Wednesday, January 06, 2016
Old stars, new war
So it seems they’ve made a new Star Wars film called The Force Awakens. I never knew it had fallen asleep, but I suppose that’s what happens when the galaxy is at peace and there are no hostile spaceships to zap with a ray gun. The manager of the safari camp told me not to make jokes about Star Wars lest I offend any tourists who are fans of the never-ending space saga:
“They are more common that you might think,” he explained. “We once had a guest who called himself Jedi One Kenobi”.
“A name to scare the pants off any baboon who might be thinking of defecting to the Empire,” I remarked.
In truth, I wasn’t a great fan of the original movie. Han Solo was just a clichéd tough-nut adventurer who thought dames were a pain in the ass until Princess Leia penetrated the gooey substance inside his armour-plated shell. One would have expected better versions of the masculine hero to exist in the age of the spaceman. Chewbacca was a stupid braying teddy bear and Darth Vader clearly had some kind of throat infection. The only good thing was the light sabre, and I was surprised that no one got prodded in the posterior by one of those handy weapons. Wouldn’t it have been the obvious practical joke to play among the Jedi fraternity?
Although Carrie Fisher reprises her role as the princess in the new film, the female lead is played by 23-year-old Daisy Ridley, to whom Ms Fisher offered various pearls of motherly wisdom during the shoot:
“I told her not to go through the crew like wildfire,” she revealed on British TV. "When I was first in it, I never wanted anyone to have the anecdote, 'I slept with Princess Leia.'”
A wise precaution, but why would a leading actress fool around with lowly members of the production crew? Wouldn’t it be more tempting to have an affair with the leading man? Perhaps this opportunity never presented itself to Ms Fisher because of the unattractive hairstyle she had to adopt in the first movie. Like most women, she looks far more alluring with her hair down, and you couldn’t blame Harrison Ford for being picky with all the hoochies on set, ready to drop their knickers for him at the wink of an eye.
A fine example of what a good hairdo can do for a woman is seen in the example of Diane Rodriguez, Ecuador’s leading transgendered female, who is shown below with her transgendered husband. Could you honestly say who was who without the essential clue of their hairstyles? Ms Rodrigues recently announced that her husband was pregnant with her child, which could result in the first human baby to be breastfed by its daddy. From what I can see, mummy’s breasts look more appetising even though they contain no milk. Let’s hope this paradox doesn’t cause baby to bark up the wrong nipple.
Labels: breast-feeding, Carrie Fisher, Harrison Ford, Star Wars, tranny
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Prenatal nerves
The actress Mila Kunis is pregnant for the first time and anticipating the ordeal of childbirth with ill-disguised trepidation. She gave the following rebuke to expectant fathers on a late night talk show:
"Stop saying 'we're pregnant’. You're not pregnant! Do you have to squeeze a watermelon-sized person out of your lady-hole? No."
As for the father of her own child, she expects him to avert his eyes from horror show occurring between her legs when she gives birth:
“He'll be head to head, not head to vag,” she said. “I highly doubt he wants to see that being ripped apart and shredded.”
One gets the impression she doesn’t quite believe it’s physically possible for a baby pass through her birth canal. You might think her remarks were intended to be humorous, but she’s obviously trying to talk up her spirits. I’m sure the captain of the Titanic made similar quips when the band was giving its final concert.
The man who impregnated Mila is an actor called Ashton Kutcher, whom I know nothing about. Be that as it may, he should attend a prenatal fathering class so he can learn how to mollify his missus. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, used his experience as a vet to help his own wife deliver their brood:
“I told her to moo like a cow during her first labour,” he explained. “It emptied her mind of all human concerns and got her into animal mode. Our firstborn popped out like a bar of soap.”
“Did you deliver the child yourself?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t have the right license for that,” he replied. “But we hired a Nepalese midwife who couldn’t speak a word of English. It made the whole thing more like a veterinary experience.”
One would hope things go as smoothly for Mila, but I can’t say I’m optimistic. Her birth will doubtless be attended by a team of busybodies, barking out instructions instead of letting Nature take its course. You couldn’t blame a baby for staying inside the womb rather than entering a zoo like that.
On a more positive note, Mila is delighted that her breasts have got bigger in preparation for the new arrival:
"They're amazing!” she exclaimed. “They've tripled in size. I was a 34A: now I'm a 36C!”
This is very good news for everyone connected with Mila, and especially good news for the baby, who can look forward to a hearty meal after being rudely ejected from its cosy cubbyhole. A pair of boobies, brimming with milk, is just what you need to calm your nerves when you arrive in a strange place.
I hope Mila has invested in one of those suction devices that can harvest milk from over-lactitious women. She could donate her surplus to less bountiful mothers or the makers of gourmet ice-cream. I wouldn’t eat it myself, but she must have fans willing to pay top dollar for a taste of her titty fluid.
“Let others feed on what you don’t need” as we say in the jungle.
Labels: breast-feeding, human milk, Mila Kunis, natural childbirth, pregnancy
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Kiss of death
Katy Perry is denying that she intended to kiss Miley Cyrus on the lips:
“I just walked up to her to give her like a friendly girly kiss, you know, as girls do, and then she like tried to move her head and go deeper and I pulled away,” waffled Katy. “God knows where that tongue has been. We don't know! That tongue is so infamous!” she added.
Frankly, I think Miss Perry should be prosecuted for malicious slander and being a nasty hussy. Of the two tongues, hers is the more evil by far. If I were the presiding judge, I would sentence her to a 3-month term as Miley’s slave girl and concubine. It’s an experience that might teach her the value of discretion.
A lot of people think you can say anything you like in America because of the First Amendment and all that. If you look at the legal fine print, however, this doesn’t seem to be true. The town of Grand Rapids, for example, has an ordinance making it an offence to “wilfully annoy another person”. It’s a pity they are now planning to repeal it. This sensible by-law must have deterred all manner of vexatious deeds, including the making of obscene noises and insults beginning with the words “Yo mama”. Grand Rapids will be a rowdier and less congenial place without it.
As far as I know, it is perfectly legal for a woman to breastfeed a puppy in America. I mention this because a woman from Colorado Springs has admitted suckling a runt that refused bottle milk:
“He just wasn’t taking it. I didn’t know what else to do, I was desperate and I just couldn’t bear sitting there watching it die,” she said.
The women asked for her identity to be hidden when she was interviewed on TV, fearing that her act of mercy would expose her to the wrath of the multitude (to say nothing of lewd requests from “adult baby” perverts). Breaking a sacred taboo can be as dangerous as breaking the law, although one has to wonder why the woman made a public confession if she was so worried about it. Who would have ever found out if she’d maintained an inscrutable silence? The puppy certainly wouldn’t have squealed, except possibly in gratitude or excitement. Much as I admire her generous deed, there is something weirdly exhibitionist about this woman.
It goes without saying that there is no justification for abominating a woman who breastfeeds a baby animal. It’s a despicable double-standard when you consider that human infants have been nursed by mammalian surrogate mothers in the most hallowed myths: Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she-wolf; Tarzan took milk from his beloved ape mother; Zeus was wet-nursed by a nanny goat. There is nothing special about the human titty – it’s just a rounder and less hairy version of a female gorilla’s udder. It might also be softer, but I’m not going to stick my neck out on that one.
Labels: breast-feeding, free speech, human titty, Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Northern exposure
The mayor of a Canadian town has been interviewed by a woman who bared her breasts mid-way through the discussion. Apparently, it’s legal in that part of Canada for women to expose their chests wherever and whenever men are allowed to do so.
I don’t have much sympathy for the mayor. It seems that his interviewer wanted him to accept her boobs as everyday objects you could pass in the street without craning your neck or howling like a wolf. The only counterargument he could offer was that some people might find a topless woman “distracting”. This feeble response allowed her to assert that the mayor’s earlobes were distracting and ask him to wear ear muffs. The mayor was left floundering by this facetious suggestion.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he said:
“The mayor should have put his face between her tits and shaken his head like a cocktail mixer. Then he should have asked her how many women had ever felt like doing that to a man’s chest.”
I thought he had a point, even if the course of action suggested would have been undignified for someone in a position of civic responsibility. A man’s bare torso will never be in the same league as naked jahoobies, no matter what the law says. However great the pecs are, no woman ever got an erection from leering at them. Even ladies who find such sights stimulating can keep their symptoms tightly under wraps. In any case, my buddy Smacker Ramrod once told me that good girls don’t get sexually aroused until you’ve bought them dinner and whispered sweet-nothings into their ear.
Having said that, one has to admire the woman for skilfully deploying her assets in a daring surprise attack. It’s a tactic that ought to be added to the debating manuals, as well as geo-strategic directives on the use of soft power. I must remember to invite her to our next jungle symposium on the use of display tactics to disorientate potential adversaries. I’m sure most of the delegates would give her a big hand.
The female bosom has its philanthropic uses, of course. Consider the case of the French nurse who posted the following advertisement on a classified site:
”I am a young mother in perfect health, a trained nurse of 29, and I am renting my breasts to milk-feed infants.”
She is looking for a gay couple to hire her services for 100 euros a day. That’s not a lot of money for milk fresh from the teat, with all the associated nurturing of a surrogate mother. Not all the enquiries she got were from gay men with babies:
“I’ve received more than a dozen requests, but only half of them were serious,” said the nurse. “The rest were from perverts.”
Tut tut. Nothing is sacred if a lactating woman cannot advertise her services without being pestered by perverts. I hope she puts their replies in the public domain, so the world can pour scorn on their depravity.
Labels: breast-feeding, display tactics, jahoobies, perverts, topless women
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Wet nurse offer
“Invite them to the Congo!” they demanded. “You’re always telling us how well-connected you are to the English upper classes and how you once refused a knighthood. Get the little princeling over here so we can give him a proper mouthful!”
Obviously, I had to quash this crazy talk.
“No, ladies, no!” I exclaimed. “Gorilla milk is far too rich for human babies. Your creamy boob juice would turn the little tyke into a miniature version of Tarzan. He’d start climbing trees, swinging on vines and emitting silly yodels. Not good preparation for a life of waving to crowds and cutting ribbons and listening to common folk with an interested look on his face.
They grunted in sceptical disappointment. It’s not easy to fob off maternal gorillas with lame excuses.
Before you get the wrong idea, my females are not in thrall to human royalty. We gorillas have zero reverence for puffed-up humans with silly titles. Their yearning to suckle baby George arose entirely from seeing a photo of him in the arms of his slender mother:
“She hasn’t got enough milk in her to feed a baby meerkat!” they jeered.
Cruel words, but they may have a point. If Kate cannot produce sufficient nourishment from her udders, she ought to find a donor rather than using baby formula. Maybe her namesake Kate Winslet would be willing to help out. She’s expecting a baby herself, and must have reached the stage in her marriage where she’s longing for a break from her half-witted husband. Keeping both her boobs occupied with two hungry babies might be just what she needs to take her mind off things.
Another option for the royal parents would be to buy fresh breast milk on the open market. I hear that Chinese women have been selling theirs, mostly to decrepit old men who think it will prolong their lives. How much nicer to be flown to London in a private jet and take turns letting baby George suck their titties dry. There is no reason to suppose that Chinese breast milk is less nourishing than that from Caucasian women. Maybe their diet gives it a sweet and sour flavour, but that shouldn’t bother a blue-blooded baby.
Prince Harry, meanwhile, has been telling everyone how keen he is to fulfil his duties as an uncle:
“I’ll make sure he has fun,” he declared.
I suppose that means he wants to introduce his nephew to as many bimbos he can find who will cavort with him in the nude. What Harry seems to have forgotten is that he’ll be a middle-aged man when George reaches cavorting age. It is by no means certain that the young prince will want to accompany his crinkly-arsed uncle on naked bimbo excursions. Nor can we be sure that naked bimbos will have the same appeal to the next generation of princely gallants, accustomed to virtual reality games and holographic simulations. Programmable bimbos are so much safer than ones who’ll take your picture and sell it to a gossip site.
Labels: breast-feeding, naked bimbos, Prince Harry, royal baby, wet nurse
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
What Kim Kardasdian wants
I have been forced, much against my better judgement, to find out who Kim Kardashian is. The manager of the safari camp is to blame for showing me a newspaper article about her, in which she was quoted as saying that she’d like to be a man so she could have sex with herself:
“I just want to know what it would feel like,” she mused.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said to the manager. “If she were a man, the person she’d be having sex with would be someone else. You can’t be two people at the same time.”
The manager ignored my point of logic and said: “If she wants to know what it feels like to screw herself, she should stick her leg inside a stocking that’s three sizes too big. That should give her a pretty good idea.”
“Is that so?” I replied. “As a gorilla who used to wear pantaloons in the circus, I’m glad that that analogy never occurred to me.”
“That’s because you don’t have my imagination,” said the manager, before slinking off with a smirk on his face.
This exchange prompted me to do my own research on Miss Kardashian. The first thing I learned was that she’s one of those celebrities who shot to fame for reasons that were quickly forgotten. There is nothing in the documentary record to indicate that she practised a profession or performed notable deeds. Maybe her winning smile won her acclaim… or something. As for the manager’s coochie comparison, I couldn’t find anything definitive, but his conjecture was far from implausible. The bounciest trampoline will lose its spring if it’s jumped on too frequently.
Will Kim go down in history as the vacuous bimbo who said “OK” when people told her to go and fuck herself? She might yet avoid this ignoble fate by championing a worthy cause, such as the nipple rights of women in North Carolina. The state legislature in that benighted corner of the Confederacy is toying with the idea of making it a felony for women to expose the tips of their titties. This flagrant violation of the First Amendment is a devilish provocation, no less execrable than the attack on Fort Sumter.
What Kim should do is give the first lady a call and organise a million-nipple march right through the heart of the rebel state, in the manner of the late General Sherman. On second thoughts make that a two-million nipple march – let’s keep the numbers round. She could then make a name for herself by leading bare-breasted cavalry charges against recalcitrant rednecks determined to keep the nipple in bondage.
As a gesture of goodwill to their enslaved southern sisters, lactating ladies in the liberating army could suckle hungry babies on their route to the state capital. This is what Salma Hayek did on a recent visit to Africa and it made her more popular than Bono and Geldorf. (And almost as popular as Ermintrude the dairy cow.)
Labels: breast-feeding, Kim Kardashian, nipple rights, Salma Hayek, sex change
Monday, April 11, 2011
Wearing the trousers
My females cackled their heads off on hearing that Elton John described himself as a modern woman in a radio interview. They took this to mean that he was trying to suckle baby Zachary, an idea which they found hilarious. I suppose it might be possible with the aid of a baby-formula breast implant, but I found their banter distasteful.
“You silly flea-bags!” I exclaimed. “A man can’t allow a baby to suck his nipples! That would be unlawful abuse of a minor!”
They snorted and broke wind at my assertion. Female gorillas don’t hide their emotions when they’re confounded or disgruntled.
“How can he be abusing the baby if he’s having his nipples sucked?” they asked. “The passive one can’t be the abuser!”
“Technicalities like that aren’t important,” I explained. “You can only give a human baby a nipple to suck if it’s attached to a woman or made of an authorised rubbery substance.”
They grunted irritably before wandering off to look for a baboon to molest.
Elton’s statement had nothing to do with breast-feeding, of course. When a man in a gay relationship admits to being the woman, it’s pretty obvious what he’s getting at. Frankly, I don’t see why Elton felt the urge to disclose this information on air. Do fans of his music really need to know that he’s the one biting the pillow? And aren’t gay men supposed to take turns in a healthy relationship? Perhaps he made the statement to suck up to his partner David Furnish, who was sitting right next to him in the radio studio. Mr Furnish was quick to back Elton up (so to speak).
“I am the one who wears the trousers!” he declared, putting the matter beyond all doubt or ambiguity.
It’s strange that a gay man should take pride in wearing such a conventional garment. Maybe he thinks he has a macho image to protect. I just hope he doesn’t expect Elton to iron and press them, like a good little housewife. There are limits to what a world-famous pop star should do to massage the ego of his other half.
Yet the psychological importance of trousers to the human male should never be underestimated. Long gone are the days of the bare-legged hero, flaunting his waxed limbs in the Roman amphitheatre. There are few places left on Earth where a trouserless man can walk with his head held high.
Yet the psychological importance of trousers to the human male should never be underestimated. Long gone are the days of the bare-legged hero, flaunting his waxed limbs in the Roman amphitheatre. There are few places left on Earth where a trouserless man can walk with his head held high.
This vulnerability was recently exploited by the German police, who frogmarched a suspect to the station with his trousers around his ankles. Having threatened to kill five hostages in a bungled bank robbery, he is now suing the police for humiliating him. The police pointed out that they had pulled his sweater over his head to preserve his anonymity. Few men are recognisable from their bare legs alone.
Although the man deserves to win his civil suit, I hope he isn’t awarded monetary damages. Were I the presiding judge, I would knock a week off his prison term as compensation.
“You will now have cause to be grateful to the police for an extra week of liberty,” I would say to him. “I hope you have the good manners to write them a thank-you note.”
A moderate dose of humiliation can be good for the soul of a scoundrel.
Labels: breast-feeding, Elton John, German police, humiliation, trousers
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Daddy Elton
I’ve just mailed a card to Elton John, congratulating him on becoming a father at the age of 62. I won’t be sending one to the surrogate mother who bore the child – the fee she received for her trouble should be sufficient reward. One assumes, of course, that Elton is the natural father of baby Zachary. As we say in the jungle, he who rents the beehive supplies the honey. This entirely plausible supposition didn’t stop the manager of the safari camp from propounding his own silly theory about the baby’s conception.
“Elton and his boyfriend must have mixed equal amounts of their man juice in a test tube before giving it to the mother,” he declared. “That way they can both claim to be the father.”
“Balderdash!” I exclaimed on hearing this barmy conjecture. “If you put rival sperm together they fight to the death. Elton’s tired old tadpoles wouldn’t have stood a chance against the younger man’s killer plankton.”
“Gay planktons don’t fight each other,” said the manager, clutching at straws.
I dismissed this outlandish assertion with a contemptuous snort. He who speculates about the behaviour of seafood is not worthy of serious debate.
How the baby was conceived is moot in any case. Now is the time to consider more practical questions, such as who Zachary’s wet nurse should be. I hope Elton doesn’t think that the most nutritious milk comes from the biggest breasts. That would be a fundamental error. I’ve seen African mothers with gigantic hooters whose milk was thinner than rice water. Yet female gorillas, whose udders look like deflated tyres, can squirt out stuff that resembles a McDonald’s shake. Finding a good suckler isn’t a beauty contest. There’s no point hiring a woman with perfect round dumplings whose milk is 90% water and 10% silicone juice.
What baby Zachary really needs is a “wet nanny” who could combine the roles of milk-cow and governess. Could Elton persuade a talented woman from the world of show business to raise the boy in a manner worthy of his illustrious paternity? I’ve thought of several candidates for the job, whom I shortlist below along with reservations about their suitability.
* Heather Mills – good milk supply, but possibly a little sour?
* Tilda Swinton – excellent governess, but milk too cold for a baby?
* Madonna – plenty of nannying experience, but udders too dry?
* Lady Gaga – very good at baby talk, but nipples too hard?
If none of the above is willing and able, Elton should consider the radical option of hiring one of my females. Any of them would do a grand job of nursing baby Zachary into a fine little Tarzan. The only problem I foresee is that never having lived amongst humans they are entirely lacking in social graces. Could the genteel residents of Windsor get used to a female gorilla prowling through their public spaces, groping any taut behinds that took her fancy? For the sake of Elton’s family, I hope they can learn to put up with it.
Labels: breast-feeding, Elton John, nanny, wet nurse
