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.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Disturbing news arrives from France about a naughty old man who tricked women into sleeping with him. How did he pull off this dastardly trick? By sending them a photo of a 37-year-old male model that he said was of himself. The women then agreed to a “sex in the dark” encounter, which is supposedly one of the thrilling events that occurred in 50 Shades of Grey. I say “supposedly” because I have no idea what went on in that silly film. Whatever happened in the dark shall remain in the dark for me.
His subterfuge was reported to the police by a couple of women who found out what he looked like after he had ravished them.
“He didn't correspond at all to the photo,” said Sylvie. “I felt total disgust.”
“I ended up seeing his silhouette in the dark,” said Leila. He was old, pot-bellied with a big nose.”
It’s fascinating that she complained about his big nose, because some women find this feature attractive in a man. I suppose it must have been round and bulbous rather than long and pointy. Hairy nostrils are another potential issue.
The French police have charged the 68-year-old man with a crime called “rape by surprise”. It is indeed surprising that such an offence exists. Of no surprise at all were the man’s protestations of innocence:
"For me, when she entered the bedroom naked, she was consenting,” he insisted. “At that moment, she couldn't care less what I looked like.”
He seems to be saying that the flesh can’t crawl at what the eye can’t see. But why did he use the photo of the male model if looks had nothing to do with it? According to my friend Ernesto Bongodrum, graduate of the Congo Law School, the man is guilty of fraud rather than rape. He told a huge whopper to get his fingers inside the honey pot. As for the women, they are guilty of being stupid hoochies.
More worthy of sympathy than Monsieur Le Big Nose’s victims are the female lifeguards in China who were groped by men pretending to be drowning. This is a case of human skulduggery at its worst – not merely crying wolf, but crying wolf and acting octopus. My ancestor Bo’sun Bananas would have flogged the guilty men with an electric eel for such a grievous breach of maritime etiquette.
The Chinese authorities hope to discourage future outrages by fitting a camera on each girl’s swimsuit. I don’t blame them for opting for a technological solution. Bum-pinchers and boob-feeler-uppers are too cunning to get caught unless you record their insidious acts on film.
“The cameras will help to root out uncivilised behaviour, or at least help to decrease the number of incidents,” said a spokesman for the local tourist board.
I’m sure they are right, but I would advise them to devise an appropriate punishment as a further deterrent. How about making the miscreants re-enact their crime with a female walrus in oestrus?
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
Feminist boobs and butts
I don’t know whether Miss Piggy deserves the award she recently won for being a feminist trailblazer. Although I’m not quite sure what feminism is, I assume it means more than making shrill noises in an emotional voice. Or does it? The award will be presented by Gloria Steinem, the feminist agitator turned dowager. Is she so different from Miss Piggy when you strip away all the posturing and pontificating? I’ve never met a human who didn’t have an inner muppet struggling to get out.
My friend Kola Boof used to be a feminist, but quit the movement after she was censured for gratuitously exposing her breasts. She now calls herself a “womanist”, which is basically a feminist who thinks that naked breasts are a good thing. Kola is a prolific writer whose books have earned 5-star reviews on the Amazon site. Many have been inspired by her tales of bare-breasted African women who triumph against all the odds. It’s the kind of bedtime reading that has a big effect on your dreams.
Now, snooty critics don’t take Kola seriously because of her exotic name. I find such attitudes unconscionable (a word I recently learned from an American tourist). The mockery of unusual names is a deplorable human habit that has bedevilled talented artists throughout the ages. A recent victim of this insolent behaviour is Ophelia Lovibond, a nubile young actress who has acquired nicknames such as “Ophelia Lovelybum”. She says she doesn’t mind, but it’s obviously not something a feminist would condone. How can you appreciate a woman’s acting skills if you’re constantly thinking about her posterior?
Another actress with an unusual name is Blake Lively, although maybe it’s seen as commonplace in the rarefied circles of Hollywood. Miss Lively recently claimed that her breasts vary in size during the day, requiring her to make frequent changes in apparel. I initially thought this was an apocryphal story to deflect attention from her name by giving people something else to make fun of. But then I realised she might not be joking because she’s currently nursing a baby. All the same, there must be a simpler solution than continually changing clothes to match the transformations of her bust. Aren’t women allowed to pad their bras in this age of feminist emancipation?
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Nuns on the up
The number of women becoming nuns in England and Wales has trebled over the past five years. Before you get too excited about this news, the numerical increase was from 15 to 45. Of course, these figures don’t include women who secretly become nuns without telling the church. There must be many thousands who wear the wimple at private events in hotels and taverns.
Ignorant people who think that women become nuns because they are too unattractive to have sex should study the case of Theodora Hawksley (pictured above). This 29-year-old postdoctoral researcher mystified her friends by giving up her academic career to join a nunnery in North London.
“In one sense it is a bit like trying to explain to somebody why you are marrying the person you are,” explained Theodora. “You can list their qualities, but in the end it is a relationship of love.”
When I showed her picture to the manager of the safari camp, his breathing quickened.
“What would I have to do to kiss this woman on the lips?” he asked.
“You could start by changing your name to Jesus Christ,” I replied. “Then perform a few miracles, rise from the dead, and her tongue will be wrestling with your tonsils in no time.”
“Bah!” grunted the manager. “I was hoping taking her up The Shard might do the trick.”
Theodora is joining an order of nuns called ‘The Congregation of Jesus’, which encourages its daughters to discard the traditional habit in favour of a t-shirt and jeans. This makes it easier for them to mingle with the ungodly, but harder for the men they meet in discotheques and bars to know they are unavailable. The only solution I can think of is printing “Girlfriend of God” or “Wholly Virgin” on their t-shirts. Being upfront about your situation is better than planting booby-traps on your body, like Catherine de Medici.
Now Theodora, at the age of 29, might not be wholly or even partially a virgin. This possibility we must bravely face. But I don’t agree it would make her less effective in the business of nunning. There is much to be said for tasting the forbidden fruit before giving yourself to Jesus, rather than going through life having masochistic fantasies like Teresa of Avila. The modern nun should be knowledgeable about sex so she can give advice to teenage girls like Maisie Williams, who is currently finding it difficult to understand her own sexual feelings.
Maisie doesn’t tell us what her problem is, but at the age of eighteen I would guess she has apprehensions about the male sexual organ. This would be perfectly normal. As a girl blossoms into womanhood, a man’s todger goes from being an evil snake to a useful (if rather comical) sex aid. There can’t be a woman on Earth who hasn’t, at some moments in her life, had mixed feelings about the beast. There’s no need for Maisie to worry if thinking about it gives her the shudders.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Paul McCartney has revealed that he finished off many of his greatest songs while sitting on the toilet. Thus, the final verse of Let It Be was written while Paul was pooping in the gentleman’s lavatory at EMI studios. It reached number two in the British charts.
It’s much harder to compose a catchy tune while taking a leak, of course. The “tinkle-tinkle” noise is too distracting for most songwriters. Evacuating the bowels, by contrast, involves lengthy periods of silence interrupted by occasional bursts of wind and percussion. It is said that Beethoven composed his fifth symphony after a heavy lunch of bratwurst and ale.
Although it’s nice of Paul to tell us his song-writing secrets, I’m not really sure I wanted to know. An artist should preserve the mystique of his artistry, so the public remains in awe of his creative genius. When I was in the circus, I performed a conjuring trick that made the audience believe a clown had given birth to a snake. If anyone asked me how I did it, I told them it was voodoo magic from the darkest jungles of Africa.
Now, some would say that Paul hasn’t written a great song in the last 40 years, so his toilet technique must have faltered fairly quickly after the first flush of exuberance. Maybe the break-up of the Beatles affected the regularity of his bowel movements. There is, however, another explanation for the evaporation of his creative juices. A songwriter who achieves prolific early success is often distracted by other pursuits. In Paul’s case it was sumo wrestling. His interest in this oriental oddity arose when he toured Japan in 1993, and he now attends the major tournaments.
Paul only participates as a spectator, of course. He would not be such a fool to compete in a sport designed for stupendously fat men who enjoy wearing nappies. His love of the moob-wobbling spectacle inspired him to sponsor a stable of wrestlers to promote his latest album. He wisely refrained from composing a tribute ballad for them – how could it have improved on I am the Walrus, which John Lennon wrote 48 years ago?
But I shouldn’t give you the impression that I despise sumo wrestlers. They wouldn’t go far in the jungle, but why would they need to? You don’t have to worry about your lack of mobility if you can earn a billion yen by waddling about inside a ring small enough for a cat orgy. I did say they were fat, but I meant that as a description rather than an insult.
In truth, I hate it when humans use the word “fat” as a term of abuse. The latest victim of this nauseating habit was Britney Spears, who was called a fat bitch while performing in concert. I’m glad that Britney gave the heckler a choice riposte of her own, and am mystified that some commentators have criticised her for doing do. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
The exciting news from America is that Taylor Swift is being pursued by two men. They aren’t literally chasing her, of course. The human male is not a horse, even though some can snort and whinny with the best of them. The rivals for Taylor’s fair hand are a sportsman called Sean St Leger and a record producer called Calvin Harris. The sportsman looks as if his head was carved from a block of wood, which may be part of his appeal. There is much to be said for a mate who can crack walnuts with his chin.
Will Taylor’s gallants fight for her favour in the time-honoured way? I’d like to see them square up like a pair of feuding silverbacks, fisting each other’s concavities, (but not biting each other’s testicles, which is what chimpanzees would do). Sadly, I suspect they will settle their differences in the modern metrosexual way by allowing Taylor to choose between them. It won’t be an easy decision. Those in the know say she hasn’t slept with either man, so she may as well toss a coin.
But maybe there’s another way. If Taylor is truly as chaste as they say, she could ask each contestant to demonstrate his skills by making love to a sex doll. She wouldn’t watch them herself, of course. The blush that would bring to her maidenly cheeks would be worse than sunburn. A panel of judges would evaluate their performance from behind a one-way mirror, giving points for agility, inventiveness and staying power. The doll herself would have no vote, but would receive a thorough douching after her ordeal. The judges I would appoint are Lady Gaga, Ellen Degeneres and Barry Manilow. It’s what we call a balanced hen coup in the jungle.
To those of you who think that Barry Manilow is a worthless old has-been, I have some stunning news to announce. The great man has recently married his long-time manager and partner, a gentleman by the name of Garry Kief. What, you never knew that Barry was gay? You should have asked. Why should he volunteer information if you don’t take an interest in his life? Fittingly enough, his “best man” was the actress Suzanne Somers, a close lady friend. It all goes to show that the old dog has plenty of waggle-power in his tail.
A more radical solution to Taylor’s dilemma would be to marry both her suitors. Before you dismiss the idea as flagitious and impractical, cast your mind back to a classic film called Paint Your Wagon. In that epic musical western, a pioneer lady was unable to choose between a pair of prospectors played by Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, so she married both of them. They soon came to an amicable arrangement where the husbands would visit their wife on alternate days or something like that. No different, in principle, from two buddies sharing a mountain bike. This was precisely the kind of pragmatic adaptability that enabled homo sapiens to thrive in the Badlands.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
Elizabeth Hurley will be 50 this summer. If you ask me, she doesn’t look a day over 46. Those expecting a glorious jamboree to celebrate this historic event will be disappointed. Miss Hurley has revealed her plans for the occasion to a gossip magazine:
“I go to bed at 8.30 each night so it'll probably be something small and private with my family and maybe I'll do something wild and wonderful later.”
Could all those early nights be the secret of her regal beauty? I doubt it. The history books tell us that the Queen Nefertiti retired at sunset and aged like the Wicked Witch of the West. We jungle apes believe it’s the position you sleep in that affects your appearance. The healthiest posture for a gorilla is swinging in a hammock with the toes tucked below the chin. Upright humans, by contrast, should lie flat on their backs on an extra-hard mattress. The worst position for both humans and apes is reclining face down with one’s bum sticking in the air. That’s just asking for trouble.
I don’t know what position Elizabeth sleeps in, but I’d venture a guess that her pores get plenty of breathing space. Her skin is truly a marvel, but we shouldn’t let it distract us from her other qualities. I’m thinking particularly of her butt cheeks, which are due to appear on British TV. A preview of this pert rump can be found in an on-line newspaper, which also showcases her acting skills. Comment would be superfluous.
It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that Miss Hurley said she might do something “wild and wonderful” after her birthday. And if it has escaped your notice, I am now reminding you of the fact. I’m not going to waste your time and mine by trying to guess what she has in mind. There are too many wild and wonderful recreations in the solar system to guess what tickles Elizabeth’s fancy. I could probably whittle it down to 17 or 19 plausible alternatives, but what would be the point? We would still be groping in the dark.
Instead of indulging in such idle speculation, let me suggest an activity she could add to her shortlist. What I have in mind is a soirée with Tove Lo, the Swedish singer who recently described herself as a hobby lesbian. Miss Lo apparently has a boyfriend who does not object to her character-building pastime:
“We’re so good together and he’s very understanding,” she explained. “He gets it, so that makes it a lot easier.”
One wonders how he can live with the anguish. Be that as it may, a woman who likes to dabble in Sapphic diversions is most unlikely to refuse a date with Elizabeth Hurley. And if she’s not all talk, she should come up with something wild and wonderful to cap off the evening. There’s nothing wrong with playing at being a lesbian if you don’t have the gumption to take it up professionally.