Wednesday, December 14, 2016
House of Kink
A dominatrix is causing much aggravation in a residential neighbourhood of Exeter, which is a town in Merry England. It seems her neighbours are highly displeased to be living near a house where grown men are having their buttocks abused. Have they actually heard the thwack of cane on butt cheeks and the ecstatic cries of agony? This has not been disclosed. They complain, instead, about the large number of men entering and leaving the house. How are they to explain such comings and goings to their children?
“We shouldn’t be forced to be having these conversations with our children at this age,” said Amelie Foster, a mother of two.
I see her point. One can easily imagine the awkward exchanges taking place.
Child: Mummy, who are all those men who visit Auntie Trixie’s house?
Mother: They’re naughty men who go to Auntie Trixie to be punished, darling. You mustn’t talk to them.
Child: Does Auntie Trixie make them sit on her naughty chair?
Mother: She spanks their bottoms, darling. They’re very naughty.
Child: Will Daddy go to Auntie Trixie when he’s naughty?
Mother: No, darling. Mummy gives him all the punishment he needs.
An amicable solution might yet be possible. The residents should bear in mind that the clients of a dominatrix are submissive men who like to be bossed about. If suspicious housewives ordered them to mind their language, dress smartly and avoid eye-contact with children, they would probably be happy to comply. They might even offer them a tip for their concern.
This is not a dispute on which I can take sides. I hope and pray it is resolved with the maximum of goodwill and the minimum of legal fees. Let everyone’s rights be respected. The dominatrix must be free to scavenge and eat, like the buzzard or coyote; the mother must be free to protect her cubs, like the vixen or she-wolf. Every species has its place in the natural order. The harmony of a well-balanced eco-system is a wonder to behold.
It’s been a minor ambition of mine to befriend a dominatrix and persuade her to comment on this blog. She would give us a fresh perspective on events. I’d be the first to admit that the well-rounded dominatrix knows things outside my spectrum of experience. I have never walked on human flesh while wearing stiletto heels, for example. I would probably cause a fatal injury if I tried to. The presence of a dominatrix would allow me to enjoy such deeds vicariously. And I could tell her stories about crocodiles and baboons. It would be a match made in heaven.
Are there dominatrices who fantasise about getting spanked themselves? This is a question that continues to intrigue me. I should imagine there must be a few. To spank a woman who spanks men for a living would be an act of imperious grandeur. The spanker would acquire prestige surpassing that of a Roman emperor. Few men would be worthy of this solemn and majestic duty. But a gorilla might be.
Update!
I received the following email from the Mistress of the now infamous house!
I kindly asking you to removed the photo of myself and my boyfriend house as legal action have taken against media on account of in breach of several laws. And even further steps against the neighbours after initial warning to neighbour for harassment and lies.
Police investigating criminal offence against the neighbours.
So kindly remove the photo.
Labels: butt cheeks, dominatrix, housewives, spanking
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Full moon
Justin Bieber has produced a state of rapture in his fans by posting a picture of his bare bottom on Instagram. You’ve got to give him his due for that. Not since the Prince Regent’s accession to the English throne has an arse been greeted with such acclaim.
“OMG can I like this 1,000 times?" wrote one delirious devotee.
When I showed the picture to my females, they asked me whether Bieber was inviting people to pinch his bum.
“Pinch it?!” I guffawed. “Not on your nelly!”. A world famous pop-brat doesn’t expose his behind for a big hairy paw to leave red marks all over it! You might be allowed to kiss it if you could convince him you were genuine fans!”
My females sucked their teeth in amusement, possibly reflecting on the fact that they have never kissed anything which they didn’t bite one second later.
As for the manager of the safari camp, his main talking point was the lack of tan on the Bieber tush.
“Why would anyone want to show the world his arse was paler than the rest of his body?” he said. “It looks like an Easter Egg that someone forgot to paint.”
“The colour contrast does catch the eye, though,” I observed. “If you’re going to moon, you may as well produce moonlight.”
The exposure of the human buttocks is a funny old custom. In the film Braveheart, the Scottish clansmen mooned the English before charging into battle, implying that their enemy was not worthy of conventional repartee. They certainly got no verbal response from the English. If you talk to someone’s bottom, the only reply you can expect is a fart.
Although Bieber has been discourteous on a number of occasions, I doubt he intended to be so this time. His moon has more of a narcissistic quality about it, as if he genuinely expects people to love his butt cheeks as much as he does. One has to pity the pathetic toadies who actually met his expectation. Hero-worship is one thing, but when you start venerating your hero’s arse you’ve turned into an abject nincompoop.
Perhaps we should thank Miley Cyrus for redressing the adulation by savagely mocking Bieber’s butt picture, even to the point of posting of a photo-shopped version with a grossly inflated posterior. Her own fans were suitably delighted with her wit:
“omg. You are too funny. Love u girl.” wrote one of them.
Now Miley is famous for horsing around, but maybe she was also hinting that male tail is no longer her cup of tea. The gossip sites inform us that her new paramour is a model called Stella Maxwell, three years her senior. Apparently Miley can’t keep her hands off her. I personally think they make a lovely couple, but I hope Miley grows her hair long so she doesn’t look like the butch one. What’s the point of lesbianism if one of the lesbians has to behave like a man?
Labels: butt cheeks, Justin Bieber, lesbian, Miley Cyrus, mooning
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Presidential bids
Charlie Sheen’s announcement that he intends to run for president has been greeted with hoots of delight in the Congo. The parrots are squawking, the crocodiles are grinning and the baboons are displaying their rumps.
“I wish I could vote for him,” said an excited chimpanzee. “It’s about time the humans had a leader who’s a bigger fool than the commander of the ape brigade.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I replied. “And he won’t be the leader of all the humans anyway, only the richest and fattest of them.”
There’s a long way to go before Charlie gets elected, of course. The road to the White House is snaky and strewn with potholes. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into his “truth and transparency” platform, but it remains to be seen whether it impresses the voters. I’m not a fan of transparency myself – if nothing is opaque, where is the shade to shelter from the sun? The only transparent creatures are jellyfish and the like, whose internal organs are visible to the naked eye. If humans could see their own insides it would give them the collywobbles.
As for truth, it sounds good in principle, but didn’t an American general say “You can’t handle the truth”? He had a good point. How many Americans know that Yellowstone Park is a giant volcano that could erupt at any minute, cooking their country in a pile of superheated ash? As the Bard once wrote, “Tis better to live in ignorance than piss your pants to no purpose”.
Now, I’m not saying that Charlie would be a bad president – high-minded campaign slogans can quickly be shelved after the battle is won. Yet he must be stopped for one overwhelming reason: his election would further delay the historical necessity of a lady president. My ears are still burning from Gloria Steinem’s bitter remarks after Hillary lost the nomination to Obama. Surely no one in America wants to hear that again.
Is Mrs Clinton girding her luscious loins for another shot at the top job? I confess it’s very difficult for a gorilla like me to read her body language. Although I’d be happy for Hillary to win, I don’t think she would beat Charlie. A Washington insider has no chance against a Hollywood pro – Ronald Reagan proved that. Charlie could only be defeated by a woman who’s a bigger exhibitionist than he is.
You can probably guess the candidate I have in mind. She recently displayed her talent for political theatre by exposing her butt cheeks at the Grammy Awards:
"I wasn't mooning, I just lifted my dress up,” she explained. “Mooning is like naked butt. Everyone's seen my naked butt.”
Does anyone doubt that Madonna’s version of “truth and transparency” would kick Charlie’s campaign into the quicksand? It would also breathe new life into the American system of representative government. No country can call itself a true democracy until the people have seen their leader’s naked butt.
Labels: American politics, butt cheeks, Charlie Sheen, Madonna, naked butt
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Bum news
Victoria Spice has admitted to being a “pain in the bottom” without revealing whose rump she has troubled. That shouldn’t stop us from making an educated guess. I’d wager a ripe bunch of bananas that the bum in question belongs to Mr Becks, her devoted spouse. As a former footballer, his buttocks should be able to bear plenty of punishment before beads of sweat start appearing on his forehead and his groin. It’s a small price to pay for keeping the spark in your marriage alive.
Unfortunately for Mr Becks, Victoria is the type of woman who can dish it out but can’t take it. There’s not nearly enough meat on her tush to satisfy a man’s healthy appetite for butt bongo. If I were her husband, I’d be looking at Miley Cyrus with envious eyes. Miley is petite, but her rump is fleshy enough to be slapped around like pizza dough. Unfortunately for those who dream of pummelling her posterior, she has recently started dating one Patrick Schwarzenegger, son of the former Governator.
I’d like to know why this Schwarzenegger sprog is qualified to be Miley’s beau. Being the son of a famous pair of pecs shouldn’t give you the right to romance the cheekiest nymphette of our age. I hope Miley won’t consider marrying him until he proves himself worthy of the honour. Let him show the world what he’s made of by twerking with Madonna and kicking Bieber’s ass. An alpha male should acquire a reputation of his own rather than basking in the fame of his more illustrious mistress.
Whoopi Goldberg has recently reminded us that not everything associated with the bottom is good. She farted loudly on a TV chat show and had the class to accept responsibility for the deed. This would never have happened back in my circus days, when it was standard practice for humans to blame their farts on someone else. The clowns were constantly doing it and often accused me of creating their flatulence. I was generally content to give the accuser a scornful stare without issuing a formal denial, which would have compromised my dignity.
On one occasion I was forced to respond. After emitting a horrible little guff that sounded like a party horn and smelled like poison gas, a clown feigned to look at me with sad, reproachful eyes:
“Oh GB!” he whined. “Whatever have you been eating?”
“What?!” I thundered. “You accuse me of producing that pathetic little squeak?” “This is what a real gorilla fart sounds like!”
And rising to my feet, I turned my back and gave him a blast of wind resembling the base note of a trombone.
This is why I hope more humans will follow Whoopi’s example and be upfront about breaking wind. If your bowels are feeling turgid, make an announcement to the effect that you need to blow some gas out of your butthole and run to the nearest window. If you're going to fart, do it with dignity and concern for the innocent bystander.
Labels: butt cheeks, buttocks, fart noises, farting, Farts, Miley Cyrus, Mr Becks, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Bum rap
Miley Cyrus is starting to impress me. I won’t say I’m her fan, because fans are silly toadies, but she’s beginning to earn my admiration. Note that I say “earn” and not “excite”. We gorillas don’t get excited by things we can’t smell.
Miley’s latest exploit was to let some fellow play the bongo drums on her butt cheeks. I don’t think he was anyone special – just an aspiring percussionist proficient in patting the posterior. The rich, meaty sounds he extracted from her behind were a revelation. The buttocks don’t make noises like that unless they’re prime quality rump-steak.
The other thing to admire was the way Miley reacted to the tapping of her tush. It was pure nonchalance – the attitude of a seasoned campaigner who rents out her arse to a rumba band. Not even baboons are that casual when they’re being spanked.
I wonder if Miley is interested in becoming a movie star. I hope she acts in French films, because she’s too unconventional for Hollywood. The French are kinky devils and would fully exploit her lack of inhibition and general lewdness. Whatever they came up with, I would expect to be surprised. It might be a scary surprise, like being hissed at by a snake, but I’m willing to take my chances.
Don’t be misled by my praise of Miley. I don’t think she’s a great human – not yet anyway. She’s got a long way to go to match Shirley Bassey, and I doubt she’ll ever attain the greatness of Bill Gates. We Africans can vouch for the good being done by Bill’s billions. Never has the mosquito met a more determined enemy. As a native of the Mother Continent, I look forward to the day when those pesky little insects have been annihilated by the Gates foundation. When that happens, I’ll hire a chimpanzee to carve a wooden statue of Bill in the jungle. All the gorillas will pass water on it as a sign of respect.
Another worthy cause that Bill is throwing his cash at is the promotion of safe sex. A lot of men are reluctant to wear condoms because they say it’s like paddling in Wellington boots and their dick gets frustrated. Consequently, a few randy reprobates are spreading their deadly jism with reckless disregard for the consequences. Rather than telling people to resist their urges (like the silly old Pope) Bill has given $100,000 to scientists trying to develop a wonder condom made of graphene. This is a substance so strong that you can make a sheet one atom thick without being able to punch a hole in it.
A graphene condom would hug the contours of a man’s appendage like a second foreskin (or a first one for the circumcised). It would be like paddling with a coat of watercolour paint on your feet. I just hope it gets developed in time for Bill to try out on the lovely Melinda. They don’t need to use condoms, of course, because they would never cheat on each other. But Bill would test it anyway just to make sure his money had been well spent. He’s that kind of guy.
Labels: arse, Bill Gates, bongo, butt cheeks, butt pat, condoms, Miley Cyrus, philanthropy, safe sex
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
Tits in her ass
Someone has sent me an incredibly dull video of Madonna prancing about in hot pants and announcing (in a sullen voice) that she intends to start a revolution. An empty threat if ever there was one. The super-rich never start revolutions – they’ve got too much to lose. The last thing Madge wants is mobs of angry proletarians invading her private estate and demanding the use of her Jacuzzi. The real reason for the video is explained in a line she utters approximately 3 minutes and 36 seconds from the start:
I have tits in my ass and an insatiable desire to be noticed.
This is the only convincing statement she makes in the entire 17-minute film; I hope they carve it on her tombstone. It attests to her pride in the 55-year-old butt cheeks she possesses, which were partially exposed during much of the performance. I’m not going to comment on her buns myself, apart from noting how white they looked in monochrome film. If Madonna wants me to compliment her rump, she should book an appointment for a manual examination.
People often suggest that I make my own promotional video. “GB,” they say, “the world needs to hear your mission statement.” I admit there is much I could do to educate humanity about free jungle living and the enjoyment of hirsute pursuits. But I’m worried about becoming a cult figure and starting a new religion. A lot of impressionable humans became followers of the Jedi faith after seeing the Star Wars films. I once saw a wild-eyed woman kissing an effigy of Chewbacca – I averted my eyes from her gaze before she could attempt to mesmerise me.
To my knowledge, there is no religion based on worship of the Muppets, probably because they are utterly limp and lifeless without a human hand inside them. The American Museum of History has nevertheless decided to exhibit the best-loved characters, including Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. The pair were supposedly lovers, of course, although nobody knows whether their cross-species romance was ever consummated.
Would it have been physically possible for Kermit and Miss Piggy to have had carnal relations? Admittedly, there was a danger of the porcine one getting overexcited and squashing her lover in the melee. And if she took a more passive role, the absence of an amphibious appendage might have left her disappointed. Yet frogs are slippery, smooth-tongued creatures capable of pleasuring a female with multiple techniques. My guess is that Kermit was quite capable of extracting ecstatic squeals from his chubby and amorous sweetheart.
On the principle that any pornography you can think of exists, I decided to google “Kermit Miss Piggy sex”. Most of what I found were amateurish efforts like this one. Has no thin man ever thought of putting on a frog costume and making love to a fat woman wearing a pig snout and a blond wig? It can only be a matter of time, I suppose.
Labels: butt cheeks, Kermit, Madonna, Miss Piggy
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Bored of the Rings
I’m going to annoy a lot of people by saying this, but I can’t see why Lord of the Rings is held in such high esteem. I bought the book for the rainy season and took comfort from fact that no gorillas had to endure life in Middle Earth. The whole place seemed to be full of intensely solemn characters, living in the shadow of unspecified doom, and speaking in the portentous tones of one of those old biblical films by Cecil B DeMille. I should imagine that Professor Tolkien was fulfilling an ambition to write a tale of mythic grandeur, like the Illiad or the Odyssey. What he forgot is that those fables are so old that no one can be certain they didn’t actually happen. You can’t just pluck a legend out of thin air – it has to do the rounds in countless campfires before someone puts it on the page.The moment of high farce occurs when the surly dwarf falls in love with the elf queen and starts boasting about her beauty to some other nitwit. Bow-legged ass! If you’re going to compliment a lady, either say it to her face or send her a love note. Praising females is a waste of breath if they never get to hear it. Mind you, it doesn’t always produce results if they are within earshot. If you’re ever in a position to chat up a lady gorilla, telling her what beautiful eyes she has won’t get you to first base. Commenting on the firmness of her rump is the sort of remark that might earn you a nibble on the neck. “You’ve got the kind of butt cheeks I could crack nuts between” is one that normally goes down well.
It is wrong to judge an author by one book, so I had a look at The Hobbit and was far more impressed – an altogether snappier tale, I feel. What holds the narrative together is the ever-present danger of someone getting eaten. Will the trolls eat the dwarves? Will Gollum eat Bilbo? Will Gandalf eat his wand? This is very true to life. As any wild animal knows, there’s nothing like the fear of a ravenous predator to sharpen your wits and perfect your comic timing. You choose your next wisecrack carefully when it might be your last.
Inspired by this work, I moved onto a slender volume called Farmer Giles of Ham – a novella that can be read from start to finish in a single sitting. The secret of this utterly charming story is its fine cast of characters: a shrewd rustic; a stupid giant; a cheeky dog; a dry dragon; a cynical blacksmith; a pompous king. Any Tolkien fan who hasn’t read it is like a wine-buff who’s never tasted champagne.
Why would a writer capable of something as wonderful as Farmer Giles pen a grim and tedious tome like Lord of the Rings? And why do so many people think that yawnsome yarn is one of the greatest stories ever told? It’s all very mysterious to a gorilla. I suspect that humans have some kind of faux nostalgia for a mythical age of chivalry, when valiant warriors defeated the bad guys without fluffing their lines or causing collateral damage. It’s all complete bunk of course. If anything like Middle Earth ever existed, most modern humans would have found the smell of shit unbearable.
Labels: butt cheeks, Farmer Giles, Tolkien
