Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Tit fatigue
What would you say if I told you that the human male is gradually losing his interest in women’s breasts? Perhaps you would ask me to clarify the meaning of the word “gradually”. A young man who spends five hours a day staring at pictures of jahoobies is obviously going to devote less time to the pastime when he gets his first car or learns how to play the bongo drums. But his diminished interest in bosom flesh would merely be a consequence of the day being restricted to 24 hours. You might say, with equal justification, that a piglet gradually loses its interest in squealing.
Nevertheless, the statement I invited you to consider is not pure conjecture. It is based on a survey conducted by PornHub, which totted up the most popular word-searches on its much visited website. They found that the number one breast-related phrase used was “big tits”, followed by “big boobs” and “huge tits”. Nothing surprising there. However, they also found that men in the 18-24 age group were 19% less likely than average to use “boobs”, “tits”, or ”‘breasts” in their porn searches, while those aged 25-34 were 11% less likely to do so. Men aged 55-64, by contrast, were 17% more likely than the average to search for boobs on the site.
There are still many breast men in the younger age groups, of course. The newspaper that reported on the PornHub survey asked the young men in its office what they thought of breasts:
“Yep, I’m a fan,” said Phil, 28.
“Yes, they are good,” agreed Paul, 32.
Adam, 29, whose name was changed to conceal his identity, admitted that boobs fascinated him. “Yeah, I do like boobs,” he said. ”‘Every pair of boobs is totally different for every female. I like all boobs.”
On the other hand, Harley, 25, said he was “more of a bum guy than a boob guy”.
My own view is that breasts will never go out of fashion. Human biologists have noted that a woman’s cleavage has evolved to resemble a pert pair of buttocks, which simultaneously evolved to resemble a ripe plum ready to be plucked and eaten. This would not have happened unless the human brain was hardwired to appreciate such sights and revel in the associated textures. You can’t turn the clock back on millions of years of evolution.
The young men of today only differ from previous generations in having seen a lot more bosom flesh from a much younger age. This might explain why they tend to look for other attractions when they visit porn sites. If you’ve already seen all the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci, you might want to give other artists a chance the next time you visit the Louvre. Tit fatigue, if it really exists, could only be a consequence of staring at too many jahoobies in too short a space of time. I should imagine that going on a temporary boob fast would rekindle the ancient urges pretty quickly.
Labels: Breasts, jahoobies, PornHub, young men
Wednesday, July 05, 2017
Shaping up
The manager of the safari camp is away on a business trip, so his wife is advising me on what to blog about. She suggests I comment on an article about a scientific study investigating what type of breasts men prefer:
“They found that most men desire women with perky boobs,” she tells me. “As a gorilla, you know very well that the real test of a tit is how much milk it produces. Why don’t you educate your readers about the foolishness of men?”
“A most fascinating topic,” I reply. “But I try to avoid preaching sermons in my blog. You can’t really blame people for their likes and dislikes. A lot of people find it strange that I like unripe mangoes.”
“Are you telling me that you prefer perky boobs?” she asks suspiciously.
“No, not a bit of it!” I protest. “As you say, it’s their ability to produce gallons of fresh milk that matters. I’ll study the piece and see what I can make of it.”
After reading I the article, I manage to acquire a grasp of the underlying theory. The scientists argue that men are finely attuned to a woman’s fertility indicators, presumably because they can’t determine whether she is in oestrus by sniffing her coochie (as we apes do). They argue that fertile women have more attractive breasts:
This is supported by evidence showing that women with larger breasts tend to have higher estrogen levels; breast size may therefore serve as an indicator of potential fertility. However, breasts become less firm with age and parity, and breast shape could thus also serve as a marker of residual fertility.
Thus, the perky boob hypothesis postulates that women with pliant bosoms are likely to remain fertile for a longer period, which makes them more desirable. Even men who don’t want to make babies are attracted to such women because their brains are hardwired that way. This is why they lust after women like Sharon Stone rather than Dolly Parton (or Chesty Morgan).
This is an interesting theory, but there is one detail that looks fishy to men. The men whose opinions were surveyed were from four countries – Brazil, Cameroon, the Czech Republic and Namibia. Are those countries really representative of the global population? Call me a suspicious ape, but I wonder whether the men of those nations are obsessed about jahoobies to an unusual degree. Brazilian beaches are certainly a notorious haven for bosom oglers. If so, there may be places where men test the fertility of women in other ways. Sniffing and tasting is usually more reliable than staring and groping.
I’m not saying the study is definitely wrong, of course. Perhaps men from all parts of the world do appreciate a perky pair of titties. However, I know for a fact that many men are more interested in the thighs and the rump. So I’m keeping an open mind on this one. You can’t make sweeping generalisations until all the data are in.
Labels: Dolly Parton, female fertility, human titty, jahoobies
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Student project
I’ve been looking at a Powerpoint presentation prepared by Miss Lizzy Fenton, a student at the University of Minnesota. This was not a piece of coursework for her degree. The title of the presentation is “Why You Should Date Me”, and she emailed it to a chap she had a crush on.
The data in the presentation imply that Miss Fenton would be the most desirable girlfriend since Anna Nicole Smith wrapped her luscious thighs around the withering loins of J Howard Marshall. One of the slides has the heading “My Boobs Exhibit Steady Growth Over Time”, followed by a graph showing Lizzy’s cup size has increased from A to DD over the last four years. If the trend continues, her jahoobies will resemble a pair of 240mm artillery shells by 2025.
Another slide has the heading “Monogamy Not Your Style: No Problem”. Rather than saying she would be happy with polygamy, Lizzy argues that she is capable of being three different women. This would be achieved by alternate hairstyles, different pairs of spectacles and variations in her facial expression. She also claims she can change her personality from “mysterious and seductive” to “geeky and kinky”.
The last slide has the heading “Still Not Convinced: Listen to the Critics”. These “critics” include Lizzie’s Mom, who may not be an impartial judge. However, the ex-girlfriend of the fellow she has a crush on is quoted as saying “She’s definitely an upgrade. Nice work, old sport.” There are also endorsements from Channing Tatum and the New York Times.
It would be all too easy to dismiss Miss Fenton as a ridiculously forward floozy who has turned the delicate rites of human courtship into a joke. I prefer to see her as a resolutely modern woman who believes in asking directly for what she wants. This is a more honest strategy than playing hard-to-get in the hope that some chowderhead will chase after you. The “presentation” may be utter balderdash, but it’s the kind of nonsense that brings a smile to the face.
You must be wondering what response Lizzy got from the man she was trying to impress. You need wonder no longer, because she published the email he sent her. It was a very short one:
“This is very nice. Please stop contacting me.”
I’d say this was a very poor reply to a piece of work that must have taken hours to put together. A gentleman of the old school would have praised the quality of the slides, while politely explaining why he did not find the arguments sufficiently compelling to take the matter further. The man’s name is Carter Blochwitz, which could explain why he reacted in such a curt and timid fashion. Anyone given the name “Carter” is likely to be nervous about being approached in a humorous way. Who could forget the famous limerick that starts:
The first mate’s name was Carter
He must have heard that one a thousand times when he was at school.
Labels: floozie, jahoobies, PowerPoint
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Raccoon story
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.
Labels: erotic videos, jahoobies, Pamela Anderson, Raccoon
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.
Labels: call girls, jahoobies, minority groups, police, prostitutes
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Return of the jubblies
One year ago, the executives of Playboy magazine announced to the world that they would no longer be publishing pictures of naked women. The new era of on-line porn had made nudity passé, they told us. Now they have admitted it was all a terrible mistake. Here are the words of Playboy’s 25-year-old Chief Creative Officer, Cooper bin Hefner (aka son of Hef):
“Nudity was never a problem because nudity isn’t a problem. Today we’re taking our identity back and reclaiming who we were.”
Reading between the lines, I think we can infer that the absence of nudie pics provoked howls of anguish and despair from the magazine’s loyal readers. What the Playboy bigwigs didn’t appreciate was the big difference between jahoobies on a computer screen and jahoobies on smooth, glossy paper. The latter can be rubbed against the face and licked, heightening the sensual pleasure. Only crazy people lick computer screens. I once saw a baboon lick one and the static electricity gave its tongue a shock.
It is said that there is nothing new under the sun and nothing surprising under the moon. Do you remember when Coca Cola brought back Classic Coke after New Coke bombed? The whole episode ended up boosting their sales, which led some to suspect it was all a clever marketing ploy. The CEO of Coca Cola had to issue a formal denial:
“We’re not that clever and we’re not that stupid,” he said.
It remains to be seen whether Playboy will experience a similar revival in its fortunes. A new era of naked flesh might attract new readers, but what about the old readers who have migrated to Penthouse or Hustler? Winning them back might be next to impossible. Their only hope is to innovate. A lot of men must be bored of staring at dumb blondes in passive positions. How about a nude kickboxing lady or a nude schoolmistress giving lessons on a blackboard? If you think about it, there are very few activities done by fully-clothed women that cannot also be done by naked women. The possibilities are endless.
None of this would persuade me to take out a subscription, of course. A gorilla has no interest in human flesh. The only reason for me to pick up a copy of Playboy would be to swat flies. That might change, however, if the magazine acquired a reputation for high-quality journalism. As a student of humanity, I would read any periodical that kept me informed of the latest fads and perversions.
“Who could they hire?” I hear you ask. Top of my list would be a feminist writer like Gloria Steinem. Obviously, she’s a huge enemy of Hef and everything he stands for, but enemies can often collaborate for the greater good. Remember the US-Soviet alliance during World War 2? To read her trenchant prose amid all the boobies and booties would be the purest delight. Now where can I find the email address of the Hefner boy?
Labels: Hugh Hefner, jahoobies, nudity, Playboy
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Manphobia
An English “glamour model” has taken the unusual step of banning men from her home:
“I honestly can't bear the thought of letting a man into my house ever again,” tweeted Jodie Marsh. “My house is too beautiful & clean & perfect ... I'm not saying men are untidy or dirty or smelly or unhygienic. Just that in my experience ... well, you know ... Men are like elephants. I appreciate their beauty and I like looking at them but I don't want to own one and I don't want one in my house.”
Given that Ms Marsh has made a handsome living from posing topless in “lads’ magazines”, her tweets may be unhelpful in furthering her career plans. Those who have stared ravenously at her jahoobies don’t want to be told that they’re smelly vagabonds by the owner of the said jahoobies. Publicly banning them from her home may also be counterproductive. They surely never expected to be invited, but now they can’t even fantasize about the possibility.
My mentor, Dr Whipsnade, didn’t allow tramps or vagrants into his impressive mansion, but he never announced it as a policy. If they turned up at his door, they were directed to the garden shed and told to wait for provisions. If you own a big, impressive house, you mustn’t insult the masses by telling them it’s strictly off-limits. That kind of behaviour can provoke a brick through the window. Even the Queen of England invites common folk to her garden parties, serving them an excellent buffet of teacakes and desserts.
So why has Ms Marsh acquired such an aversion to the opposite sex? Part of the reason might be the marriage she is currently in the final stages of dissolving. Her estranged husband was reputedly a man of lowly character with body odour issues. Having a mate who smells bad can put anyone off sex. Ms Marsh expounded on the delights of celibacy in an earlier TV interview conducted in her home:
“I'm celibate again now, because I just like it. I don't want any willies near me. I'm just nothing, I'm asexual.”
When asked about self-love, she said that was a different story and told the interviewer not to rummage in her drawers.
“Because you've got all the implements!” he exclaimed.
I think we can take it as read that the toys in her drawers are giving full satisfaction. If I were her agent, I’d negotiate an endorsement deal on her behalf. Having a nude model say that your device is so effective that she doesn’t need men is a manufacturer’s dream.
It is possible, of course, that Ms Marsh has not dated the right kind of man. Women of her background and appearance tend to attract the coarser variety of suitor. As well as smelling like baboons, such men have an unsubtle approach to the erotic pleasures. Maybe she would have fared better with the smoother type of fellow who showers regularly, uses cologne and keeps his tufts well trimmed. It’s easy to mock the metrosexual dandy, but I bet he gets laid more often than the he-man.
Labels: body odour, celibacy, jahoobies, Jodie Marsh, Sex toys
Wednesday, January 04, 2017
Police story
A British policewoman has been allowed to keep her job after exposing her breasts to a junior colleague. The peculiar circumstances of the case suggest it wasn’t an attempt at seduction, although I’m not entirely convinced there wasn’t a sexual motive. The adjudicating panel cited the exemplary service record of Assistant Chief Constable Rebekah Sutcliffe in justifying their decision, but I doubt they would have been so lenient if her breasts had been offered as face cushions. There are some things you can’t get away with in the British police force.
What drove Ms Sutcliffe, aged 47, to bare her bosom? It happened after she learnt that a rookie policewoman under her command had received breast implants. For some reason, Ms Sutcliffe found this infuriating, and resolved to give the melon-chested upstart a piece of her mind. She told her that a policewoman with surgically enhanced titties had zero credibility and no prospects for career advancement. Not content with mere words, she then exposed her own chest, saying:
“Look at these, look at these – these are the breasts of someone who has had three children. They are ugly but I don’t feel the need to pump myself full of silicone to get self-esteem.”
It goes without saying that one does not expect such theatrical displays from British policewomen, unless they are on holiday, on a hen night, or totally pissed. This is why I am inclined to believe it was indicative of a subconscious sexual desire. Describing her own breasts as ugly suggests a fetish for humiliation often found in humans of high authority. Or maybe she was just fishing for compliments. Imagine what would have happened if the young policewoman had responded to Ms Sutcliffe’s outburst by saying:
“Your tits aren’t ugly, they’re delicious, and I want to have them for breakfast and lunch.”
My guess is that five minutes later there would have been crazy dyke action on a king-size bed. If I were a producer of porn films, I would offer Ms Sutcliffe a contract without delay. There must be a huge market for material where nubile young females ravish and despoil the jahoobies of bossy older women. I wouldn’t even call it a niche.
Irrespective of the decision to let her off with a reprimand, I doubt Ms Sutcliffe has much of a future in the police force. Ironically, it is her own career that has now been fatally damaged. A policewoman with breast implants might eventually be accepted as a dedicated public servant, but a policewoman who has exposed her own breasts is permanently branded as a figure of ridicule. If she doesn’t want to be a porn star, I think she has to find some other media career. A woman who has boasted about the ugliness of her boobs is likely to attract a lot of curiosity and potentially many fans. If she exploits her fame to the fullest degree, I have a feeling that ugly could become the new beautiful.
Labels: breast implants, chest exposure, jahoobies, police
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Self exposure
I saw a tourist smiling at his smart phone the other day, which he held out in front of him with his arm fully extended.
“Forgive me for asking, but what the devil are you doing?” I asked.
“Taking a picture of myself,” he replied. “Haven’t you heard of selfies?”
“I have now,” I said. “But wouldn’t you rather be taking pictures of the wildlife given that you are touring the African bush at considerable expense?”
“Ah, but I was!” he exclaimed. He then showed me the picture he had taken, which had captured me a few paces behind him, with a quizzical expression on my face.”
“I’m going to send it to my friends with the caption: ‘Show no fear when you are being stalked by a gorilla.’”
“I hope they will realise you are jesting,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to appear in anyone’s nightmares.”
“You’ve got as good a chance of appearing in their erotic dreams!” he said with a smirk.
“Pffft!” I exclaimed. “Such flattery.”
This incident prompted me to investigate the “selfie” phenomenon. It seems that humans are doing it all the time, so they can send their grinning self-portraits to anyone who will look at them. They are especially keen on taking selfies with persons of note, which might explain the incident with the tourist. It seems like harmless fun, but on some occasions it has led to unforeseen mishaps.
During my research, I came across a news report about a college student in Texas who drove her car into a police vehicle. When the policeman got out to question her, he found her fumbling frantically with her bra. She was then forced to confess that she had been taking a selfie of her bare breasts with the intention of sending the picture to her boyfriend. Miss Miranda Rader was arrested on suspicion of driving while intoxicated and released from jail next morning on a $2,000 bail bond.
Now Gorilla Bananas is no laggard on holding humans to account for reckless driving, but I can’t help feeling sorry for Miss Rader. Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I hate to see anyone chastised for trying to do a good deed. Furthermore, she took the picture while stopping at a red light, so she wasn’t wholly negligent on matters of road safety. I hope the court will accept that she was acting from the best of motives. It is far better for a young man to stare at pictures of his girlfriend’s jahoobies than waste time browsing addictive porn sites.
Miss Rader’s misfortune has nevertheless convinced me not to get involved in the “selfie” fad. You can’t concentrate on the issue at hand if you’re constantly taking pictures of yourself. I also have fears that my image might be used for immoral or indecent purposes if it fell into the wrong hands. Anyone who wants to photograph me should leave his calling card at the Brazzaville Wildlife Bureau. I’ll get back to you when I can.
Labels: jahoobies, selfie, smart phone, topless women
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Paris gets flashed
Many years ago, I wrote a post defending Paris Hilton against people who claimed she was a spoiled, vacuous bimbo. Some time later, I discovered that the allegation was actually well founded, which made me feel like a lawyer who had defended a guilty client. Thereafter, I naturally shied away from discussing Miss Hilton, but I did not delete the original post, which is still buried somewhere in the archives. Gorilla Bananas is not like one of those cowardly media pundits who erases embarrassing tweets to avoid the scorn of the mob.
So why am I mentioning her now after such a long hiatus? Well, it’s because of a recent news item about her. Apparently she is now a DJ, which seems like a fitting occupation that will give her something useful to do without taxing her brain excessively. Yet her new line of work is not without its perplexing incidents. It seems that many girls on the dance floor are showing Paris their breasts for reasons that are currently unfathomable:
“I'm a girl so it's weird when girls are flashing their boobs at me,” she explained. “But I love that people are into it and they feel so free that they can express themselves however they want.”
Now why would so many girls be baring their breasts at Paris Hilton? The most straightforward reason would be to indicate they were sexually available, but how could Paris respond to their invitation while she was busy playing records? I can’t believe that girls who go to discos don’t have better methods of seduction.
Another possible motive, much less flattering to Paris, is that the girls want to show their breasts are fuller, rounder and perkier than her own ones. If you’re envious of a woman’s fame and fortune, why not even up the score by making her jealous of your jahoobies? If that was their intention, there’s little evidence they succeeded. A dopey creature like Paris would be blissfully unaware of such devious attempts to demean her.
A third possibility, which I’m leaning towards with increasing favour, is that the girls were hoping to be recruited for a porn video. Although Paris is not a commercial producer of adult entertainment, I vaguely remember a story about her appearing in a porn video herself. Did that really happen? It was a long time ago, so I may have been dreaming. But no, I don’t think I was.
I now recall an article about that video written by Germaine Greer, who noted with approval that Paris had a bored expression on her face when some fellow was eating her cha-cha. This, Ms Greer assured us, was a powerful statement of feminist indifference. It proved that a man couldn’t orally pleasure a woman into a mass of moaning, quivering flesh.
I’m not entirely persuaded by Ms Greer’s argument, but I’m not going to search for the video after all these years just to refute her. I’ve got better things to do than study the expression on Paris Hilton’s face.
Labels: jahoobies, Paris Hilton, porn video, tit-flashing
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Boob joke
Why is it that celebrity lawsuits take so long to settle? The gossip rags report that someone famous is being sued and you don’t hear a thing about it for months. I’m still waiting to discover the outcome of Elton John’s dispute with the bodyguard he allegedly groped. The wheels of human justice grind more slowly than a lap-dancing snail.
The latest legal battle currently in stasis involves Ellen Degeneres and a 35-year-old woman called Titi Pierce. In this case no groping occurred, although it might still happen if they meet in a dark cubicle. Titi is upset because she was referred to as “Titty” in Ellen’s TV show. Apparently, the correct pronunciation of her name is “Tee Tee”, and those who confuse it with a vulgar term for the breast are guilty of malicious hate speech. Her lawyer issued the following statement on her behalf:
“In all her 35 years of life, no one has ever referred to Ms Pierce as ‘Titty’ until the Defendant did so on February 22, 2016 on national television. Prior to the Defendent’s misdeeds, Ms Pierce has been called only by her name ‘Titi’, which as grammar dictates, is pronounced ‘TEE TEE’”
As a result of this appalling insult, his client “suffered stress, emotional distress, embarrassment, humiliation, anger, and other mental pain and suffering”. She might also have acquired a nervous tick and a zit on her butt. Yet no one can deny that making fun of an exotic name is a coarse form of humour employed by the lowliest wags. Ellen should hang her head in shame and make fun of her own breasts as a penance. She should also offer to pay compensation of not less than forty-six US dollars.
Nevertheless, I do find it amazing that no one had ever mispronounced Titi’s name before. Maybe she lives in a church-going community whose residents would never say the word “Titty”, not even if they saw a topless dancer shaking her jahoobies in their direction. However, Ms Pierce is a realtor, so she must have encountered people from all walks of life, including those who snigger at boob jokes. I suspect that many of her clients were suppressing their chuckles and calling her “Titty” behind her back.
Some women, of course, have more suggestive names than “Titi”. Fanny Cradock was a pioneering British TV chef, admired as much for her domineering personality as her recipes. Yet there is no evidence that anyone ever made fun of her name. Some might have been too scared to do so, but jokes of that kind would have fallen flat in any case. Having a humorous name is a minor distraction if you’re a ballsy woman who can stuff a turkey and mash potatoes at the same time.
The lesson for Ms Pierce is clear enough: People will only mock your name if they have nothing else to say about you. To put yourself beyond such foolish quips, you’ve got to raise your public profile and get a reputation for being a hard-ass uppity bitch.
Labels: Boob joke, Ellen Degeneres, Fanny Cradock, jahoobies
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Sudden impact
There is absolutely no reason for me or any other gorilla to have an opinion on breast implants. Nevertheless, I do remember pontificating on the topic in previous posts. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I’m pretty sure I chided women who artificially inflate their bosoms. I might have quoted a saying of a mythical ape called Old Melonhead:
Be satisfied with what Mother Nature has bestowed upon you, for the fate of those who defy her is grievous to behold!
I now see it was quite wrong of me to lecture women who hire surgeons to enhance or reshape their boobs. A news story from Australia has forced me to open my mind and amend my judgements. What happened was that a 45-year-old woman collided with a kangaroo while riding her bicycle, causing her to receive a fearful blow on her chest. Fortunately for Ms Sharon Heinrich, her voluptuous silicone boobies came to the rescue and saved her from a mortal injury:
“My breast implants probably saved my life,” said Ms Heinrich, after being told her she was lucky to be alive.
Her sizable implants were naturally ruptured by the accident, so the quick-thinking surgeon replaced them with even bigger ones:
“Santa brought me 10 DDs in 2000, and it turns out they were 320 millilitres in size, but this time the surgeon put in 400 millilitres,” explained Ms Heinrich. “Australia can be a harsh country, so it’s best to be safe now,” she added. “I suppose I should be thanking the kangaroo.”
Much as I applaud her for holding no grudge against the kangaroo, she ought to have inquired after its health. I hope a bush ranger visited the scene of the accident to see if the creature needed medical assistance or counselling. The bush police should have also taken statements from witnesses to the incident. Although we can’t be sure who was to blame for the collision, a wild creature in its natural habitat normally has the right of way. The kangaroo may well have a valid insurance claim.
In light of Ms Heinrich’s fortunate escape, one could argue that breast implants are a vital safety precaution for cyclists, akin to air bags in motorcars. The main problem with making them compulsory is the expense involved in fitting them. And the same requirement would have to apply to men to avoid gender discrimination. It goes without saying that you can’t have men with titties riding on public highways – the accident rate would rocket because of motorists staring at them in horror, amusement or lust.
A more feasible solution might be the padded bra, filled with a firm yet elastic substance that kangaroos would bounce off without injury to either party. If that turns out to be the solution, we should name them in honour of Sharon Heinrich, whose brush with death sparked off the search for solutions. I should imagine that many advances in technology have been inspired by a woman’s jahoobies.
Labels: Australia, breast implants, Breasts, jahoobies, kangaroo
Wednesday, June 08, 2016
Dolly's denial
As I suspected, the rumour that Dolly Parton is a lesbian was too good to be true. An American tourist on safari told me she had frequent slumber parties with a woman called Judy Ogle, who was supposedly her lesbian lover. He also asserted that the husband she claims to have has never been seen in public. It was Dolly herself who put these insinuations to bed in the best possible way:
“If I was gay, I would have come out of the closet just a-flying!” she declared in a recent interview.
Apparently her husband is just a publicity-shy fellow who shuns the limelight, whereas Judy Ogle is a bosom childhood friend who never intentionally touched Dolly’s bosom. You can’t assume someone is a kitty-muncher just because her name is ‘Judy Ogle’. Many people are burdened with suggestive names that don’t reflect their true nature.
Of course, I wouldn’t blame the Velcro vixens for hoping that Dolly was one of their number. Anyone can see that busty lesbians are in short supply, so Dolly would have given the sisterhood some much-needed chesticular gravity. The flat-chested, short-haired, trouser-wearing stereotype isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and recruiting a well-stacked player for the A-team would have won them new fans.
Another myth that Dolly could have helped to explode is that lesbians are not especially keen on booby action. I don’t believe that anyone who is attracted to women would downplay the jahoobies – certainly, no one attracted to Dolly could do so. Maybe Ellen Degeneres should make a public statement clearing up the misconceptions on this topic.
What Dolly has clearly demonstrated is that you don’t need to be gay to be a supporter of gays. She was quick to apologise when she found out that a female visitor to her ‘Dollywood’ theme park was told to reverse a t-shirt displaying a pro-lesbian slogan. After issuing a statement on ABC news, Dolly announced her support for gay marriage rights:
“Sure, why can’t they get married?” she said. “They should suffer like the rest of us do.”
This is all well and good, but I hope Dolly checked the t-shirt slogan was appropriate for a family venue. “Lesbian and Proud” would be fine, but “Hot Dyke Action at Pussies.com” should be reserved for the bars and clubs.
It seems the queer community are solidly behind Hillary for president, although I’m not entirely sure what she’s done for them. Is there anything she could do after getting elected, besides offering the usual words of support?
If I had Madame President’s ear, I would advise her to invite the surviving members of ‘Village People’ to perform in the White House. It would be great to see them prancing about in their costumes again. It’s a little known fact that ‘YMCA’ is a beloved classic among the gorillas of the Congo, even though we have no idea what YMCA stands for. That’s the great thing about pop music – you can enjoy the songs without having a clue what the words mean.
Labels: Dolly Parton, Hillary Clinton, jahoobies, lesbian, Village People
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Virtually arousing
I wonder if virtual reality porn is going to be the next big thing for humans who hanker after hi-tech gadgets. The pastime involves putting on a big fat pair of goggles and watching videos stored in the memory. Apparently, the naked women don’t stay on a screen for you to admire at a distance, but walk right up to you, pouting and jiggling their jahoobies. I dare say there are naked men too for those who prefer beefcake and sausage. The first users of this gismo have been lavish in their praise:
“We tried virtual sex for the first time and it feels like we just lost our virginity again!” they exclaimed.
This looks like an impressive endorsement, but a comment from a more reflective guinea pig indicates the illusion was less than perfect:
“The scenes feature serious visual depth and three-dimensionality. My mind told me to reach out and touch, but my invisible arms were grabbing nothing but air.”
Not being able to feel the goodies is surely a major deficiency. And you can’t taste them either, unless you’re sucking on a rubber teat flavoured with essence of booby.
Call me a suspicious ape, but I don’t trust these early reviews. How do we know they weren’t sponsored by the manufacturer? Normally, I would have asked the manager of the safari camp for his opinion, but he is currently convalescing from a vasectomy operation and in no mood for such experiments. So I phoned my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod and asked him to give it a try.
“If I used that device at home my wife would hammer my kneecaps with a rolling pin!” he protested.
“So why not use it outside the house?” I suggested.
“You mean in the street, where people could see the stiffy in my trousers?” he asked. “That might get me arrested. And wearing those goggles would allow any old pervert to walk right up and grope me. The really scary thing is that I might enjoy it.”
I had to admit these were valid objections, so I’ll just have to wait for an impartial review from a blogger I trust. Until then I shall reserve judgment, like a justice of the higher appellate court. But that won’t stop me discussing the broader implications, like a prophet of the masonic temple.
Virtually reality porn will have its human enthusiasts, but it’s not a perfect substitute for the real thing. Nor can it be enjoyed in a public place with making the participator looked like an utter nincompoop. Anyone so foolhardy should expect to have his picture taken by on-lookers while someone held a sign above his head with the word “pillock” written on it.
Hence it would most likely become a private bedroom pursuit, done as an aid to self-stimulation. The main cause for concern is that many humans might become completely dependent on it, like the ‘orgasmatron’ in the Woody Allen movie. If you can’t get yourself off without the help of a machine, you might as well marry a robot.
Labels: jahoobies, orgasmatron, porn, technology, virtual reality
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.
Labels: Breasts, jahoobies, pantaloons, pants down, waistcoat
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Doing the decent thing
Would you believe that Playboy magazine has decided to stop displaying pictures of naked women? Some people might say it’s the passing of an era. The manager of the safari camp thinks it’s the dawn of a new dark age.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I said on seeing his grim face. “You’ll still be able to download nudie pics from the internet.”
“That’s not the point,” he replied glumly. “Putting the clothes back on naked women is like turning the clock back. How would you like it if tourists went back to thinking gorillas were big hairy monsters?”
“Well it might stop them asking for my autograph,” I remarked.
I personally think it’s a positive step for Playboy. It will now be possible for men who enjoy reading its articles to subscribe to the magazine without being thought of as compulsive oglers of tit-and-bum. Dentists will be able to put copies of Playboy in their waiting rooms. Fashionistas will be able to admire the stylish garments of fully-clothed women. Wankers will have to fantasize about undressing these women instead of getting it all on a plate. There’s no doubt these developments are an advance for human civilisation.
Loyal readers of this blog will know that I’ve written uncomplimentary things about Hef in the past, so it’s nice to pat the old codger on the back for a change. The decision was actually made by Scott Flanders, Playboy’s chief executive, who made the following observation:
“You're now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free. And so it's just passé at this juncture.”
Hef gave it his blessing at a board meeting. In the spirit of the new Playboy, let’s hope he will now keep his own clothes on in the mansion. He will still need a nurse to undress and bathe him, of course, but there’s no need for the playmates to witness these repulsive and macabre events.
Lest anyone should accuse me of being a prude, let me emphasize that disrobing can be an admirable deed in the right context. Consider the case of Inés Estévez, a 50-year-old Argentinian actress who was recently the victim of insulting remarks because of a somewhat revealing blouse she wore at a public event.
“20 years ago, I would have killed for that, but now I wouldn't even look at them,” wrote one anonymous cyber-bully in reference to her bosom.
Miss Estévez responded to these contemptible barbs by issuing the following statement:
“For your hunger for destructive critique, you will see [on my Facebook page] a recent photo of my breasts without silicone or photo-shopping. And yes, I'm proud of them.”
In the circumstances, I considered it appropriate to accept her invitation to view the items in question. Having done so, I have no hesitation in affirming that her jahoobies are superb for a woman of 50 (or any other age). There’s no point staring at breasts unless you can link it to some higher noble purpose.
Labels: cyber-bullying, Hugh Hefner, jahoobies, nudity, Playboy
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
Cut-price cups
An Italian lingerie chain is celebrating its 50th birthday by offering discounts on its bras. No milk-nourished mammal could object to this news, but what should we think of their policy of giving bigger discounts on bigger-sized bras? Before denouncing the practice as discriminatory, let us ponder the words of first-officer Spock:
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Although busty ladies are not more numerous than their moderately stacked sisters, no one can deny that their bosom flesh outweighs anything Spock beamed onto the Enterprise. Being in greater need of support, the universal law of compassion dictates that their jahoobies should be catered for at economy rates. Some might even favour giving them free bras as part of a public chest-health program.
This generous promotion resulted in a particularly dense throng of customers at the shop in Padua. The store manager made the following statement to the press:
“Fortunately for us, many women in Padua are curvy. So this also benefited the buxom women economically, and not those who are as thin as toothpicks.”
The manager did not mention that many of the shoppers were men, an anomaly puzzling enough to make me scratch my chin with my toes. Let us analyse their possible motives logically, as Spock would do.
1) They were bra-hunting on behalf of their busty girlfriends.
2) They were hoping to find a busty girlfriend.
3) They wanted to ogle busty women and possibly cop a feel in the melee.
Option 1 can be dismissed on the grounds that there is no point shopping for bras if the breasts they are intended for are not at hand to try them on. It’s simply not possible to make such measurements by eye.
Option 2 is improbable because women looking for bras are in no mood to be propositioned or otherwise flirted with. You can’t mix business with pleasure where the boobies are concerned.
This leaves us with Option 3, which is a slur on Italian men that would make the noble Garibaldi pluck out his whiskers in disgust. On the other hand, Garibaldi is dead while Berlusconi still lives. Why should Italian men be less louche than a recent prime minister of the republic? Let us not be hasty in our judgements - the buxom ladies of Padua are invited to submit their evidence.
I give the last word to the actress Naomi Watts, still beautiful (if small-breasted) at the age of 46. In her latest movie she plays a Russian stripper who entertains Bill Murray, a role she admitted had stretched her talents:
“I just worked on my moves and my accent and my underwear,” she explained.
There is an important lesson here for women looking for bargains in a lingerie shop. However attractive the prices are, you won’t achieve anything unless you work on your underwear like Naomi. I wouldn’t go so far as to say this was a worthy parable for the Christmas season, because it obviously isn’t. But I hope it will generate goodwill between bosoms all of sizes.
Labels: Berlusconi, Bras, discounts, Italy, jahoobies, Naomi Watts
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
My momma done tol' me
Halle Berry says her mother told her to always wear a bra, even in bed. While it’s nice to hear of a mother giving her daughter sartorial advice, she shouldn’t have made it public. According to Halle, following this dictum has kept her breasts perky at the age of 48, which suggests it was a valuable trade secret, like an old family recipe for pumpkin pie. Now that the cat is out of the bag, women the world over will be keeping their boobs permanently encased in the hope of replicating the Berry bust. This is unlikely to increase the sum of human happiness.
Let us consider the issues arising. There are women, I believe, who take great pleasure in removing their chest cups after returning home from a hard day at the souk. What will become of them now? Will they unhappily conform to the new orthodoxy or live with the guilt of allowing their breasts to swing freely? This painful dilemma would not have arisen if Halle had kept her trap shut.
Then there are other women, like my friend Kola Boof, who believe that liberating the jahoobies from their unnatural confinement is a revolutionary act of self-empowerment. If her comradely sisters suddenly started wearing bras, the consequences would be dire. I have visions of her wandering from hamlet to hamlet with her hair unkempt and her breasts smeared with soot, wailing and cursing like a vengeful priestess. Only those with nerves of steel would be unperturbed by her prophecies of doom.
As for the menfolk, one imagines they would approve of the greater quantity of shapely bosoms on display, although constantly turning their heads might strain their necks. But the realisation would soon dawn that these delightfully-packaged dumplings would never be available to play with in their denuded state. This would make them feel like boys in a sweet shop fully of juicy bonbons whose brightly-coloured wrappers they weren’t allowed to remove. The frustration would be intense and might drive many of them mad.
After painting such a grim prognosis, I should lighten the gloom with some cheerier news. Cameron Diaz has announced that she would be happy to “strip completely” in a film role, as long as it was in good taste and befitted the script. Even those who have no wish to see her naked should appreciate her willingness to go the extra mile for her art and her public. It remains to be seen whether the movie moguls will find a tasteful part for her to display her tasty parts.
I reckon the best way of holding her to her word would be to offer her the female lead in a big screen version of the Adam and Eve story. The early part of the film would have all the nudity, with Cameron frolicking unashamedly in glistening pastures and cavorting energetically with the furry creatures of Paradise. There would also be nude scenes with Adam, where they innocently play the humpy-pumpy game God taught them for the purpose of begetting. The biggest headache might be finding a convincing snake.
Labels: Adam and Eve, Bras, Breasts, Cameron Diaz, Halle Berry, jahoobies, nudity, snakes
