to approve or disapprove of human mating practices. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, told me he regretted the one occasion on which he participated in a fleshy entanglement with two women. It ended in farce when his bedmates clashed heads after simultaneously attempting the same manoeuvre. Regrettably, he could not suppress his laughter at their slapstick mishap, which totally ruined the mood. The last thing women who have butted heads want to hear is the guffawing of the man they were trying to oblige.
One would hate to think that Lady Victoria suffered the additional trauma of butting heads with Mel B. Hopefully she avoided that misfortune by adopting a passive role. Sometimes the safest course of action for a lady is to lie on her back and let other people do the work.
Wednesday, April 05, 2017
You may find this hard to believe, but I’d quite forgotten Justin Bieber existed until last week, when someone sent me a picture of him being fondled by an elderly lady (see above). Living in the jungle means that human celebrities flit in and out of my consciousness like fruit flies. Admittedly, Bieber makes louder and more irritating buzzing noises than the rest of the swarm, but this is the first time I’ve thought about him since the end of the last rainy season.
What are we to make of a grey-haired woman laying hands on Bieber’s naked torso? If Bieber were an ape, no one would raise an eyebrow, because older females are more desirable in our society. Although some of Bieber’s antics remind me of a recalcitrant chimpanzee, it’s unlikely he knows anything about their mating habits. Perhaps a dormant gene from the homo erectus era was activated by his use of narcotics.
Seeing this picture had the unfortunate side effect of making me look for current news stories about Bieber. Apparently, he recently invited a dozen models to join him on a pleasure boat, provided that they (a) relinquished their mobile phones before boarding the vessel and (b) signed a non-disclosure contract. Evidently, Bieber has learned from bitter experience that the hoochies who participate in his butt-naked orgies behave like biologists on a field trip, collecting data and evidence for publication in suitable outlets.
I hope Bieber also took the precaution of partying with the girls in a pitch-black dark room, with only a small torch in his possession to help him locate the choice body parts. It’s possible, of course, that an audacious strumpet might have tried to seize the torch so she could inspect Bieber. A bodyguard would have to be present to discourage such effrontery and eject potential transgressors. Any woman who consorts with Bieber must understand that grabbing his torch is a breach of protocol that won’t be tolerated.
Another piece of news about Bieber concerns a lawsuit in which he was successfully sued for throwing an egg at his neighbour. It seems his avaricious neighbour was not satisfied with the damages of $90,000 he received and is now demanding more cash. I have to admit being on Bieber’s side in this particular dispute. Throwing eggs at people is impious behaviour, but the victim forfeits the moral high ground if he acts like a money-grubbing shyster.
In truth, cash is no compensation for an affront to one’s dignity. If the neighbour had truly felt the insult as keenly as he claims, he should have challenged Bieber to a duel. If Bieber ever throws an egg at me, I will not demand a cent. Nor will I challenge him to a duel (an obvious mismatch). Instead, I will inform Bieber’s lawyer that his client can make amends by spending an hour of quality time with a couple of female gorillas. Yes, it’s true – there are female gorillas who adore the little squirt!
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
A Russian zoo has accused a video studio of corrupting the morals of one of its raccoons. Thomas the Raccoon (as he is known) was seconded to the studio to appear in a TV commercial. After returning from his assignment, the female zoo staff found his behaviour unsettling:
“We noticed he was attracted to women’s breasts,” said Viktor Kiryukhin, a spokesman for the zoo. “It took two to three months to change his behaviour. Now he is happy again… but he was sad before.”
The zoo management claim that Thomas was sad because he had acquired a yearning for boobies that could not be satisfied at the zoo. They blame the video studio for giving him this peculiar urge so he would perform in erotic videos they were making:
“They must have put out some treats for him, so he associated breasts with a treat,” said Mr Kiryukhin.”
The video studio has described these allegations as absurd, saying they wanted a trained raccoon rather than a young hothead like Thomas who ran off whenever he felt like it. The also accused him of stealing a model’s bra, implying he was already crazy about boobs when he arrived. They’re probably not telling the full story, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had hired a busty woman to be Thomas’s nanny. Yet I don’t believe it’s possible to brainwash a raccoon into liking a woman’s jahoobies. These creatures know their own minds.
In fact, it’s far more likely that Thomas was upset about his return to captivity than the lack of bosom flesh within easy grasp. He must have had a whale of a time at the video studio, eating human food and playing all kinds of pranks. I don’t blame him for being sad when he returned to the zoo. Anyone would feel depressed about going back to a life of being pointed at by fat children with ice cream on their faces.
Instead of blaming other people, the zoo should find a new home for Thomas. Having allowed him to experience the high life, they can’t now expect him to be content in a zoo. An obvious place for him to go would be the Playboy Mansion, but it’s unlikely he could get an entry permit. The last thing Hef wants to see is a handsome young raccoon being petted by the playmates.
What Thomas really needs is a rich and kindly woman to open her doors to him. Pamela Anderson is always saying how much she cares for animals, so this would be the perfect opportunity to prove it with deeds. If she adopted Thomas as her pet and mascot, the animal kingdom would salute her as the Mother of All Raccoons.
As for the booby question, we shouldn’t assume it was a sexual thing. Maybe Thomas just wanted a nice soft place to snuggle his head between. If that’s all he needs, Pamela is well equipped to oblige. And if he wants anything more, someone can take him to a titty bar.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
How much should a woman charge for her dirty knickers? I’ve been pondering this question after reading a news story about a married lady with a thriving mail-order business. Mistress Dani, as she likes to be known, has a website where customers can pick and choose panties with a selection of different soilings. Yet she prides herself on offering much more than items from her laundry basket:
“Our clients want an authentic experience and it’s all about intimacy – so it’s important they feel like they’re getting attention,” she explains.
If you’re wondering how a transaction involving underwear can give a man the attention he needs, it’s all about the flow of information. He asks Mistress Dani what her knickers smell like – she tells him they exude the fragrant aroma of steamed mussels with a dash of lemon. He tells her what he has done with the knickers after receiving them, often with photographic evidence – she praises his ingenuity and pretends to be flattered (I suppose you’d call that aftercare service). By such means, the client feels he has acquired something more meaningful than panties.
All of which suggests she is making them pay through the nose for the service, which might be considered apt given the part played by their noses in enjoying the product. According to Mistress Dani, one of her clients was a married man who could no longer sleep with his infirm wife:
“He just wanted the smell of a woman,” she explained.
You have to admit that’s a valid necessity. If a man goes without the smell of a woman for too long his nostrils start twitching. However, the Mistress is extending her range of services to cater for clients with stranger desires. Apparently, many of her customers crave humiliation, which can be provided in ways that do not require face-to-face contact. For example, her clients can ask for their picture to be displayed in a rogues gallery of panty-sniffers which appears in her website. She will also play the part of schoolmistress, ordering men to write out lines for her inspection. Those who want the premier service can ask for a sample of her urine to abase themselves with. Again, there is no indication of what she charges for these services, but they don’t seem to require a lot of woman-hours. Even a modest fee could generate massive profits.
Of course, Mistress Dani doesn’t have to disclose her fees if she doesn’t want to. As long as her clients think they’re getting value for money, it’s nobody’s business. Nevertheless, once a businesswoman starts using the news media to advertise her wares, she should expect to have her trading practices scrutinised. The market for soiled panties and related services won’t work efficiently if no one publishes their prices. Let’s hope the problem is solved by more suppliers entering the industry to provide a healthy does of competition. My ape instincts tell me there are a lot of women out there who could give Mistress Dani a run for her money.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Wide open marriage
Great is my admiration for the British police officer who did not attempt to conceal his marriage to a call girl. The husbands of prostitutes have been stigmatised for far too long – they must come out of the closet and demand the same recognition as other minority groups. PC Scott Frost was told by his superiors at the Metropolitan Police that his wife’s occupation was of no concern to them, provided that he wasn’t her pimp. Pimping is illegal in the United Kingdom.
As for Mrs Frost, I’m pleased to report that she’s equally unconcerned about being outed as the wife of a policeman. Busty Sarah Jane, as she likes to be known, is as keen as ever to provide her services to fee-paying customers. This is how she describes herself on her website:
“I love sex and I love meeting new people. I’m fun, friendly and my cheeky smile and natural curvy figure will put you at ease in no time.”
To back up her claims, she discloses a bust size of 36G. I have no way of verifying this measurement, but studying the picture below should give you a ballpark indication.
Being married to a sex worker must have its peculiar challenges. Do you ask her whether she had a good day at work? Do you help her to shop for the tools of her trade? Do you allow her to work from home or insist that she rents an office? There ought to be a support group called ‘Husbands of Hookers’ to work through such issues. Maybe every town needs a social worker who can respond to their special needs.
There are pluses as well as minuses, of course. As a self-employed trader, the tart can claim a lot of tax-deductions; she ought to be flexible about vacation dates; she can work overtime whenever the family budget needs balancing. Her lucky husband gets free-of-charge what everyone else has to pay for. Men who propose to prostitutes must have this perk at the forefront of their minds. I bet they are chuckling wickedly at the prospect when they put the ring on her finger.
Sadly, there are reactionary types whose trust in the police will be diminished if policemen choose to marry sex workers. Whores have an unfortunate association with crime, even though they are far more likely to be victims than perpetrators. Admittedly, a lot of them must be fiddling their taxes, but who wouldn’t do that in their situation? The solution, as ever, is more information and positive reporting about the lives of these industrious and good-natured women.
Now that Mrs Frost is in the public eye, perhaps she should do her bit for the sisterhood by going on a speaking tour. She may not be natural public speaker, but such skills can be acquired with practice. Anyone who can plant her jahoobies in the face of a strange man should have no fear of an audience. I, for one, would pay good money to attend one of her seminars.
Wednesday, March 08, 2017
Lost in Translation
I have tremendous sympathy for the Chinaman who was mistakenly sent to a refugee camp in Germany. The poor man had his wallet stolen after arriving in Stuttgart as a tourist. Speaking neither German nor English, he tried to report his crime to the police, who promptly sent him to a refugee centre in Dusseldorf. There, he was photographed, fingerprinted and possibly deloused, before receiving a meal of soup and noodles. A German Red Cross worker was the first to notice something was amiss:
“He acted so different to the other refugees,” recalled Christoph Schlutermann. “He kept trying to tell people his story, but no one could understand him. He kept asking to get his passport back, which is the opposite of what most refugees do.”
Perplexed by his behaviour, Herr Schlutermann consulted a local Chinese restaurant, which advised him to install a Mandarin translation app on his mobile phone. This enabled him to communicate with the tourist, who told him he had come to Europe for a hiking holiday. The man was finally sent on his way after spending 12 days in the bureaucratic German asylum system. He chose not to make an official complaint, merely commenting that Europe was not what he imagined it to be. His patience and good manners are an example to us all.
The language barrier can be a headache for anyone in the tourism industry. Just recently, I was accosted by a tall blond woman, who had strayed a mile or two from the safari camp.
“Svo storog lorlin!” she squealed excitedly in an obscure Nordic tongue. Although I had no idea what she was talking about, her facial expression and body language suggested an interest in social intercourse. So I beckoned her to follow me to a plum tree and plucked a juicy fruit for her.
“Fakka feer ferrin,” she said. “Ech moon merra fin Dian Fossey.”
On hearing the words “Dian Fossey” alarm bells sounded in my head. There is a particular breed of woman that imagines she can travel to Africa and persuade the gorillas to revere her as their Sugar Mummy. So I took her by the hand and marched purposefully to the safari camp.
“So that’s where you’ve been, Gunnella!” exclaimed the manager. “Been showing her the secrets of the undergrowth, eh Bananas?” he added, winking at me.
“You must keep your guests on a tighter rein,” I replied. “She’s an amiable young woman, but wholly unequipped for solo expeditions in a foreign habitat.”
This incident shows what a risky business tourism can be. If Gunnella had encountered a pack of marauding baboons, instead of a civilised ape, there’s no telling what would have happened. The manager of the safari camp would have been winking out of the other side of his face. Let’s hope Gene Roddenberry was right in predicting a future where everyone, including the Klingons and Romulans, is fluent in English. The same language, spoken in a variety of interesting and amusing accents, is enough cultural diversity for one galaxy.