Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Blog pictures

An anonymous emailer ( asks me if any pictures would be too distasteful for this blog.

“Yes, a picture of your head on a platter,” I reply.

An impertinent question deserves a facetious reply. As far as I’m concerned, none of the pictures published here is distasteful. Those of a sensitive disposition might find some of them disturbing or bewildering, but that can’t be helped. We live in a disturbing and bewildering age. It is better to look reality in the eye than nuzzle utopia in the groin. If you want to live in a fools’ paradise, go to Disneyland and play booty-bumps with Mickey and Goofy.

It goes without saying that the internet is overflowing with pictures I would never post here. I recently came across a particularly inappropriate one of the model Candice Swanepoel. It shows her in a state of undress with the head of a purring cat between her thighs. I suppose she thought the pussy-on-pussy motif was funny, but to me it’s a flagrant case of pet abuse. The cat may be snoozing contentedly, but it looks like a bigger twat than the one it’s obscuring. The feline gods have been offended, and will revenge themselves on mankind by spraying the suburbs with rainstorms of piss.

A nude photo of Miss Swanepoel not being nutmegged by her cat would have been okay, but I probably wouldn’t have published it. Human nakedness does not interest me unless the naked human is making a statement of some kind. An example of such has been provided by the actress Minnie Driver, whose naked form is displayed above. Apparently she’d received an unflattering response to pictures of herself on twitter, so she decided to naysay the naysayers by proudly flaunting her flesh:

“I’ve got a banging body,” insisted Minnie.

We gorillas prefer more meat on our females, but that’s not a criticism of Minnie. I believe there are men who lust after waifish women, possibly because it makes them feel bigger and manlier. Good luck to them.

Below is the kind of picture I most enjoy uploading – it’s of the actor Kellan Lutz making an arse of himself in front of a gorilla. He’s going to play Tarzan in another remake of the classic jungle fantasy, and his antics were an attempt to practise for the role. Little does he know that few gorillas have heard of Tarzan, so it’s very unlikely the silverback in the picture is thinking “Oh, what a good actor that fellow is.” From the look on his face, I would guess he is thinking “Oh, look at that man making an arse of himself.”

I wouldn’t say I’m hostile to Tarzan, but it’s never been explained why he wore a loincloth. No human infant brought up by apes would be ashamed of his genitals. I believe women found the sight of a man's dangly bits embarrassing when the first Tarzan films appeared, but don’t the women of today just laugh at such sights?

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Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Blue beauty

I can’t make up my mind whether to give Miss Georgia Eden my moral support. She is a 22-year-old English model who was booted out of a beauty contest for posting a topless “selfie” on twitter. If you look at the photo, you’ll see that one breast is obscured by her arm and the other is cupped in her hand. The bikini parade of the pageant would have exposed more of her actual titty flesh.

The organisers of the event should be denounced for taking such a hard line. Is there an unwritten rule that the boobs of a beauty queen must always be connected to a piece of fabric? Their fear of the liberated bosom suggests a reactionary agenda of constraining a woman’s jahoobies within conventional gender stereotypes.

Yet I am hesitant to launch a campaign on Georgia’s behalf. Frankly, I don’t want her to participate in a competition which objectifies women. What’s more, her lips seem to have a hole between them when her mouth is closed. I suspect she spent a good part of her girlhood drinking soda pop through a straw. It may seem like a minor imperfection, but the judges of beauty contests are often swayed by such anomalies. It would be humiliating for Georgia to finish last after being reinstated as a candidate.

Now, Georgia says her “selfie” had a serious purpose. It was to promote awareness of breast cancer, presumably by reminding women they have breasts. The problem with this worthy intention is that most of the people ogling the photo seem to be men. Can they really be trusted to pass on the breast cancer message to their wives, sisters and mistresses? Men can very forgetful about such things, so perhaps Georgia should think of other good causes her breasts could support.

An excellent role model for young ladies trying to succeed in public life is Chelsea Clinton (née Clinton). To my knowledge, her bosom has never been a topic for public debate – indeed, it’s probably not been mentioned outside of this blog. The good news is that Chelsea’s chesticles will soon be playing a bigger part in her life, because she has announced she’s pregnant with her first child:

Mark and I are very excited that we have our first child arriving, said Chelsea. I certainly feel all the better whether it's a girl or a boy that she or he will grow up in a world full of so many strong young female leaders. I just hope that I will be as good a mom to my child as my mother was to me.

You don’t need to be an expert at reading between the lines to deduce that Chelsea is hoping for a girl. Personally, I’d like it to be a boy. Ever since Bill got caught with his pants down, there’s been too much matriarchy going on in the Clinton stable. That family badly needs another male member who’ll restore the balance between yin and yang. Let’s hope he’s a hungry little tyke with a massive Oedipus complex.

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Wednesday, April 16, 2014

The scent of a hoochie

Have you ever been to a pheromone party? Apparently, they’re the latest craze afflicting trendy young humans who aren’t sure who to have sex with. To get invited, you have to sleep in the same t-shirt for three nights in a row and bring it along to the party, where it is sniffed by potential playmates like a mature cheese. Couples who like each other’s body scent can then cut to the chase and discuss their favourite mating positions.

As a method of courtship, it’s supposed to be more reliable than chatting someone up because smells don’t lie. No longer will lads pretend to be gentlemen when they’re really the most frightful bounders. Nor will girls feel obliged to be coy and ladylike when they’re really the most awful harridans. Sniffing the pheromones will bypass all the posturing and get to the crotch of the matter.

That’s the theory, anyway. Being a suspicious ape, I detect a possible loophole in the system: it depends on the t-shirt odour being authentic. What is to stop an evil-smelling rogue sprinkling aromatic oils and aphrodisiacs over his garment before submitting it to the party manager? The human being is a cunning animal: if you give it the chance to doctor its juices, its juices will probably be doctored.

When I invited the manager of the safari camp to comment on this development, he said:

“Basically these are parties for ugly people hoping to attract someone with their smell because their looks can’t do it. A dog that smells of catnip might find a willing pussy.”

“Pithily put, manager, but what about good-looking people who smell bad?” I asked. “Didn’t your wife give you a bottle of deodorant last Christmas?”

“It was part of a toiletry set including shower gel and aftershave,” he replied defensively.

The manager does have a point about looks, though. Pretty-boy actor Paul Rudd was recently led through the streets of New York City by a garrulous comedian, who asked passers-by if they would have sex with him for a dollar. Most of the women replied heartily in the affirmative, often agreeing to waive their one-dollar fee. And at no stage of the proceedings did anyone attempt to sniff Mr Rudd to find out whether he smelt as good as he looked. For humans, the eyes are the sultan and the nose is the eunuch who guards the harem.

Yet strangely enough, there is an actor who thinks being too pretty has hindered his career, denying him challenging roles that might have won him an Oscar:

“When I was a teen idol, I was so goddamn pretty I wouldn’t have taken myself seriously,” lamented Rob Lowe.

My simian heart bleeds for him. If I were a Hollywood big shot, I would offer Rob a pheromone audition for the part of Peppy Le Pew, so he could dazzle us with his French accent, comic timing and ability to fart on cue. He deserves the opportunity. The only problem might be finding a casting director willing to sniff his butt.

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Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Bone apart

I do hope Napoleon’s penis is returned to his descendants so they can dispose of it in a dignified manner. The unfortunate organ was detached from its deceased owner during an autopsy carried out by a resentful doctor. I have no idea what the doctor’s grudge was – the list of possible grievances that might be blamed on Napoleon is endless. Be that as it may, robbing a corpse of its masculine appendage is hardly ever justified. Maybe a transvestite who was too scared to have the operation while he was alive would have wanted to be buried in a dickless condition, but there is no reason to suspect that Napoleon was such a person.

The eminent todger was sold to an eccentric American in 1977 and currently resides in New Jersey. I know this because a “TV scientist” has tracked it down to get some publicity for his show:

"I've seen a lot of penises, from a Chihuahua to a Sperm Whale,” declared Mark Evans, presenter of Dead Famous DNA. “This is so withered.”

Stupid twerp. I’d like to see what his knob looks like after 200 years of aimless wandering inside a cigar box. And what a charlatan he is for pretending that a withered penis is an object of scientific interest. It is a sad commentary on the TV industry that this bumptious oaf has access to the airwaves and can pass himself off as a scientist.

I should make it clear that I have no admiration for Bonaparte, who was and remains an enemy of the gorilla nation. When he led his garlic-munching hordes into the Mother Continent, we gorillas immediately took up arms and offered our services to the Royal Navy. My ancestor, Bo’sun Bananas, was mentioned in dispatches by Lord Nelson after the Battle of the Nile. That noble ape despised the Corsican upstart, and I’m sure he would have wanted his remains to rest in obscurity. Making an artefact of his penis gives him undeserved publicity.

I wonder if Cameron Diaz is aware of this story. She has recently been hinting at same-sex dalliances, and hearing about a decaying penis might have pushed her along this path.

“I think women are beautiful – absolutely beautiful,” she enthused. “And I think that all women have been sexually attracted to another woman at some point.”

My advice to Cameron is to give it a go, but be careful about her choice of paramour. No one likes to see a lesbian couple where one of the women is a mannish type who wears trousers. Ideally, her lover would be as pretty and feminine as she is, making it impossible to guess who wears the strap-on. Leaving room for the imagination is never a bad thing if you’re in show business.

I wonder if Napoleon’s mistress Josephine ever had Sapphic yearnings. I wouldn’t have blamed her. No man who spends his life planning military campaigns is going to be a skilful lover. Lightning thrusts or surprise attacks never won a man glory in the sack.

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Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Solar exposure

Have you noticed how normal it’s become for people in show business to promote their personal health fads? It wouldn’t bother me if there were a way of holding them to account for endorsing bogus therapies. If my local witch doctor advises me to drink a pint of snake piss to cure some ailment, he knows full well that I’ll pay him a visit if the remedy is spurious or noxious. He would then expect to be held upside down by his ankles until he confessed to being a quack. This form of redress isn’t so easy to implement when the person giving the advice resides in a mansion surrounded by a ten foot wall, equipped with the latest security devices. It breeds a culture of impunity, allowing charlatans like Simon Cowell to beguile the human masses with his pseudo tonics.

The actress Shailene Woodley is another case study of this dubious advocacy. She claims to have kept herself in good health by exposing her lady parts to naked sunlight:

“I like to give my vagina a little vitamin D,” she explained.

She made this remark casually, as if she were describing the most natural thing in the world, so one assumes she was being serious. One must nevertheless dismiss her conjecture as utter hogwash. If vitamin D is good for the vulva, it doesn’t need to be produced at the precise location where its salubrious effects are required. Vitamins are mobile: they travel around the body and do their good work where they are needed. That’s why you can take them by swallowing pills rather than pressing poultices on your body.

How many impressionable young women will hear of Ms Woodley’s bizarre panacea and start sunbathing with their legs apart and their gussets thrust skywards? If the medical profession reports an upsurge in sunburnt coochies, we’ll know who to blame.

Another young actress who seems to think the sun shines out of her vagina is Lindsay Lohann. Last year, she made a list of 36 famous men she claims to have slept with, and showed it to her friends. It quickly became public knowledge.

One of men listed is a fellow called James Franco, whose renown has yet to penetrate the rainforests of the Congo. He nevertheless took umbrage at being named in this way, and has denounced Ms Lohann as a liar.

I find his behaviour caddish for two reasons. First, because it implies that he is insulted by the idea that he had sex with Lindsay. Second, because she may have added his name to the list in error rather than malice. When you’ve slept with as many men as she has, it must be easy to get confused and imagine you’ve bedded some fellow who merely paid you a compliment at a social function. I believe this often happened to courtesans who frequented the salons of pre-revolutionary France. One cannot expect a perfect memory of a woman who is a hoochie of the highest order.

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