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?

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Pamela's new position

My friend Pamela Anderson is begging me to help her become a UN goodwill ambassador. I got a call from her yesterday: 

“I want to do it so much!” she mewed. “Couldn’t you pull a few strings behind the scenes, GB?”. 

“I’ll try my best, Pammy, but don’t expect miracles,” I replied. “There is only so much a gorilla can do to influence the big-wigs of international diplomacy. Throwing my weight around recklessly would be counterproductive.” 

She gave me her loving thanks and expressed full confidence in my lobbying abilities. 

To be perfectly honest, I‘m not sure what a UN goodwill ambassador does. The only one I know anything about is Ginger Spice, who promoted the cause of sex education for the world’s rampant teenagers. Pamela would certainly be overqualified for that task, but her instruction videos have already been widely disseminated. Touring the world to give the same lessons in person would be a pointless exercise. On the other hand, it’s quite possible that she’s made new breakthroughs in the field. Never underestimate the creativity of a woman who named her breasts Pancho and Lefty. 

Perhaps I’ll write a letter to Banky-Moon, informing him of Pamela’s affectionate nature and well-rounded interpersonal skills. He seems like an earnest little fellow who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m sure he’ll warm to the qualities of a philanthropic actress whose bosom is brimming with compassion. Even if Pamela doesn’t win the goodwill job, he ought to give her another position in his office. No prominent man wants people to think he’s biased against blondes. I can honestly say that Pammy is smarter than most of the elephants of the Congo Basin. 

Not all blond women are intelligent, of course. Hitler’s squeeze Eva Braun was a pitiful airhead. The Fuehrer, it seems, was attracted to women who wouldn’t give him backchat or point out the flaws in his bogus racial theories. Eva had the good sense, nevertheless, not to remove her knickers in public and keep schtum about her boyfriend’s peculiar bedroom tastes. 

Heaven knows what Adolf and Eva would have made of the German couple who had sex in a football stadium. Their lurid exhibitionism was an abject failure, because the crowd were too engrossed in the game to pay them any heed. They only got the attention they craved when an eagle-eyed steward told them that bonking each other wasn’t an acceptable substitute for the Mexican wave. They were later expelled from the ground after another insidious attempt at scoring in an offside position. 

What this episode proves is that sex will never rival football as a spectator sport. People who roar ecstatically when a goal is scored just don’t feel the same elation when they watch strangers copulate. A ball thudding into the back of a net is a far more powerful image than all the cum-shots, cum-faces and cream-pies one could muster in craziest orgy known to pornographic science. Don’t ask me whether that’s a good thing – my job is to observe, not judge.

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Bare market

I hear that Hugh Hefner got a surprise on his 82nd birthday. A beaming Pamela Anderson, appropriately dressed in her own birthday suit, presented him with a cake. I can’t imagine a sweeter tribute for the old lecher. Photographs of the event show Pammy’s bust looking a lot less globular than usual. Has she finally done the decent thing and had her implants removed? Any hot dog would now be proud to be sandwiched between those baps. It’s a pity Hef was too shy to put his head between them and say “hooey-hooey-hooh!”. I now feel a twinge of regret that I turned Pammy down when she visited the Congo last year. She had applied to become an honorary gorilla, if you recall.

I’m not convinced by the argument of Playboy aficionados that Hef is living every man’s dream. Spending the daylight hours in pyjamas and a dressing gown sounds terribly lethargic to me. Some might say that a man in a house full of dolly birds doesn’t need to go anywhere, but what’s the point of being a stallion if you never have to chase the mares and corral them into the paddock? I wonder if the playmates are really happy about Hef creeping around the place in his bedroom slippers. A woman needs to have a few hours in the day when she can take off the make-up and break wind freely.

I must admit I’ve never had a subscription to Playboy. Every issue supposedly contains at least one penetrating article, but who can be bothered to hunt for it amid all the pictures? As for the centrefolds, I refuse to inspect them unless someone first tells me where the staples are located. Body-piercing is anathema to gorillas and I’d be very annoyed if any of the good bits were obscured. I actually prefer the bunny girls to the models. As cocktail waitresses, they have an impressive knowledge of beverages and their cotton-tails can be used to mop up spills. Having said that, I have no idea why any male customer whose name isn’t Bugs Bunny would find their costumes sexy.

Hef’s latest brainwave is to invite lady bankers who’ve fallen on hard times to pose nude for the magazine. Exploiting the carnage in Wall Street is a very shrewd move – if I were a vulture, I’d send my chicks to Hef for lessons in advanced bone-picking. I hope the old boy takes a Viagra pill when they visit the mansion so he can do to them what they’ve been doing to the country. Actually that’s unfair, I was just recycling an old Woody Allen joke. The real villains, of course, are their male bosses who hogged all the bonuses in the good times. Sadly, there are very few people outside of a high-security gaol who would pay to see them naked.

One can only hope that pictures of these talented women in the buff will cheer the nation in its hour of crisis, much as Dame Vera Lynn kept the British pecker up during World War 2. The American working man needs all the encouragement he can get in these difficult times, and photos of female bankers displaying their triple-A assets may yet stiffen his resolve. As for Hef, it’s about time he groomed a younger stud to take his place at the mansion. Does Warren Buffet have what it takes?

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Pamela in Paris

A French tourist excitedly informs me that Pamela Anderson will be performing at Le Crazy Horse, a famous cabaret club in Paris.

“Mr Bananas, you must come! There is no charge for Pamela’s friends! She will be thrilled to see you!”

“Thank you, Gaston, but I imagine she’ll be thrilled enough without me pouting at her from the audience.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “She will be performing the striptease to the famous Harley Davidson.”

“My oh my!” I exclaim. “A spectacle to dazzle Paris, Gaston. However where Pamela’s body is concerned, that which I have already seen is indelibly etched in my memory; and that which I have not, I am content to leave to my imagination.”

He shrugs his shoulders with a Gallic purse of the lips and leaves me to ponder this remarkable event. I certainly don’t disapprove of Pamela displaying her wares in Paris and marvel at the ingenuity of bringing a Harley Davidson into the act. I hope they start up the engine as she approaches the climax of her exotic gyrations. To have that mighty beast throbbing between her legs should draw attention away from her over-hyped balloons to her under-hyped undercarriage.

The episode of Baywatch in which Pamela first appeared was one that I watched with my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that,” mused Smacker as he stared at the bosomy starlet, then at the peak of her carnal magnetism.

“I’m no expert on these matters, Smacker, but wouldn’t you say that her airbags have been artificially inflated?” I suggested tentatively.

“I know that!” cried Smacker indignantly. “I was looking downstairs! I’d like to tuck into those thighs with mayonnaise and a side salad!”

Ever since that exchange, I have always thought of Pamela as a woman for the leg-and-rump man – a prime example of “white meat on the drumstick”, as the connoisseurs put it.

It's a real pity that Pamela’s acting career didn’t take off after that promising start. I would have cast her as a German slave girl in a sword-and-sandals epic set in ancient Rome. Her character would pine for Butch Hermann, a childhood sweetheart from the Black Forest, presently having his Teutonic torso oiled and scraped in gladiator school. Picture the scene as she is freed by her kindly Roman master to seek out her true love:

“I wish for every Roman a heart like yours!” she says in tearful gratitude.

“And I wish for every Roman matron a bottom like yours!” he replies waggishly.

In the amphitheatre finale, Butch Hermann (the German) would be locked in mortal combat with Fista Lesbia (the emperor’s iron-pumping sister). After an hour of pulsating action, Hermann has Fista at his mercy, his sword primed for the coup de grâce.

“I cannot slay the woman I love!” he bellows. “Let me return to the Black Forest with Fista as my queen, there to renounce the Roman oyster for the German sausage!”

He helps his opponent to her feet and clasps his manly hands on her manly shoulders.

“No!” shrieks Pamela from the Vestal Virgin box. “I am your rightful queen, Hermann! You pledged me your love when I showed you my secret treasure in the glades of Krakstein!”

The crowd gasps and murmurs as Hermann stares wide-eyed at his long lost flame.

“Let us both accompany the valiant Hermann!” cries Fista, gazing at Pamela with tender eyes. “For as we say in the Pinkus Campus, ‘two queens are better than one’!”

The crowd goes wild with joy and the emperor declares three days of orgies.

The absence of roles like this probably explains why Pamela is now straddling motorbikes in Parisian night clubs. It’s a bit of an anticlimax really. The French are certainly inventive at titillation, but the striptease is obviously running out of steam as a sensual art form. There simply isn’t enough mystery left in a woman’s body for nudity to be a thrill anymore. Men might still pay top dollar for novelty acts – like a lady newsreader getting her kit off for the first time – but a woman who has bared all is just another chicken in the meat market. The way forward for the sex goddess is to keep her naughty bits covered and work on her acting skills. Authentic facial expressions and noises are what the voyeurs of tomorrow will be after.

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Becoming one of us

Humans often ask me how to become an honorary gorilla. “GB,” they say, “you’re such a cool, fun-loving ape. How do I get to join your gang? I just want to hang out with you guys, chase some baboons and go to all your python-swinging parties. What do I have to do? Do you want me to bring you cocktails in your hammock? No problem. I’ll even massage your toes while you’re relaxing.”

My reply is always the same: “Tempting me with bribes is not the answer. You’ve got to earn our respect by finding your inner ape. Eat plenty of fruit and vegetables. Buy all the Tom Jones CDs and shake your booty to the beat. Move to the rhythm of the jungle. If you’ve got what it takes, our scouts will notice your talent.”

Most humans wait patiently for our decision, but every now and again we get a pushy character who tries to strong-arm us. I recently got a call from Hugo Chavez, the president-cum-dictator of Venezuela.

“Ai GB, when ju gonna make me a gorilla?” he demanded. “I doin’ everything like a gorilla. I beat my chest, I eat no meat, I tell that gringo chimpanzee Bush to go to hell. I even look like a gorilla!”

“Mr President, it’s not that simple,” I replied. “We can’t even consider you for membership while you hold high office. Gorillas must stand aloof from human politics.”

“CHINGA TU MADRE!” he shouted. “You think I leavin’ El Palacio just to join your club? I give you my cojones first!”

He terminated our conversation with that defiant offer. Between you and me, El Presidente will never be admitted to our ranks. There’s more to being a gorilla than thumping your chest and telling gringo chimpanzees to go to hell. It may surprise you to learn that we gorillas are rather fond of irony and understatement. We admire the human who can get his message across by raising one eyebrow, like Roger Moore or ‘Bones’ of The Enterprise. A blustering oaf like Chavez will never master subtle skills like that.

I should stress that it’s entirely feasible for a woman to become an honorary gorilla. Daryl Hannah received the accolade after starring in the film Splash. We were hugely impressed by her ability to wiggle her caboose inside a skin-tight fish tail. That takes some doing. What’s more, her adornments north of the tail were wholly natural, which is something we insist upon. One who fell foul of this requirement was Miss Pamela Anderson, who put her case to me in person at the safari camp.

“I’ve been a vegetarian since I was a girl; I’m a member of PETA; I’ve campaigned against the fur trade,” she said earnestly, as if reciting from a memorised script.

“All of which is most commendable, Miss Anderson,” I replied, “but there are other pertinent issues. Your...er…tangible attributes must be composed entirely of organic matter,” I said, trying hard not to stare at her breasts.

She looked puzzled for a few seconds, but then her face brightened in apparent comprehension. “Oh sure!” she exclaimed. “I only eat organic food from ethical farms. They grow their food ethically and treat all their workers ethically. It’s all very ethical.”

I scratched my neck while pondering how to make the point tactfully (and ethically).

“Are your breasts made of organic food?” I asked.

The blonde beach babe put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Do you wanna eat my tits?” she asked saucily.

“Who wouldn’t, Pammy?” I replied. “But the problem is that we gorillas are incredibly allergic to silicone.”

“Oh,” said Pamela, looking disappointed.

“I’m sorry, Pam, but we can’t admit anyone with surgically-enhanced hooters. Our females would have a fit.”

“Oh well,” said Pamela sadly, “I’ll guess I’ll just have to throw my energy into bush conservation.”

It warms the cockles of my groin to report that Pamela continues to support our causes without the slightest hint of bitterness. What a pity that so many humans look down on her as an airhead and a harlot. Those who are wise know that brains aren’t everything and that sexual promiscuity is never a sin for the pure of heart. A woman may be the whore of Babylon, but if her character is sweet she should be treated like a lady. I only wish she hadn’t inflated her boobs will all that squishy stuff. How I long for a picture of Pamela before she succumbed to the surgeon’s knife, sporting a nice little pair of home-grown tomatoes, ripe for the plucking!

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