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, 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, 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, September 02, 2015
Frontal expression
So the mayor of New York is getting cheesed off about women walking around topless in Times Square. Good thing he isn’t the mayor of Brazzaville (or “Bra-less-ville”, as the manager of the safari camp affectionately calls it). It seems that he can’t simply order the police to arrest these ladies because they have daubed their breasts with brightly coloured dyes. This, apparently, is protected free speech under the American constitution.
Now the mayor is concerned that these street artists are exercising their right to free expression in a manner that will bewilder and upset tourists, possibly causing them to visit New Jersey instead. As he cannot remove them, he is seeking to close the pedestrian plazas in which they congregate. Critics of his plan have likened this to preventing pollution by sucking the Earth’s atmosphere into space.
“That's not a solution, it's a surrender,” said the president of a local business organisation.
The women, as one would expect, are protesting against what they see as an insidious attempt to deny them their rights.
You may be anticipating that an uninhibited ape like me would support the street performers in this dispute. “Not so fast” would be my reply. Just because we gorillas live free and easy lives, it doesn’t mean will we tolerate any form of bodily display. As a former circus ape, I know that it’s possible to present the female bosom in a highly provocative, not to say insolent, manner. I don’t want to regale you with anecdotes of a personal nature, but I can give you a flavour of what I mean by describing an incident from a film called The Graduate. It’s the scene where Ben takes Elaine to a burlesque bar, where they witness a performer twirling her titty-tassels in an exceptionally vulgar manner. My heart bled for Elaine as she rushed from the establishment in tears after being confronted with this brazen exhibition.
Now if the ladies in Times Square were performing such outrageous stunts, the mayor would have my full support in seeking to curtail their activities. However a video interview of Ms Rachel Jessee, a spokesperson of “GoTopless Day” parade, suggests that this is far from the case. She cogently argues in favour of normalising bare-chestedness in the human female, so that people no longer view it as something aberrant or unsettling. I should add that Ms Jessee’s own breasts were tastefully and teasingly exposed during the interview. I refuse to believe that she would lend her support to anything bawdy or offensive.
So after due consideration of the evidence, I declare the mayor of New York to be a reactionary ass whose ignoble scheme must be resisted with unrelenting doggedness. I urge the citizens of the great metropolis to rally in support of their beautiful and talented and street artists. I will not visit their city as a tourist until the liberated bosoms of Times Square are officially recognised as a symbol of its highest ideals, no less important than the Statue of Liberty.
Labels: Breasts, free speech, human titty, New York, topless women
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
Feminist boobs and butts
I don’t know whether Miss Piggy deserves the award she recently won for being a feminist trailblazer. Although I’m not quite sure what feminism is, I assume it means more than making shrill noises in an emotional voice. Or does it? The award will be presented by Gloria Steinem, the feminist agitator turned dowager. Is she so different from Miss Piggy when you strip away all the posturing and pontificating? I’ve never met a human who didn’t have an inner muppet struggling to get out.
My friend Kola Boof used to be a feminist, but quit the movement after she was censured for gratuitously exposing her breasts. She now calls herself a “womanist”, which is basically a feminist who thinks that naked breasts are a good thing. Kola is a prolific writer whose books have earned 5-star reviews on the Amazon site. Many have been inspired by her tales of bare-breasted African women who triumph against all the odds. It’s the kind of bedtime reading that has a big effect on your dreams.
Now, snooty critics don’t take Kola seriously because of her exotic name. I find such attitudes unconscionable (a word I recently learned from an American tourist). The mockery of unusual names is a deplorable human habit that has bedevilled talented artists throughout the ages. A recent victim of this insolent behaviour is Ophelia Lovibond, a nubile young actress who has acquired nicknames such as “Ophelia Lovelybum”. She says she doesn’t mind, but it’s obviously not something a feminist would condone. How can you appreciate a woman’s acting skills if you’re constantly thinking about her posterior?
Another actress with an unusual name is Blake Lively, although maybe it’s seen as commonplace in the rarefied circles of Hollywood. Miss Lively recently claimed that her breasts vary in size during the day, requiring her to make frequent changes in apparel. I initially thought this was an apocryphal story to deflect attention from her name by giving people something else to make fun of. But then I realised she might not be joking because she’s currently nursing a baby. All the same, there must be a simpler solution than continually changing clothes to match the transformations of her bust. Aren’t women allowed to pad their bras in this age of feminist emancipation?
Labels: Breasts, buttocks, feminism, feminists, Kola Boof, Miss Piggy
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
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Boob Jam
I recently got an email from someone called ‘Mo Terboter’. I was inclined not to open it after reading that ridiculous name in my inbox. But curiosity never killed the gorilla’s cat, so I decided to have a peek at what this obvious mountebank had to say. For good or ill, his message his printed below:
Dear Bananas
Do you like playing computer games? There are some new ones you ought to have a look at in a site called Boob Jam. They put you in the position of a woman who’s tending to her titties. I did a google search for blogs about breasts and yours came up on page 1. You’re almost as obsessed about them as I am! Would you be interested in reviewing these games in your blog? More information about Boob Jam is in this BBC link.
Cheers
Mo
He was lying about the google search. He probably found this blog inappropriately linked in some ape fetish site. I sent him the following curt reply:
Dear Mr Terboter
The answer to both your questions is ‘No’. I will not chide you for the lack of decorum in your message, as you obviously have no grasp of such niceties. I should be grateful, nonetheless, if you would refrain from further correspondence.
Yours etc
G Bananas
Although I certainly won’t be reviewing any of these eccentric computer games, the concept behind them is of anthropological interest. According to the BBC site, ‘Boob Jam’ was an on-line conference at which people swapped ideas for games about breasts. However nothing bawdy was allowed. They had to focus on everyday issues of bosom-maintenance rather than anything related to hanky-panky.
The originator of this concept is Ms Jenn Frenk, a “scholar of videogame culture and history”. She lamented the fact that breasts in video games were treated purely as sexual objects for people who did not have them, i.e. men.
“Accuracy in this context means better jiggle physics,” she asserted.
I have much admiration for Ms Frenk and her jiggle physics. She has every right to remind us that the female bosom came into being for reasons other than the rendition of cheap thrills. The vested interests that profit from the depiction of breasts as bouncy, globular fun pillows don’t want people to know what a burden they can be for their owners. Such problems are especially aggravating for bustier ladies like Dolly Parton, who suffered from back strain before her reduction surgery.
Yet, much as I sympathise with the difficulties women encounter in attending to their jahoobies, I can’t see the point of recreating them in a computer game. It is entirely feasible to provide succour to the afflicted without experiencing the affliction yourself. If a well-stacked lady told me how hard it was to find a comfortable bra, I would nod gravely and massage my thighs. My empathy for her predicament would not be enhanced by controlling a pair of computer-generated jugs. As far as I’m concerned, these booby games deserve the booby prize.
Labels: Breasts, Computer games, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, jiggle physics
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
Natural augmentation
The singer Ellie Goulding has taken the unusual step of denying that her breasts have been surgically enhanced:
“My boobs look bigger because my waist is smaller,” she explained. “People underestimate how you can shape your body. Since I stopped eating meat and fish, my body’s better than ever.”
I condemn the gossips and guttersnipes who goaded her into making such a statement. When a woman’s breasts grow bigger, the event should be celebrated like a bumper harvest of fruit. Mother Nature, in her glorious munificence, is showing us that her gifts are ripe and ready for plucking.
Miss Goulding added that she has always been terrified of cosmetic surgery:
“I’m petrified of anything like that. My friends will think it’s hilarious.”
Her fears are not unfounded. I’ve always found it strange that so many women will allow their bodies to be tampered with while they are unconscious. Reputation is no guarantee of success – a Harley street surgeon has recently been accused of a botched boob job. According to a report on the hearing:
A medical panel heard that breast implant specialist Mohammad Aslam tucked a pair of 4.5kg 1,600cc implants into Andrea Scott in 2010. But Scott, 36, who already had a set of 800cc implants, was left with breasts that were "too big and heavy," according to one breast expert.
Any fool can see what happened here. Dr Aslam must have lost his notes on the patient and crammed in as much silicone as he could to be on the safe side. Like many men, he finds it inconceivable that a woman could complain about her breasts being too big. Such misdeeds are inevitable in a profession that is a natural home for the tit fiend. It’s no accident that virtually all breast enlargement surgeons are men.
Hopefully women contemplating implants will hear about this story and, like Miss Goulding, consider natural alternatives. My old friend Smacker Ramrod believes that frequent sex will enlarge a woman’s bosom:
“I got seduced by a busty nurse when I was 18,” he once told me. “I could feel them expand when she pushed them against my face.”
“A method of measurement well known to Science,” I remarked. “But didn’t they later contract to their normal size?”
“No, she told me she needed bras with a bigger cup-size,” he replied. “I would have helped her pay for them if I hadn’t been a penniless student.”
“Well, it’s never too late to post someone a cheque,” I said. “Although perhaps she felt the benefits-in-kind were sufficient.”
I am sorry to say that Paris Hilton has recently been drawing attention to her jahoobies. There was a time when I spoke in this young lady’s defence, but the weight of evidence eventually forced me to concur with her detractors and lampooners. Will wearing revealing dresses pump the air back into her waning celebrity cult? Possibly not, but talking to the titties of a vacuous bimbo is more appealing than listening to her mouth.
Labels: Bra sizes, Breasts, cosmetic surgery, Ellie Goulding, jahoobies, Paris Hilton, tit fiend
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Scouting expedition
Scout has recently been in the news for walking around topless in New York City. She was protesting against Instagram for deleting her account after she posted a couple of booby pictures. To justify her action, she wrote an article on a girlie website complaining that her nipples were the victims of sexual discrimination:
“To me, nipples seem to be at the very heart of the issue,” she explained. “In the 1930s, men’s nipples were just as provocative, shameful, and taboo as women’s are now, and men were protesting in much the same way.”
When I told the manager of the safari camp about her campaign, he looked at the picture of her above and said:
“She has my full support. I’d rather look at her tits than her face.”
“It’s a pity you’re not able to say that to her in person,” I remarked. “I’m sure she’d thank you warmly before kicking you in the nuts.”
Even if women win the right to denude their dumplings, I doubt social attitudes will change in the way Scout wants. A woman’s breasts cannot be desexualised because they resemble the buttocks too closely. From a relatively young age, boys learn that staring at naked bosom-flesh is a forbidden treat to be savoured. As they mature into manhood, they find that persuading a woman to take off her bra is a labour worthy of Hercules. If ladies start flaunting their jahoobies willy-nilly, it would devalue the whole experience. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas if it were celebrated every day.
A possible compromise would involve giving Scout the right to bare her breasts whenever and wherever she wanted, without making it a universal right. If I were the mayor of New York, I would present her with a booby permit in a public ceremony in Central Park. The event would surely be a major tourist attraction – I foresee people cancelling their holidays to Rio and Acapulco to watch it. It might also help to get Scout’s show business career off the ground. Having a famous pair of hooters never hindered Dolly Parton in her dizzy rise to the top of the telegraph pole.
As for Instagram, they showed what cowardly pimps they are when a rumour got out that Rihanna’s page had been deleted after she put up some racy pictures of herself. They promptly issued a denial and the page mysteriously reappeared. Maybe a decision taken by a low-level employee had been hastily reversed to avoid annoying all the dirty old lechers who ogle her pictures with their tongues hanging out. The lesson for Scout is clear: if your breasts become money-making assets, there’ll be no shortage of flunkies who'll milk them for you.
Labels: Breasts, Instagram, jahoobies, Rihanna, Scout Willis, sexism
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.
Labels: beauty content, Breasts, Chelsea Clinton, jahoobies, selfies
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Gifts from God
Katy Perry has admitted that she prayed for big breasts at the age of 11:
“I lay on my back one night and looked down at my feet, and I prayed to God. I said, God, will you please let me have boobs so big that I can’t see my feet when I’m lying down.”
When I mentioned this disturbing confession to the manager of the safari camp, his lips quivered with emotion:
“And God answered her prayers!” he sighed. “I’m going to church this Sunday to pray that all 11-year-old girls grow a big pair of boobs.”
“You are missing the point, manager,” I replied curtly. “This story is a sad commentary on the practice of objectifying women’s bodies, such that even an 11-year-old girl has nothing better to wish for than an oversized bust.”
“You could be right,” mused the manager. “She should have prayed for a perfect ass instead. Small-titted women can always get implants.”
“And small-brained men can always get vasectomies,” I added. “I believe that’s how Homo Erectus died out.”
On returning to the jungle, I thought of the many heavenly blessings bestowed upon the buxom Miss Perry – fame, fortune, good looks…as well as the bountiful bazoomas she holds in such high regard. Not since the Queen of Sheba has a woman been better served by fate.
Yet all is not rosy in the lady’s pleasure garden. Let us not forget her failed marriage to Russell Brand, the degenerate pseudointellectual comedian. It must have been intensely aggravating for Katy to listen to her husband prattle away in his irritating Essex accent, although it was surely his sexual deviancy that caused the estrangement.
“Caaahm on Katy, you can’t expect a bloke who’s been around like I have to get off that easily,” Brand might have said. “Bite my bum for ‘arf-an-hour and we’ll call it quits.”
A big bosom can be a mixed blessing, of course. The great Dolly Parton suffered from back ache after carrying the weight of her humungous hooters. I believe she had them surgically reduced to relieve the strain. Yet the diminishment of her dumplings in no way lessened her popularity. Indeed her career continued to flourish, buoyed by the many poignant songs she wrote on behalf of the hard-pressed redneck. Miss Perry should take heed of her example if she wants to be loved for something other than her jahoobies.
The other great talent of Dolly Parton was her ability to complement her music with clever asides that were usually highly apropos.
"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain," she once said.
I often repeat this saying to my females during the rainy season. They invariably respond by hooting with derision, which helps to relieve the stress.
The best Katy Perry quote I could find was this:
“If you’re presenting yourself with confidence, you can pull off pretty much anything.”
That’s no better than a half-truth, and not something I’d dare say to my females for fear that they’d take it literally.
Labels: Breasts, Dolly Parton, jahoobies, Katy Perry, Russell Brand
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Croatian breast festival
Croatian feminists are furious about the breast festival held in their country, where the bosoms of nubile women were weighed, measured and graded like so many tomatoes or aubergines. They pooh-poohed the organisers’ point that the purpose of the event was to raise money for a terminally ill man.
“There are all sorts of other ways that they could have raised money for this man without insulting women," said Ruza Vukovic, a woman’s rights activist.
I suppose you’re wondering which side of the dispute I’m on. It seems that some of my readers don’t know what to think about the issues of the day until they’ve received my direction.
“I’m still waiting to hear whether you approve of the mankini,” wrote one correspondent in a recent email.
Well, it’s not my business to takes sides on such controversial issues. The Prime Jungle Directive forbids gorillas from interfering in the disputes of humanity. Rather than batting for one team, my role is to mediate by suggesting an honourable compromise that might be acceptable to both parties.
Is there a way this festival could have been made non-sexist? What if an equal number of male contestants had taken part, having their breasts examined and judged in the same way as the women? There is surely no question of demeaning women if the breasts of both genders are up for grabs.
It goes without saying that the women would win hands-down in a unisex event. I hope no one will accuse me of being sexist when I say that women have much nicer bosoms than men. Many are the occasions on which I have grunted in disgust on seeing an overweight man pull off his t-shirt to reveal a hideously blubbery pair of man-tits. The moob is an ugly freak of Nature, as offensive to primate eyes as the African Banana Slug.
In the tournament that actually took place, the title of most beautiful breasts went to Danijela Golubovic, a 23-year-old nurse:
"It was a bit strange but after all it is for charity, and I'm glad that I could take part in helping to raise cash," she said.
How fitting that a nurse, whose profession is to heal the sick, was willing to use her boobs to bring comfort to a dying man. I think I would love this woman if her chest were like William Shatner’s.
A lady’s jahoobies are not always a force for good, of course. A man in San Francisco was unable to give the police a useful description of the woman who rammed his car because he was distracted by her bosom.
"He was able to describe the suspect as having a low cut dress and gave a detailed description of her cleavage," explained police captain Greg Corrales.
It’s all too easy to mock the victim in such cases, while ignoring the infamous behaviour of the culprit. It would be a sad day for road safety if the perpetrator of a hit-and-run accident escaped justice because she had a vast pair of hooters.
Labels: Breasts, Croatia, jahoobies, road safety, sexism
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
End of the bra?
A French scientist is claiming that bras are useless:
"Medically, physiologically, anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity,” declared Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon. “Instead, it languishes with a bra.”
So he says, but can a Frenchman be trusted on this delicate question? Devising compelling arguments for a woman to take off her bra is a celebrated diversion of French intellectual life. I believe Jean-Paul Satre devoted a chapter to it in his PhD thesis.
The Americans, by contrast, remain as resolutely pro-bra as ever:
“The first lady will not be changing her pectoral apparel in light of this development,” said a White House spokesman.
As a gorilla whose own experience on this subject is lacking, I have little data with which to assess these competing claims. On the one hand, the tribal women of Africa have never worn bras. On the other hand, many of these women have exceptionally droopy titties. Yet wearing bras may have made them even droopier.
If I were to study humans in the same way that Dian Fossey studied gorillas, I would go around the world with an inch tape asking women to let me take their measurements. I have no plans to do so, because subjecting women’s breasts to meticulous scrutiny would be undignified for a gorilla. Such tasks should be left to men, whose reputation on this issue is already in tatters.
One band of intrepid women who should welcome Professor Rouillon’s findings is FEMEN, the Ukrainian feminist group that specialises in bare-bosomed protests. Their latest exploit was to ambush President Putin at the Hanover Trade Fair while Frau Merkel was showing him the latest German equipment. Alexandra Shevchenko is the name of the FEMEN activist who managed to invade Mr Putin’s personal space and scream the slogan “Fuck dictator!” at him (which was inscribed on her breasts for good measure). Putin responded to this affront by puffing out his own chest and raising his eyebrows in an ironic grimace.
“It was a very intimate moment,” said Miss Shevchenko afterwards.
Undoubtedly this protest would have been less effective had Alexandra been wearing a bra, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly effective without one. President Putin seemed too intrigued by the messenger to notice the message, and no doubt laughed the whole thing off as a futile attempt to arouse him sexually. You can’t humiliate an ex-KGB man by showing him your jahoobies. Such displays are dismissed as decadent frippery in the official spy manual.
Sadly, the one dictator who might be cowed by naked breast-power is unlikely ever to face that ordeal. I refer to Kim Jong Un, whose baby cheeks would surely burn with shame if they were smothered between a pair of voluptuous boobies. This explains why the only females allowed in his presence are pubescent pom-pom girls and flat-chested army secretaries. I wonder if anyone could persuade Pamela Anderson to parachute behind enemy lines, so she could tit-slap some sense into the abominable little upstart?
Labels: Bras, Breasts, FEMEN, Frenchmen, Kim Jong Un, Pamela Anderson, Putin
Friday, May 18, 2012
Political boob in Mexico
A Mexican presidential candidate has blamed his poor performance in a televised debate on a voluptuous pair of breasts. They belonged to Miss Julia Orayen, a former Playboy model, who was hired to help manage the event. She naturally chose to perform her duties in a low cut dress, so her fans would instantly recognise her. You can’t blame a show business performer from using a trademark gimmick – it’s no different from Groucho Marx appearing in public with a cigar in hand.
Gabriel Quadri, the aforementioned candidate, claimed that the proximity of Julia’s jahoobies had made him nervous:
“It’s impossible not to concentrate your attention on a woman so spectacular,” he said.
This looks like an exaggeration to me. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no. Mr Quadri should realise that the mark of a statesman is his ability to focus on the issues when a pert bosom is in his field of view. Let's not forget that President Kennedy formulated many policy initiatives when he was motor-boating his secretary. A politician has got to be able to juggle different problems vying for his attention. You can’t whine about breasts when the voters are protesting about the price of eggs. The price of milk, maybe, but not the price of eggs.
Let’s hope Miss Orayen is hired to officiate the US presidential debates. It might encourage the candidates to loosen up and talk about women’s issues instead of acting like the honcho in a poncho. I suspect it would favour President Obama, who must have got used to white girls flaunting their chests at him in his college days. It would just be part of the scenery for him. Romney, on the other hand, has probably never seen his wife’s breasts in broad daylight. I’m guessing he’d break out in a sweat if Julia walked within groping range.
A politician renowned for ogling the female bosom is Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is to be played by Gerard Depardieu in a forthcoming biopic:
“I will do it, because I don’t like him,” said the potato-faced actor, adding: “I think he’s a bit like all the French, a bit arrogant. I don’t much like the French in any case.”
I think we should respect Gerard’s opinion, even though he’s a Frenchman himself. I don’t know whether DSK is guilty of half the things he’s been accused of, but he clearly thinks he’s entitled to sex on demand, which is an odious and self-defeating attitude.
My old friend Smacker Ramrod had more than his fair share of nookie in his bachelor days, but he took pains over each seduction, recognising that the thrill of the chase was as important as the coup de grâce. Being a true gentleman, he always made the girl think that she had dumped him when it was over, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounds, as in many cases she had actually dumped him. His experiences taught him that you don't fully appreciate the good things of life unless you’ve had to work for them.
Labels: Breasts, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Gerard Depardieu, jahoobies
Monday, December 06, 2010
Air pressure
Our guests are complaining about the aggravations of air travel, with its tedious security screening and delays. News of an indignity suffered by a woman in Orlando Airport has added fuel to their grumbling. This hapless female was “randomly” selected for a pat-down search, it being pure coincidence that her bosom resembled a dead-heat in a Zeppelin race (see picture). She claims that the two male security guards who engaged in this impropriety had previously been ogling her chest. I find her story entirely credible and hope that the guilty men are tarred and feathered by a feminist lynch mob.
Big breasts are only a cause for suspicion when the passenger is a male transvestite who might be carrying contraband in his empty bra cups. Even in such cases, it should be possible to detect the subterfuge without squeezing the dubious extrusions. To cop a feel of a woman’s jahoobies on the pretext of a security check is the act of a villain. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that he never even thought of touching a woman’s breasts until he had (a) bought her dinner, (b) told her she was beautiful, and (c) shown her the scar he got from being bitten by a horse he was examining. I should imagine that Smacker would have refused to give that woman a pat-down search if she had implored him to do so with moist eyes.
Now I don’t need to tell you that the upsurge in airport security has been prompted by the threat of suicide terrorism. Only last Christmas, a young hooligan from Nigeria attempted to bring down a jet by creating an explosion in his underpants. A consequence of this climate of fear is that airlines have become extremely wary of passengers doing anything out of the ordinary. On a recent internal flight in Russia, a 23-year-old man emerged naked from a toilet and skipped gaily down the aisle. Who knows why he did it. As a former circus ape, I have observed that humans sometimes indulge strange whims on the spur of the moment. Psychologists will no doubt find an explanation linked to abnormal activity in the frontal lobes of the brain.
Whatever the reason for his peculiar stunt, common sense should have told the cabin crew that he posed no threat. A naked man has limited options for concealing a deadly weapon on his person. No stick of dynamite was protruding from his rectum. Yet the flight attendants pounced on him while passengers cowered in fear, prompting the pilots to make an emergency landing in Vladivostok.
I am actually surprised that no entrepreneur has set up a nudist airline, whose passengers could be whisked swiftly through security without the usual hoo-hah. It would definitely be the safest form of air travel – I can’t imagine any member of Al Qaeda boarding a flight on which a woman might laugh at his knob or throw a tampon in his face. I must mention this idea to Sir Richard Branson, who in spite of his beard is no fan of bin Laden. He is allegedly rather partial to naked ladies, though.
Labels: air security, Breasts, pat-down search, public nudity
Friday, June 18, 2010
Change of identity
People sometimes ask me to imagine that I’ve been changed into a human in my sleep by an evil wizard. I tell them it wouldn’t bother me until I awoke next morning and peered into a looking glass. Oh, what a horrible shock to see a fleshy little face staring back at me! I should imagine I would jump out of my hammock in despair and look for a baboon to kick. But being human, I would be no match for the baboon, who would give me a grievous hiding for my effrontery. This would undoubtedly add to my woes.
Now why do people ask me to contemplate such a disturbing scenario? Basically it’s curiosity. They want to find out what sort of human persona I would adopt if the metamorphosis were forced upon me by black magic. I suspect they want me to say I would prefer to be someone like them. Humans are very vain and love to belong to a favoured group. Yet strangely enough, I have no firm views on the question. With so many varieties of human on Earth, it’s difficult to decide where the soul of a gorilla would be most at home. Obviously not in a hairdresser or frogman, but that still leaves a lot of possibilities.
I used to think Shaolin monks were closest to gorillas in spirit. Like us, they are vegetarian pacifists who enjoy the outdoor life. Their kung fu tactics are pretty similar to how we silverbacks keep the yahoos at bay. Yet shaving one’s head is definitely not a gorilla-compatible custom. They also have an annoying habit of speaking in riddles, which creates a lot of unnecessary pussy-footing. If I want to hear riddles, I’ll buy a box of crackers.
Then I thought I might enjoy being the captain of a cruise ship. The job has numerous perks, including fresh sea air, a smart hat and a crew that says “Ay Skipper”. But then I found out that much of the captain’s time is spent listening to passengers’ complaints and humouring middle-aged women with wobbly bottoms. It might be tolerable if I could give the bottoms a slap or two, but apparently such salutations are no longer part of marine protocol.
My current choice would be an attractive blonde waitress with big breasts. Before you gape in astonishment, please note that this preference is based on solid scientific research. It is a proven fact that bosomy blonde waitresses get bigger tips than their darker-haired, flatter-chested sisters. In the dog-eat-dog world of homo sapiens, an edge over your rivals is an incalculable advantage. Having to check my breasts for lumps would be a chore, but I reckon I could get used to it.
Let me add, for the record, that I have never been influenced by bust size in the tipping of waitresses. The biases of the human male are not shared by us gorillas. The most generous gratuity I ever gave was to a ginger-haired girl with delightfully petite sugar plums. To protect her anonymity, I will call her “Miss Cherry Tomatoes”.
“Miss Tomatoes,” I said, “this is the last breakfast I shall eat at this café, for tomorrow the circus leaves town. To show my appreciation, I will leave you a tip equal to a full day’s pay.”
“Oh thank you, Mr Bananas!” she mewed. “It will help me save up for a boob job.”
Labels: blonde waitress, Breasts, evil wizard, tipping
Monday, March 08, 2010
Miss Plastic 2010
I’ve received an invitation to be a judge at beauty contest. No sniggers please. The event is taking place in Hungary, a nation I’ve always admired for its fruity soups. An unusual feature of the pageant is that all the contestants will be women who have had cosmetic surgery. The subtext is that this surgery should have resulted in enhancement or reshaping of the bust.
It’s not all about titties though. There are also points for personality, which is where I come in. They’re looking for a judge who can evaluate a woman’s inner beauty without being distracted by the shallow attractions of her physical form (a task far beyond the grinning old lechers who customarily adjudicate such tournaments).
Appreciating inner beauty, you see, is one of my greatest talents. My penetrating eyes can see beyond the pouting and posing (to say nothing of the titting and bumming) and examine the soul within. In my circus days, no woman could hide her true character from the Bananas gaze. I recall the case of the knife-thrower’s assistant, whose blond hair and unusually large breasts caused everyone to judge her harshly.
“Doris is a stupid tart!” they cried.
I was the only one who dissented from this hasty indictment.
“You are all wrong,” I said. “When I look into her eyes I see a woman of intelligence and sensitivity.”
It later transpired that she was taking a correspondence course in cosmology and had a crush on Professor Stephen Hawking, the wheelchair-bound genius with a voice like a friendly Dalek. A bit kinky, perhaps, but not the kind of infatuation one would expect of a promiscuous airhead. Doris was enormously grateful when she heard how I had championed her cause.
“Think nothing of it, Doris,” I said, as she approached me in tears of gratitude. “A gorilla needs no courage to stand against the baying mob. You may scratch my back if you wish.”
But let’s get back to the beauty contest. I asked my friend Laszlo Paszlo, the Hungarian journalist, for his opinion on my participation.
“They’re using you as window dressing, Bananas,” he said. “The feminists are saying the whole thing is just an excuse for men to stare at the girls’ breasts. The organisers want to reply: ‘This is not true because one of the judges is a gorilla who has no interest in breasts.’”
I found this very surprising, as I never realised there were feminists in Hungary. It seems they found their voice after the Iron Curtain collapsed. There was no need for feminism under the Communist system because all citizens were equal by official decree of the State, and any woman who dared to deny it had her boobs tweaked by the secret police. Then came democracy, and women had to get organised to prevent men from looking at pornography and enjoying the new freedoms in other unfair ways.
Frankly, I don’t blame the organisers for wanting to placate the feminists. Never was a group of females more sorely in need of placation. I myself placated several of them in my circus days. Although telling them I have no interest in breasts would be a slight exaggeration, I do not object to the use of this argument to keep them at bay. Consider my flight to Budapest booked.
Labels: Breasts, cosmetic surgery, feminists, inner beauty
