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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Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Pants down incident

Whenever I hear of a human having a clothing mishap it makes me glad to be a gorilla. Ivan Zvonimir Cicak, pictured above, is a Croatian human rights activist whose trousers fell down at the precise moment he accepted an award from the president of his country. The last time I saw something like that happen was back in my circus days, when the clowns dropped their baggy pants as a joke. Not all jokes are funny, of course. I certainly wouldn’t have laughed at Mr Cicak’s involuntary debagiture, although I might well have applauded. It isn’t everyday that a man in boxer shorts is honoured by the president of his country.

Mr Cicak is probably too old to let an incident like this get him down. With any luck, his wife will tell him what a sexy pair of legs he has and slip a Viagra pill into his bedtime drink. If I were his publicist, I would put out a statement saying that the mishap occurred because he had burned off his belly fat after cycling through the hills of Krapina. Far better to let your pants fall down than be a fat slob who slouches in front of the TV eating Big Macs and McNuggets.

A very different type of sartorial malfunction has bedevilled Ms Rita Ora, who is strangely blasé about the fact that her breasts have frequently popped out at public events.

“It's fun,” she insists. “It has happened to me lots so I am not paranoid about it any more. You end up losing track of them.”

Reading between the lines, I detect a woman who is exceedingly proud of her puppies and wants the world to admire them as much as she does. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I don’t personally like it when they bounce out unexpectedly. The sudden exposure of external organs can easily be mistaken for threatening behaviour in the jungle. A snake would certainly hiss at a woman’s jahoobies if confronted by them at close quarters.

You are probably wondering whether a free-living, laid-back ape like me ever wears clothes. Well I did perform in a pair of scarlet pantaloons in the circus, but I never really felt comfortable in them. A gorilla likes the air to circulate around his nether regions. Since then I have been pantless, although I do sometimes wear a waistcoat to reassure the tourists at the safari guesthouse that I’m not the sort of beast who would punch their lights out if they expressed themselves too freely. The manager of the safari camp uses such occasions to make what he considers to be amusing quips:

“I say, m’lud, will you be taking tea in the conservatory?” he once asked me in a poor attempt to mimic an English butler.

“I shall be taking my tea in your mistress’s bedchamber,“ I replied. “She has complained of a lumpy mattress and would like me to install a hammock.”

“My arse you will!” exclaimed the manager heatedly.

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Wednesday, December 09, 2015

Caught in the act

I have a huge amount of sympathy for the Cornish woman who installed a CCTV system to monitor her garden after she saw a man masturbating there.

“It was shock horror – just disgraceful!” said 38-year-old Devika Devereux. “My jaw was hanging wide open and I could not believe what I was witnessing!”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the police then instructed her to remove the camera because it was violating the man’s privacy! I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t reading the script of a Monty Python comedy sketch.

I hope Ms Devereux sues the police for adding insult to her injury by implying that she had installed the device for voyeuristic purposes. Never in my life have I heard of a woman who derives any pleasure from watching a man play with his private parts. That doesn’t mean such women don’t exist, but they are surely few in number, living on the margins of society in fear of their vice being discovered. Of course, there is no lack of men who love to watch women toying with themselves, but that’s a completely different scenario. No one in his right mind would compare horsemeat to finger-licking chicken.

The identity of the man who groped himself in the garden is yet to be discovered. The police, it seems, have better things to do than apprehend the culprit responsible for the whole imbroglio. Why he should have wished to spill his seed on Ms Devereux’s perfectly mown lawn remains a mystery. Given that the police have no interest in carrying out an investigation, I would advise Ms Devereux to check her garden gnomes for signs of physical or emotional abuse. It might also be an idea to interview any local cats that were lurking in the vicinity. Our feline friends have excellent night vision and would certainly be spooked by the sight of a strange man wrestling with his todger.

I came across a fair amount of self-abuse when I was in the circus. Most of it was done by the dwarves, who seemed to be sexually frustrated to an unusual degree. I soon learned to ignore the ferocious panting of these surly manikins, to say nothing of the evil manic laughter they emitted on arriving at the consummation of their exertions. However, on one occasion I was forced to intervene when a particularly odious dwarf was thrusting against the smooth polished exterior of my trailer. I grunted to attract his attention and threw a J-cloth and aerosol spray in his direction.

“Make sure you clean up after you’ve finished,” I barked. “I don’t want your toxic secretions corroding the surface of my dwelling.”

The dwarf scowled and gnashed his teeth, but I knew he would not dare to disobey me.

If I lived in Cornwall, I would certainly lend Ms Devereux a hand in dealing with the villainous onanist who trespassed on her property. But as I live in the Congo, I can only offer her my moral support.

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Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Aerial assualt

I draw your attention to a strange and disturbing news story from Kuwait, where an 8-year-old boy is standing trial for molesting his school teacher. The young fellow allegedly manufactured a paper aeroplane which he fired into the teacher’s “lower back region” – a polite Kuwaiti term for the bumcakes. The prosecutor has demanded a 5-year prison term for the boy, who was in shock when he appeared in court, telling the judge that he didn’t know why he was there.

Before denouncing the Kuwaitis as towel-headed apostles of the child catcher in Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, we should recognise that many women are extremely sensitive about their posteriors. In all probability, the teacher had a sizeable rump which was a major hazard for low-flying projectiles. To have such a sensitive area of her anatomy assaulted in this way would have deflated her self-esteem and inflated her body image. I hope she has received counselling from a psychologist to reassure her that her bum is not as big as she thinks it is. No woman should go through life believing that her rear-end is a legitimate target for paper aeroplanes.

As for the boy, he may be wholly innocent of any malicious intent. The news report indicates that he dreamt of becoming an aviation engineer. We can therefore assume that the paper aeroplane was expertly constructed and found its own banking curve. Lacking navigation tools, evasive manoeuvres would have been impossible when a large fleshy object appeared in its flight path. If I were the judge, I would call witnesses who saw the boy’s reaction when the collision occurred. Only if he clapped his hands and hooted would there be any solid evidence against him.

This doesn’t mean I approve of putting an 8-year-old child on trial, of course. The Kuwaitis have their own peculiar customs which would not be appropriate in a gorilla habitat. When I was in the circus, I often looked after the children of performers who had gone out for a night on the town. For human infants, a gorilla is the most awesome Super Nanny who ever took up the profession of nannying. I didn’t need to say much to them, but when I did they followed my instructions to the letter.

One on occasion, I saw a naughty boy poke a girl in the eye and make her cry. After consoling the girl, I ordered the boy to report to a certain clown and offer to pick the clown’s nose with the finger he had used to assault the girl. Knowing the clown as I did, I was certain that he would accept the offer. The boy was sullen, but assented to the punishment and returned with a soiled finger, which I told him to wash with soap and water.

This incident caused the other children to marvel at the wisdom of my judgments.

“Why can’t our parents be like you, GB?” they asked.

“Because they are not gorillas,” I replied.

The children opened their mouths in wide-eyed wonder and marvelled yet more.

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