Wednesday, July 01, 2015
So apparently there’s an actor called Channing Tatum. It’s a good thing I’ve seen a copy of his driver’s licence floating around the internet, because I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. Not only is his last name puzzling and slightly comical, it’s also the first name of an actress called Tatum O’Neill, whom I once saw eating a banana in Wimbledon. If Mr Tatum started eating bananas and changed his name to “Channelling Tatum” I might take him more seriously.
What exactly is a tatum anyway? When I asked the manager of the safari camp, he told me it was a shy, beaver-like creature that inhabits the forests of Finland, noted for making peculiar puffing noises. I wasn’t such a fool to take his words at face value, because he’s just the kind of impudent trickster who would love to make a monkey out of a gorilla.
It seems that Mr Tatum has similar concerns. In a recent interview with a film magazine, he complained that fans were constantly asking him to perform for them:
“That happens every time I walk out of my house. It can get old. I'm not a monkey!”
He didn’t say what kind of performance they wanted, but I doubt it was a soliloquy from Hamlet. In the same interview, Mr Tatum revealed he was a retired stripper whose act was now reserved for his wife. I think this reflects pretty well on him. A man who takes his marriage vows seriously shouldn’t hesitate to make a monkey of himself for his wife. On the other hand, it wasn’t clear whether she wanted to watch him disrobe. It could have been pure exhibitionism on his part.
My doubts about the latter were exacerbated when I found another article about Mr Tatum which suggests he’s a proponent of nudism.
“I wish that I could make anyone at any point just happen to be naked,” he said.
“Because people get really nice when they get naked,” he added in explanation.
It’s an interesting theory, but rather too reductive for my liking. Would Genghis Khan have turned into a fluffy bunny if you’d caught him naked in the shower? I think it’s more likely that he would have thrown his bottle of shampoo at you while cursing in Mongolian. Human history is peppered with characters who behaved like utter swines when they were naked. Just think of all the Viking warriors who charged into battle wearing nothing but their stabbing accoutrements.
What Mr Tatum probably meant to say is that people were very nice to him when they were naked. This would be quite understandable. Humans foolish enough to expose themselves in front of a professional stripper would be terrified of being harshly judged. They would do their best to butter him up, so he wouldn’t look at their bodies with pity or wry amusement.
Mr Tatum seems like a good-natured fellow, but he should learn to distinguish the genuinely affable from those trying to curry favour.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Fifty years from now, grizzled old men will tell their grandchildren that Taylor Swift’s belly button made its first public appearance this year. If you don’t believe me, try googling the phrase “Taylor Swift’s belly button” and behold the number of articles about this momentous event.
The abdominal aperture’s exposure is all the more surprising given Miss Swift’s earlier announcement on the subject:
“I don’t like showing my belly button… I don’t want people to know if I have one or not.”
We should thank her for resolving the ambiguity. There are baboons in the Congo who might have worshipped Miss Swift because they believed she was a magical being with a smooth, un-punctured belly. Such harmful superstitions inevitably lead to baby wart-hogs being sacrificed on altars.
If we examine Taylor’s tummy-cranny, it’s clearly an “inny” rather than an “outy”. Indeed, it has the suggestion of an unusually cavernous “inny”. If a tribe of chimpanzees ever got hold of Taylor, they would poke their fingers into her navel to gauge its depth. I should imagine many humans would do the same if they weren’t inhibited by cultural taboos against the poking of celebrity belly buttons.
Miss Swift would be well advised to avoid such outrages by wearing a navel plug. A skilled craftsman could make a custom-made device with a carbon-fibre shaft and a dazzling sapphire head. Those who dared to stare at Taylor’s midriff would be awed and stunned by a flash of blue light.
Of course, there are some men who wouldn’t be able to probe a woman’s belly button because their fingers are too thick. Liberace comes to mind, although he may have lacked the curiosity in any case. David Hasselhoff is another fellow who might be digitally incapable, although one can’t be certain about this. Being tall and tanned doesn’t necessarily mean the fingers are beefy and butch.
The Hoff has recently been in the news for claiming that he doesn’t need Viagra. Acutely aware that people must be wondering how a 62-year-old man keeps his 35-year-old girlfriend satisfied, he has taken to boasting about his prodigious carnal appetite:
“That’s one problem I don’t have,” he assured an on-line magazine. “If anything, I am trying to find an anti-Viagra pill because my girlfriend keeps saying, ‘Why is it that you want it every day?’ And I'm like, ‘Because I find it takes the edge off things’.”
I don’t doubt for one second that the Hoff has the libido of a stallion on a stud farm, but why does he need sex to take the edge off things? A man in the Hoff’s happy situation shouldn’t be feeling edgy and tense. If you ask me, his girlfriend isn’t the great catch everyone assumes her to be. For one thing, she’s supposedly turned down five marriage proposals from the Hoff, which must have damaged his ego. And what kind of woman complains about having sex every day? Not a woman whose belly button you’d want to poke, that’s for sure.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
I admit to feeling sorry for the English floozy who was arrested in Malaysia for stripping off on a holy peak. How was she to know that her stunt would offend the local mountain gods, causing them to instigate an earthquake measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale? The local tribespeople wanted her to atone for her sacrilegious act by offering the gods ten buffalo heads, but unfortunately she didn’t have any. The Malaysian authorities then took the law into their own hands by charging her with “causing a nuisance”, which is apparently an imprisonable offence in their country.
Had I been the girl’s defence lawyer, I would have made a plea for mercy by pointing out what she didn’t do. Had she performed her nude caper in one of the Mediterranean resorts frequented by British tourists, the locals would have slapped their foreheads in astonishment at her moderation. In the Costa del Sol, the English woman who strips naked is expected either to perform oral sex on the nearest drunken oaf, or douse her body with an alcoholic beverage for the drunken oaf to lap up like a thirsty wolf. The incident would typically be recorded on a mobile phone to provide her with a serviceable memento. Those who are too inebriated to remember the fun they’ve had now take the precaution of capturing it on a digital device to prove it to themselves afterwards. Such are the blessings of modern technology.
The girl’s father has described her as “a very intelligent, stoic young woman”. I suppose we’ll have to take his word for it. The thin mountain air might have turned Tolstoy into a giddy-headed fool. Now that she’s back at sea level, she should validate her father’s words by giving a seminar on meditating in windy places.
Humans from conservative Asiatic countries often remark on the shamelessness of libertine westerners. What they fail to realise is that repressing feelings of shame is sometimes a virtue. Consider the case of Boris Becker, the former tennis maestro, who impregnated a woman in a restaurant in less time than it takes an Olympic sprinter to win the 100 metres. After DNA tests proved his paternity, he humbly accepted his fate, agreeing to a generous divorce settlement with his wife and maintenance payments for his illegitimate daughter.
The girl, now aged 15, is an aspiring model, and her father is suitably doting. Far from being ashamed at having procreated in circumstances that would make a baboon blush, Becker has described the brief coupling as one of the more felicitous events of his life:
“If that's what I'm remembered for, then I'm proud,” he told a British TV network.
I think Becker’s conduct provides a useful lesson for saucy English wenches who prance around naked in exotic holiday destinations. If you’re going to take your clothes off, make sure you get knocked up by a famous sportsman who thinks doing it standing up is an effective method of contraception. The semen of the alpha male is worth its weight in Estée Lauder face creams.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Sticks and stones
Can you believe that men are scared of Sharon Stone? This is what she says:
“Guys run away. People bought into the story that I'm a sex symbol but I'm not really. I'm really the girl with the baggy clothes and the bag of books.”
“I wish more guys would throw themselves at me,” she added.
What kind of poltroonery is this? I’d like to unleash a raiding party of female gorillas on the men of America to teach them what real fear is. Why anyone would be scared of Sharon Stone is a mystery more puzzling than the Bermuda octopus. Admittedly, she did play a woman who kept an ice pick under her bed in Basic Instinct, but that was just an acting role. I’d be amazed to find the spindliest bodkin beneath her bed in real life.
Sharon’s bewildering predicament prompted me to give Smacker Ramrod a call. My old circus buddy has never failed to shed light on anthropological anomalies of this sort. This is what he told me:
“I wouldn’t be scared of her myself, but I can see why men with fragile egos would find her intimidating. They assume she’s been serviced by the finest studs on the planet and fear they’ll be found wanting in the bonking department. The fact that Miss Stone has demonstrated her expertise at faking orgasms on film would do little to reassure them.”
I thanked Smacker for his explanation, which I have since given some thought. Is being judged a mediocre lover by Sharon Stone really a prospect to be dreaded? You’ve still slept with her, after all, so how are you down on the deal? Surely a man in that situation should just shrug his shoulders and say “C’est la vie”. You can’t have everything in life.
One fellow who probably wouldn’t be scared of Sharon Stone is a cyclist who made a spectacle of himself during a nude bike-riding event in England. It seems that the exposure of his private parts to a crowd of onlookers caused him to become sexually aroused, provoking much dismay and consternation.
“Everyone was taking their clothes off to get ready for the ride,” said one witness. “I heard gasps and I turned around – it was a horrible sight.”
Fortunately, the police were at hand to pull the man aside and give him a stern lecture. He was instructed to put on a pair of trousers.
My only reaction to this story is to marvel that a human could be so similar to a baboon in his bodily responses. I’ve seen more baboon stiffies than I’d care to remember, which is a perpetual hazard in the jungle. The golden rule is never to react with a show of emotion, which would be taken as a sign of weakness. Just maintain a poker face and attend to your affairs without interruption.
Baboons are vulgar exhibitionists who have no fear of their fellow primates, but their erections are no more dangerous than Sharon Stone.
Wednesday, June 03, 2015
New marriage, old divorce
I got an email from a blog lurker asking me why I hadn’t congratulated Ginger Spice on her wedding, which occurred last month. Having previously anointed Ginger as the Spice Girl I’d most like to eat, this was indeed a regrettable oversight. I apologise profusely to Ginger for my lapse, and wish her all the blessings that matrimonial co-indulgence can bring.
Ginger’s husband is a suave-looking fellow called Christian Horner, who at the age of 40 is only two years younger than his wife. Fortunately, this age difference is too small for Ginger to be called a cougar or her husband to be called a toy-boy. I predict the marriage will last longer than J. Lo’s last one or Madonna’s next one.
Now Christian Horner is a slightly odd name for a human, but not sufficiently strange to indicate his parents were upstarts or anarchists. It is actually a hybrid of ‘Hans Christian Anderson’ and ‘Little Jack Horner’, which implies a consistent theme. The man is apparently a former racing driver, so he might be in a hurry to prove himself. If I were Ginger, I would install speed bumps in the driveway and a portrait of Gerard Depardieu above the marital bed. As the senior partner in the marriage, she should be the one who sets the tempo.
Perhaps if Ginger’s husband were famous his name wouldn’t seem odd at all. It is certainly less peculiar than ‘Art Garfunkel’, yet no one twitches a nostril when that name is mentioned in the art galleries and saunas of New York City. Art has recently been in the news for describing Paul Simon as “an idiot” and “a jerk”. He considers these harsh epithets to be justified because Paul chose to end their musical partnership in 1970.
"How can you walk away from this lucky place on top of the world, Paul?” asked Art of his former comrade-in-song.
But was Paul really “walking away” from success? Given that he wrote all the songs, it might be more accurate to say that he kicked Art out of the band, possibly because the hairstyle was getting on his nerves. My only regret about this divorce is that it destroyed Paul’s ability to write great songs, much in the same way that the other Paul lost his mojo after leaving The Beatles.
Does being in an unhappy situation inspire artists to produce great art, possibly as a form of escapism or self-mollification? We don’t know much about Shakespeare’s life, but he must have suffered episodes of gloom and despair. That much was inevitable in a society where farting in the presence of nobility was a banishable offence.
Perhaps I should spend a few days in a tree overhanging a mangrove swamp to see whether I can compose some tunes on my recorder. If misery is what’s required, there are few more miserable places in the Congo. If the tunes are any good, I’ll release them in an album called ‘Bridge over Troubled Crocodiles’.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
It's been a long time since I wrote anything about Pamela Anderson, which should not be interpreted as a sign of neglect or indifference. To paraphrase Mr Willie Nelson, she was always on my mind, she was always on my mind. The good news is that Pamela has been parading her prodigious gifts in a more visible place than my cryptic yet imaginative brain. The picture above, which you have my permission to gawk at, shows her re-enacting the infamous “shower scene” of the horrendous movie Psycho.
The purpose of this action shot, if indeed a purpose be required, was to publicise a campaign sponsored by PETA. Pamela’s petrified pose is intended to remind people that rearing livestock wastes torrents of fresh water that could otherwise be used to bathe the nubile skin of innumerable comely wenches. As Pamela herself said:
"Producing one pound of beef uses as much water as about six months of showers.”
Cows, you see, are incredibly thirsty creatures. You would be too if you had to plod around in a field all day, chewing continually like a hipster with a piece of gum in his mouth. No less thirsty are the assassins who butcher the beasts and carve them into steaks for your barbecue. As Private Tommy Atkins said while stationed with his regiment in the Northwest Frontier:
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Water is a precious resource that the victims and villains of the meat industry are guzzling extravagantly. That’s why Pamela is both a vegetarian (like us gorillas) and a pacifist (like us gorillas unless we are needlessly provoked). It gives her the moral right to relax in her Jacuzzi for hours, toning up her supple skin with a hand shower.
Now, some of you might have noticed that I exaggerated when I said that Pamela had re-enacted the Psycho scene. Posing for a picture is not quite the same thing as simulating a gruesome murder. Perhaps she was worried that unkind critics would compare her acting skills with those of Janet Leigh. However, let’s not forget that Miss Leigh never appeared in Baywatch – I don’t even remember seeing her legs in the spine-tingling shower scene, which is pretty ridiculous when you consider she was as naked as a cuttlefish. No amount of acting technique can make up for a glaring situational anomaly.
In truth, Psycho is not a movie I greatly admire. It stretches credulity that a crazed serial killer like Normal Bates is never shown quenching his thirst after committing one of his appalling crimes. Nor did I approve of Hitchcock’s decision to make him a transvestite, which unfairly stigmatises men with a cross-dressing fetish. I ended up feeling sorry for the blighter in spite of all the mayhem he created. I wish Pamela had depicted a scene from Lust in the Dust instead, an epic movie full of thirsty villains and a transvestite who is as pure as the driven slush.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Having it both ways
After getting jilted by the vile Schwarzenegger sprog, Miley Cyrus is now hinting that she’s bisexual:
“I never want to label myself,” she declared. “I am ready to love anyone that loves me. I am open!”
If I were Miley’s pater familias, I would advise her against being too open. The world is full of cunning opportunists looking for tempting openings to infiltrate and exploit. I’m not saying she should keep herself closed, but it’s possible to compromise by being slightly ajar. A girl must be ready to batten down the hatches if anything untoward tries to poke its head in.
Now, bisexuality is common in Nature. It works best in creatures like snakes, which can mate without getting into fixed positions where one is on top of the other. Whether humans can achieve this is debatable – I should imagine it’s possible on a friction-free surface with plenty of lubricants. A nimble waif like Miley should be more capable than most, but that doesn’t mean she should rush into any sort of wriggly manoeuvre. Recovering from a broken heart is not the best time for willy-nilly experimentation.
It’s good to see that the temporary lull in her private life isn’t stopping her from pushing the artistic envelope. Consider her recent appearance at the “Adult Swim Upfront Party” in New York City. Miley arrived at the event in an innovative butterfly costume, her small but shapely breasts covered with attractive nipple plasters. Before singing a bawdy song, she had the good manners to banter with the guests:
“Are you guys drunk yet? Are you guys high yet?” she asked. “No?! You’re going to be at a show where I’m dressed as a fucking butterfly and not be high? I’m down to share.”
I’m not sure what the last sentence meant, but the tone of her remarks is positive.
Returning to the subject of bisexuality, I wouldn’t be surprised if most powerful women were endowed with such inclinations. You don’t get to be a powerful woman without being competitive, and why would a competitive woman deny herself something a man can have? If we look at the contemporary political scene, our eyes are inevitably drawn to Mrs Clinton, who is more than capable of returning our stares. I don’t know whether Hilldog has said she’s running for president, but I’m happy to endorse her in advance of the announcement.
The question no one has thought of is this: If Mrs Clinton becomes president, who will be the first lady? It can’t be Hillary herself, because that would give her two roles. Bill is probably hoping to have the job, but the thought of him hosting official functions in an evening dress is too horrible to contemplate. The only solution I can think of is for Hillary’s mistress to move into the White House, putting her nose to the grindstone for the good of the nation. But how can this happen until we know who the blessed woman is? The ball, I believe, is in Mrs Clinton’s court.