Tuesday, December 06, 2016

Woman marries dog

There are conflicting reports about the Argentinian woman who married her dog. Some say she did it because her fiancé jilted her; others say she did it because her fiancé cheated on her. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this romantic tale, but I would beg to differ. If her fiancé’s philandering was the issue, who is to say that her dog won’t cheat on her too? Although dogs are normally very loyal to their owners, their concept of fidelity doesn’t stop them from humping other dogs. The behaviour of stray mutts in the shanties of Brazzaville suggests that love and sex are wholly separate categories for the canine community. As they are for many humans, of course.

Now it seems that Miss Romina Pitton’s main motive in this affair, apart from confirming her affections for her pooch, was to avoid cancelling a wedding in the final stages of preparation. With so much money already lavished on cakes and frilly dresses and gay wedding planners who charge by the hour, she didn’t want to deprive herself and her guests of the extravaganza they’d been eagerly anticipating. All of which shows how the human wedding has evolved, over the centuries, into a ridiculous circus. A simple exchange of vows has become the excuse for an absurd and overblown show with a giant cast of extras.

Personally, I can’t think of anything more undignified than participating in a human-style wedding. When Gorilla Bananas makes a promise to someone, there is no need for witnesses. His word is his bond. Potential voyeurs are told politely to sod off before any oaths are uttered. My solemn covenants are a private affair, not a gala event that the world and his wife may attend. Listening to an impertinent speech by the best man would be out of the question too. Any “best man” who attempted to mock me in front of an audience would immediately find himself demoted to “worst baboon”.

This explains why I’ve always had a soft spot for humans who elope. When a clown ran off with the ringmaster’s daughter in my circus days, I was quick to offer help with getaway vehicles, safe houses and disguises. Obviously I didn’t provide all these services myself. Like Frank Sinatra, I had underworld contacts who were only too willing carry out favours on my behalf. Most things can be arranged if you know the right people.

You may think that eloping has gone out of fashion and doesn’t happen anymore, but I have a suspicion that a big one is in the offing. Prince Harry seems to be very besotted with his latest girlfriend, to the extent that he’s issued a statement to the press, telling them to back off. I don’t think he’d want to expose her to the media scrutiny that a royal wedding would generate. If he and his would-be-bride are interested, I have a nice little hut in the Congo where they could consummate their nuptials in peace.

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Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Pleading innocence

Mel B has announced that she is the only Spice Girl who has not slept with the deplorable Robbie Williams:

“Yuck!” she exclaimed. “He had been with my friends – I don’t want sloppy seconds!”

Mr Williams supposedly made an off-the-cuff remark about having bedded 4 out of 5 of the Spice Girls. I would have immediately assumed that Victoria Spice had evaded his evil clutches, but now it seems she has some explaining to do.

Mel B should hang her head in shame for making this information public. What a shocking betrayal of her comrades! The girls had previously been like members of a firing squad where one had a rifle with a blank cartridge. Any of them might not have participated in the terrible deed. But now we know for sure which ones have blood on their hands. This is not to say that Mel B’s hands are clean. She may not have allowed Robbie Williams to despoil her, but she’s certainly had carnal relations with other scoundrels and poodlefakers. Besmirching the names of your buddies is a futile exercise if your own name is already mud.

We must hope and pray that this bombshell has no adverse impact on the marriage of Victoria Spice and Mr Becks. Hitherto they have reacted to rumours of a rift by conceiving another child. Unfortunately, the spicy ovaries may no longer be up to the job. Another way of saving face would be to bribe a lookalike of Victoria to say that she was seduced by Robbie Williams after her mistook her for the genuine article. Stranger things have happened. I once saw a baboon mount a watermelon after confusing it with a female in the poor light. And Mr Williams isn’t the sort of fellow who would ask for photo ID before servicing a compliant woman.

It has to be said that sleeping with 4 out of 5 members of a pop group is nothing out of the ordinary. Countless women must have slept with 5 out of 5 of the Rolling Stones, although Marianne Faithful was the only one who admitted it. Some groups are harder nuts to crack than others, of course. I’m pretty sure that no one has slept with 5 out of 5 of the Jackson Five. Maybe Bubbles the Chimp gave it his best shot. In my view, the shame should be heaped on the individuals that boast about such dubious achievements rather than the band members themselves, who are probably unaware of being knocked over like skittles.

Perhaps this episode highlights one of the advantages of being a solo artist. None of Taylor Swift’s ex-boyfriends could have humiliated her by sleeping with a singing partner. The best they could have hoped for was a roll in the hay with one of her squad, which would have won them as much acclaim as sleeping with her hairdresser. Being a member of a group has its advantages, but it does make you vulnerable to infiltrators.

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Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Dietary advice

Can you call yourself a vegan if you eat your friend’s semen? The question occurred to me after watching a video made by a 29-year-old English woman who says she is a vegan. Miss Tracey Kiss (pictured above) is justly proud of her flawless complexion, which she credits to a healthy diet of organic food and a daily sperm supplement.

“People are so weird about sperm when in fact a teaspoon is full of amazing goodness,” she explains. “I’d been feeling run down and had no energy, but now I’m full of beans and my mood has improved.”

She’s certainly full of something, but before any man thinks of making her an offer, please note that her nourishment is not taken at source. A gentleman friend provides her with regular emissions (in a test tube?), which she stores in her refrigerator.

“Every batch tastes different, depending on what he’s been eating,” says Tracey. “If he’s been drinking alcohol or eaten something particular pungent like asparagus, I ask him to give me a heads-up so I know not to drink it neat.”

Miss Kiss has a number of appetising semen recipes in which the taste of the raw ingredient is modified by various condiments. Perhaps she should share her ideas with a gourmet chef. Michelin star restaurants are always on the lookout for additions to their menus, and there is no surer path to immortality than having a dessert named after you. “Open-mouthed Kiss” would be a plausible title for the dish.

The mysterious character in this otherwise uncomplicated tale is the fellow who donates his manly secretions. The question I can’t help asking is: “What’s in it for him?”. If Tracey were taking an active hand the extraction process, that would be one thing, but where’s the fun in having to milk yourself like a cow? If a female gorilla asked me to perform such a service, I would tell her to go and molest a baboon.

A generous explanation of his behaviour would say that he is acting from the same neighbourly instinct that causes the resident of an apartment block to offer a new tenant a packet of sugar. But I am not inclined to be so generous. I fear he derives some sort of wicked pleasure from the thought that a nubile woman is gulping down his jism. A man who is proud of something like that can have little else to be proud of.

I started this post with a question you may have forgotten in all the commotion: Is semen a permissible food for a self-proclaimed vegan like Miss Kiss? I would say it’s no less of an animal product than milk, eggs or cheese. Perhaps Tracey would argue that it does no harm because the animal in question is not locked up in a paddock or chained to a fence. Yet if millions of women take her dietary advice to heart, who is to say that men will not be locked up in paddocks or chained to fences in the future? You can’t go around breaking rules without thinking about the long-term consequences.

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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Self exposure

I saw a tourist smiling at his smart phone the other day, which he held out in front of him with his arm fully extended.

“Forgive me for asking, but what the devil are you doing?” I asked.

“Taking a picture of myself,” he replied. “Haven’t you heard of selfies?”

“I have now,” I said. “But wouldn’t you rather be taking pictures of the wildlife given that you are touring the African bush at considerable expense?”

“Ah, but I was!” he exclaimed. He then showed me the picture he had taken, which had captured me a few paces behind him, with a quizzical expression on my face.”

“I’m going to send it to my friends with the caption: ‘Show no fear when you are being stalked by a gorilla.’”

“I hope they will realise you are jesting,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to appear in anyone’s nightmares.”

“You’ve got as good a chance of appearing in their erotic dreams!” he said with a smirk.

“Pffft!” I exclaimed. “Such flattery.”

This incident prompted me to investigate the “selfie” phenomenon. It seems that humans are doing it all the time, so they can send their grinning self-portraits to anyone who will look at them. They are especially keen on taking selfies with persons of note, which might explain the incident with the tourist. It seems like harmless fun, but on some occasions it has led to unforeseen mishaps.

During my research, I came across a news report about a college student in Texas who drove her car into a police vehicle. When the policeman got out to question her, he found her fumbling frantically with her bra. She was then forced to confess that she had been taking a selfie of her bare breasts with the intention of sending the picture to her boyfriend. Miss Miranda Rader was arrested on suspicion of driving while intoxicated and released from jail next morning on a $2,000 bail bond.

Now Gorilla Bananas is no laggard on holding humans to account for reckless driving, but I can’t help feeling sorry for Miss Rader. Call me a soft-hearted ape, but I hate to see anyone chastised for trying to do a good deed. Furthermore, she took the picture while stopping at a red light, so she wasn’t wholly negligent on matters of road safety. I hope the court will accept that she was acting from the best of motives. It is far better for a young man to stare at pictures of his girlfriend’s jahoobies than waste time browsing addictive porn sites.

Miss Rader’s misfortune has nevertheless convinced me not to get involved in the “selfie” fad. You can’t concentrate on the issue at hand if you’re constantly taking pictures of yourself. I also have fears that my image might be used for immoral or indecent purposes if it fell into the wrong hands. Anyone who wants to photograph me should leave his calling card at the Brazzaville Wildlife Bureau. I’ll get back to you when I can.

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Wednesday, November 02, 2016

Emerging talent

I’m wondering whether to buy a collection of songs by Tove Lo, the up-and-coming Swedish singer. Although it’s unlikely I’ll listen to them very often (if at all), one must do what one can to encourage young talent. She has been kind enough to make a video for one of the songs freely available. Most of its scenes show her writhing on the roof of a car or straddling a glass coffin. Apparently she was performing some kind of mating dance:

“To me, music and sex are very connected,” she declared. “I’m a very sexual person.”

Miss Lo has called her new album ‘Lady Wood’. If you think that’s the name of a forest where upper class women have picnics, you’d be wrong. She revealed the true meaning of the title in a recent interview with Vogue:

“It’s kind of like saying a chick with balls, but since we don’t have balls, it’s lady wood. It’s almost like saying, ‘Don’t be a pussy’.”

Call me a confused ape, but this explanation seems to have a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in it. Yes, women don’t have balls, I agree with her on that point. But unless I have been gravely misinformed about the anatomy of the human female, they don’t have anything woody down there either. And why is she using the word “pussy” to mean a weak and pathetic person? A woman who is standing up for her gender should reclaim the kitty word to signify something divine and delicious. Perhaps Miss Lo needs to go on a feminist empowerment course run by Gloria Steinem or one of her disciples.

One has to make allowances for that fact that she is from Sweden, of course. English is not her mother tongue, while Swedish is the tongue of her mother. Ambiguous words like “wood” have deceived the greatest linguists. Back in my circus days, we once hosted an acrobat from Finland, visiting on an exchange programme.

“Happiness is the most important thing,” I said while showing him to his trailer.

“Yes, I hab penis,” he replied with a nervous grin.

I nodded and left him to his devices.

Once she sorts out her issues with the English language, Miss Lo has every chance of hitting the big time. Fans of pop music haven’t heard a Swedish voice in full-throat since the long-lamented demise of ABBA, so her act should have plenty of novelty value. I would advise her to save her sexiest material for prime time audiences. Miley Cyrus played a goody-two-shoes character before launching her twerking exhibition on the world and it propelled her to instant stardom. Sticking your tongue out and wiggling your bottom only makes a big splash when it’s totally unexpected. No one would have batted an eyelid if Madonna had done it. I just hope Miss Lo hasn’t jumped the gun by humping a glass coffin in her pop video. As any lioness will tell you, timing is everything if you want to make a kill.

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Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Quid pro quo

Madonna has taken the art of political campaigning to a new level. At Madison Square Garden, she offered hovering voters the following deal:

“If you vote for Hillary Clinton, I will give you a blowjob, OK? I’m good. I’m not a douche, and I’m not a tool. I take my time.”

Sensing some ambivalence in the audience, she added:

“I have a lot of eye contact, and I do swallow.”

You could argue it’s sexist not to offer women anything, but she may have assumed the female vote is already in the sack. From another point of view, a man might feel aggrieved at the implication he will sell his vote for sexual favours. If such men exist, the manager of the safari camp is not one of them:

“If you won’t change your vote for a blowjob, what will you change your vote for?” he asked.

I sensed he would pooh-pooh any answer I gave him, so I scratched my chin and remained silent.

The fatal flaw in Madonna’s proposal is that there’s nothing to stop a man from agreeing to the bargain and voting for a different candidate. The secret ballot is a devilish impediment to such innovative forms of electioneering. She could reduce the risk by denying the inducement to 50-year-old men with beer bellies and Donald Trump. The demographic data indicate those groups are very unlikely to vote for Mrs Clinton.

In truth, I doubt that Madonna will win many votes for Hillary. Her tactics are too outrageous for the typical swing voter. If I were a member of the Clinton team, I would ask Pamela Anderson to join the campaign. She’s the kind of celebrity who appeals to voters who don’t know anything about politics, government, current affairs and other complex subjects. Sometimes you need an advocate who can simplify the issues to words of one or two syllables.

Pammie has recently been speaking out about the dangers of pornography. She says she has dated men who preferred watching porn to having sex with her, blaming their aberrant (and some would say wasteful) behaviour on their addiction to adult entertainment. She’s probably right, although we can’t rule out the possibility that they went off Pammie after realising they preferred women with smaller breasts. Those who have gorged excessively on Black Forest Gateau sometimes acquire a liking for cupcakes. Whatever their problem was, you have to give Pammie credit for raising public awareness of the issue:

“I want a sensual revolution because in the age of technology people are becoming desensitised and there are these multiple images and videos that get stranger and weirder,” she said.

I don’t think I’ve seen the really weird stuff, but I agree with the gist of her argument. Once you go down that path there’s no telling where it will end.

Is it too late for pornography to become an election issue? I can’t see it swinging voters in one direction or the other. But it might persuade the undecideds to stay at home.

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Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Wedding planner

Perhaps I’m not paying sufficient attention, but I can’t seem to recall any show business weddings happening for a long time. Maybe the A-list crowd have finally realised that turning your wedding into a gala event makes you look like a complete ass when you file for divorce six months later. George Clooney did make a big hoo-hah about his marriage to Ms What’s-Her-Name, but she was a high-flying lawyer rather than a starlet. A man who marries a lawyer knows he will be subjected to a serious pussy-whipping if the marriage fails, so he may as well burn his bridges and go in with all guns blazing.

You don’t have to be a celebrity to have marital problems, of course. Indeed, the problems often arise before the marriage begins. I was bemused to read a news report about a German man who proposed to his girlfriend when he was drunk, at 4.30am in the morning. After sleeping off his hangover, he knew he’d popped the question, but couldn’t remember what her answer had been. A peculiar stalemate then arose when his girlfriend refused to tell him. In his desperation, the man placed an advertisement in a newspaper asking for eyewitnesses to the event. It included the following statement:

"Due to a large consumption of alcohol, I cannot remember her answer and she's remaining silent. Who saw the proposal and can give me relevant clues?"

Call me an innocent ape, but does a woman who’s been asked to repeat her answer to a marriage proposal normally clam up in this way? I admit it can be mildly irritating to have to say the same thing twice, but she must have known her boyfriend was pissed on the first occasion. There’s no point getting into a huff if someone can’t remember something. Back in my circus days, a clown forgot what he was supposed to do in a comedy routine we were rehearsing. I told him to bend over and kicked his arse. Problem solved.

If you ask me, the essential prerequisite for human marriages is the management of expectations. If a couple enter the matrimonial contract expecting it to resemble the ending of a Doris Day movie, they are bound to be disappointed. Far better to think they’ve been sentenced to a life term with hard labour and no parole. No one can deny that most marriages are easier to bear than prison. The food is better, the bed is more comfortable, you have regular vacations and sex if you’re lucky. Men who complain about their marriages should thank their lucky stars they aren’t residing in a high-security gaol, with a beefy looking fellow with tattoos on his arms as their roommate.

Truly, we earth-dwelling creatures have much to be grateful for – blue skies, sandy beaches, forests full of trees to climb, Doris Day movies to watch. Having a girlfriend who won’t tell you whether she accepted your marriage proposal is a minor inconvenience by comparison. Just say “whatever” and get on with your life.

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