Wednesday, August 26, 2015
A British woman has been given a “suspended sentence” for stabbing her boyfriend in the shoulder. Apparently this means she won’t go to prison. She has also patched things up with her boyfriend, who after recovering from his injury has resumed his courtship of her. Fortune favours the furious female, as we say in the jungle.
In fairness to the woman, the stabbing was not unprovoked. During one of their arguments, her boyfriend had called her “a dwarf and a midget”. Although she is undeniably short in stature, she had a right not to be called names by one who professed to be her lover.
The picture of the couple above displays the disparity in heights. It’s remarkable that she managed to reach the man’s shoulder. She must have plunged the blade while jumping in the air, which is no mean feat for a novice in the art of batto jutsu. It would have been much easier to deliver a wound to the belly or groin, causing untold damage to the man’s vitals. Maybe this was one of the mitigating factors that persuaded the judge to treat her leniently.
Another interesting aspect of this case is that the boyfriend initially told the police he had been attacked by an unknown assailant. The truth only came out after the couple had a brief separation. Did he reverse his decision to shield her from justice after getting dumped? If so, he is a man of weak character. You can’t go back on a decision to forgive a woman just because she won’t sleep with you. That’s behaving like a whiny little bitch.
Now it goes without saying that a petite woman is nothing like a dwarf. I speak as one who worked with dwarves during his circus career. Dwarves are bow-legged creatures with big heads who are sexually attractive to fetishists and masochists. Petite women are generally well-regarded and admired by the wider community. Some might say Miley Cyrus is an exception to the rule, but I wouldn’t agree with them. Look at the number of fans she has.
My favourite petite woman is Charlene Tilton, who played Lucy Ewing in Dallas. I remember some insufferable TV critic calling Lucy “the poisoned dwarf”, a nickname which sadly caught on among the boorish and the insolent. In my estimation she was the best character in the show, courageously fending off the sarcastic barbs of JR and the others while single-mindedly pursuing her own passions amid all the scheming and skulduggery.
It’s also worth pointing out that Charlene is no waif. Unlike Miley Cyrus, she has a remarkably full figure. On balance, I would say that it’s better for a petite woman to have an ample bosom. Otherwise, she might look too boyish and attract the wrong sort of man. Could this also explain why Charlene never had a bi-curious phase in her life? Maybe I’m wrong about this, but women who experiment with same-sex dalliances never seem to have big boobs.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
A British woman has explained how she became a victim of an insidious new practice called “cyber-flashing”. It is painful to listen to her describe her dread and disgust when unrequested pictures of the male sexual organ were sent to her i-phone. How the villain who committed the outrage obtained her number was not explained. Maybe there is a secret i-phone directory used by such wretches to identify suitable targets for their wicked deeds.
It remains to be seen how much social agitation this new vice causes. If it replaces old-style flashing it might be a blessing in disguise. I’m sure even the woman who got cyber-flashed would agree that a picture of a penis is less menacing than a real one attached to a grinning, pot-bellied pervert. If men who habitually expose themselves send pictures of their todgers instead, they would be regressing to a milder pathology. Notice the analogy with heroin addicts who start taking methadone to escape the more deadly compulsion.
This woman’s story has made me aware that I, myself, was a victim of this abomination. I didn’t realise it at the time, because it happened several years ago, before cyber-flashing was an officially recognised offence. The pictures were not sent to my i-phone because I’ve never owned such a device. I do, however, have a public e-mail address, which is intended for fan mail or serious enquiries about the habits of the lowland gorilla.
Rather than pictures of the penis, I was sent images of the human anus in various states of dilation. I regret to say that a rectal probe was involved in some of them. The email address these horrors were dispatched from was obviously a makeshift one, but that didn’t stop me responding with sharply-worded replies which assailed the scoundrel with epithets such as “poltroon”, “guttersnipe” and “dung-sniffer”. As I should have realised, this only encouraged him to send me further repulsive pictures. Then I noticed the facility to designate email correspondence as spam, and further garbage was consigned to the trash bin.
Now the British woman who got cyber-flashed reported the incident to the police, who immediately launched an investigation to apprehend the culprit. I had no one to report it to but my females, who asked to see the pictures. When I showed them one of the grosser ones, they cackled like geese and asked to see more. Annoyed by their lack of gravity, I gave them a stern lecture about the horrors of indecent exposure in human society, which they listened to with puzzled faces. When I had finished my homily, they put the following question to me:
“If men like showing off their cocks, why did you stop us pulling down the pants of that wildlife photographer?”
(You will excuse me for quoting their vulgar language, which is essential to the anecdote.)
“Because not even the most reckless and depraved man would want to expose his cock to the likes of you,” I replied.
They stalked off grumpily, muttering something about “discrimination”.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Life after Hef
One of Hef’s former playmates has revealed that her sex life in the Playboy Mansion was less than exhilarating:
“The sex was very routine and something I don't think any of the girls really enjoyed,” reflects Holly Madison. “We just wanted to get it over with.”
My advice to Hef would be to take her evaluation as a compliment. Many things in life are routine, including picking one’s teeth and grooming one’s chest hairs. It doesn’t necessarily mean they are foul or depraved activities. When you think of the things Holly might have said, Hef got off very lightly. A less charitable and magnanimous lady might have insinuated that submitting to his desires was like being ravished by a hairy old goat. This is by no means a routine event at altitudes lower than the Sierra Nevada foothills.
A far more damaging revelation was that Hef refused to let Holly consult a psychiatrist while she was in the mansion:
“He knew they'd advise me to leave,” she explained. “It wasn't about what was best for me. It was about him maintaining control.”
This is like hiring Mexicans to work on a cactus farm and refusing to let them get medical attention when they are pricked. Had I been the president of the American sex workers’ union, I would have organised a picket outside the mansion to protest against this violation of basic employment rights. Is it too late to sue Hef for this outrage? Pecuniary damages would not be sufficient. Nothing less than a public caning of his leathery buttocks would be just compensation.
I’ve often wondered whether it’s possible for Hef’s consorts to have a normal life after leaving the mansion. Their situation is similar to Japanese people who’ve appeared in game shows where the contestants have to perform tasks that test their endurance, such as eating worms or licking frogs. However beautiful the playmates are (and Holly is certainly a dish), the evil torments they’ve suffered must continue to haunt them.
No one could blame them for turning to lesbianism, but if they’re still attracted to men, they would need to find someone completely free of the human tendency to blame the victim rather than the perpetrator. Maybe an army doctor who specialises in treating post-traumatic stress disorder would make the ideal husband. A woman who’s having flashbacks and nightmares needs to share her bed with a man who maintains his composure when she’s tossing in her sleep.
As for Hef, one has to pity an old codger who tries to live up to his former reputation by having group sex with girls who are embarrassed by the sight of his mangy old todger. Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favour by letting them rub their breasts into his toothless face. May the archangel Beelzebub give him the good sense to retire to a wheelchair and discover the delights of voyeurism. I can’t think of a more fitting and dignified way of ending a life of celebrated debauchery.
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Ben Affleck has got in a tizzy over allegations that he slept with his children’s nanny:
“The story is complete garbage and full of lies!” he bawled. “It’s shameful and desperate!”
Any man who contests a conjecture so hotly is probably hiding something, but that would be straying into matters of irrelevance. I have no interest in what games Affleck and the nanny played inside the wendy house. What bothers me is the vehemence of the denial, which indicates a lack of etiquette. A man should never imply that having sexual relations with a particular woman is an abomination on a par with massaging the devil’s buttocks. The poor nanny must be feeling like Henrietta of Hagsville.
I remember when my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod was rumoured to have slept with the daughter of a local farmer, thereby obtaining free supplies of fresh milk, whipping cream and other choice delicacies. The ringmaster publicly confronted him on the issue:
“Ramrod, you sly dog!” he exclaimed. “Have you been procuring fresh produce by rogering the farmer’s daughter?”
Smacker smiled wistfully and sighed, looking into the distance.
“I should be so lucky,” he said.
His answer was the last word spoken on the subject, and when the farmer’s daughter got to hear of it she was immensely gratified. So much so, that the favours she allegedly performed for him were extravagantly enhanced and upgraded.
Another fine example of such gallantry occurred in the film Live and Let Die, in which James Bond seduced a virgin priestess played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour. The downside of this auspicious event was that Miss Solitaire (as she was known) lost her power of prophecy, which is the unavoidable fate of any virgin seer who is despoiled by a sharp-shooting servant of the Crown.
This greatly displeased the crime baron who controlled her. After capturing Bond, he summoned Miss Solitaire to the interrogation chamber and immediately guessed what had happened. In the style of the ringmaster, he put the question to his captive directly, not sparing the blushes of the deflowered maiden who unwillingly witnessed the scene. As one would expect of a British secret agent, Bond was unflappable:
“That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers,” he replied dismissively.
Everyone knew, of course, that Bond had tutored her in the wiles of the boudoir, but a man of honour is discreet in his utterances about the ladies he consorts with.
One has to pity Mr Affleck for lacking the refinement to respond to an accusation of hanky panky with the decorum befitting a squire of the parish. It is too late for him to learn these niceties? One would like to think that he could acquire such habits if he served an apprentice as a dogsbody of Colin Firth or some other thespian of more notable pedigree. On the other hand, one look at his spoiled, whiny face suggests he is too far gone to be improved by an example of superior manners and deportment.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Countess of Giglio
Pamela Anderson has been named Imperial Countess of Giglio by Prince Stefan of Montenegro. The prince bestowed the title upon her at a ceremony in Genoa, caressing her seductive shoulders with his mighty sword. What did she do to merit such a prestigious honour? For those who know Pamela, the answer is obvious – it was for her tireless efforts in field of marine conservation.
Never forget that Pamela spent years on the set of Baywatch, frolicking on the beaches in a bathing suit. Her proximity to the sea caused her bosom to burgeon with an abiding affection for the oceanic fauna, including the octopi and squid. Her activism on their behalf was relentless. Fishermen were picketed, lobsters were liberated and shrimps were mourned rather than eaten. Those she could not save were given a decent burial at sea (or in the rest room). The destitute of the deep revered her as their Mother Theresa.
Her compassion for marine life is all the more admirable when you consider that most humans treat the ocean as a giant larder and recreational pleasure pond. Jacques Cousteau was the exception to the rule. The trendsetters of today like to speed through the waves in their motor boats and yachts, ramming hapless turtles that get in the way. As for the fellows with surf boards, they pretend to be lovable hedonists who’ll let baby seals play with their toys, but they only really care about riding the big one.
Even my ancestor Bo’sun Bananas, a mariner through-and-through, made derogatory remarks about sea creatures in his diaries. Here is an entry from 13th August 1803:
Today at noon the Captain flogged an able seaman for unnatural acts with a dugong. How a well-travelled man of the world could mistake a whiskered mound of blubber for a tavern wench is beyond my ken. I blame it on the grog. Better to suck the juice from lemons that befuddle your wits with that unholy brew. It’s amazing what you can see from the crow’s nest…
In defence of the noble bo’sun, I should point about that gorillas of the early nineteenth century were very naïve about their human cousins. The idea that seafaring men might have a fetish for chubby marine mammals would never have occurred to them. It takes years of anthropological observation for such nuggets to be absorbed into the folklore of a species.
Can humans relate to ocean-dwelling animals without eating them, ramming them or having sex with them? Maybe the case of Flipper the dolphin offers some hope for the future. As far I can tell, he willingly performed favours for his human friends without being bullied, coerced or intimidated. Possibly they bribed him with fish, but such arrangements are habitual in the animal kingdom.
My advice to the Imperial Countess of Giglio would be to appoint a dolphin as her nautical advisor and swimming coach. It may not be able to teach her the backstroke, but it would certainly give her a ride back home.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
A town is Russia is holding a mosquito festival for people who like itchy red marks all over their body. The coveted title of ‘Miss Delicious’ will go to the woman who attracts the most bites during a 20-minute feeding frenzy.
“An expert panel of judges, including a doctor, will examine their bodies and the winner will be the one with the most bites,” explained Natalya Paramonova, the event organiser.
I never knew diagnosing mosquito bites required a medical qualification. I suppose lay people can easily be tricked by pimples, pinch marks and spider hickeys. If I were the referee I would disqualify bites found in the groin and armpits. A woman isn’t tasty just because she gets bitten by an exasperated insect that’s stuck in her crannies.
Does getting bitten by mosquitoes make Russian women feel sexy? The idea sounds preposterous, but the title of ‘Miss Delicious’ is an appealing one, and the Russians are no strangers to masochism. What the participants might not realise is that only female mosquitoes drink blood, so the love bites they are getting are actually lesbian love bites. This must be the only gay event in Russia that the police haven’t tried to break up.
I wonder how the contestants would feel about getting a bite from Count Dracula or one of his disciples. Vampires can certainly suck harder than mosquitoes, although they are arguably less adventurous about where they pierce the flesh. They are also famously choosy about their victims, preferring the blood of virgins. It’s a good thing mosquitoes aren’t such fussy eaters, because they might not have found many palatable candidates at the festival. If they all tucked into Svetlana the Frump, she would have turned into a giant red itch that no one wanted to scratch.
While some Russians are gluttons for punishment, others are just gluttons. I am referring, of course, to Gerard Depardieu, who recently announced he was ready to die for his new homeland:
“I am ready to die for Russia because the people there are strong,” he declared. “I absolutely do not want to die a fool in modern-day France,"
The foolish death he was keen to avoid in France would no doubt have involved gorging on horsemeat and truffles until he exploded, followed by a sky burial at the top of the Eiffel Tower to repay his tax debts by feeding the vultures of Paris. You can’t blame him for becoming a tax exile to escape that ignoble fate.
The honourable death he is ready to face in Russia is less easy to discern. He would obviously be a lethal weapon if dropped on the enemies of the Motherland from a height of greater than twenty metres, but what would happen if he survived the fall? There is no esteem in Russia for crippled human bombs. The only other heroic death I can think of would be using him as a torpedo for the Russian submarine fleet. I certainly wouldn’t want to be cruising on the high seas with Depardieu flapping around under my hull.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
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 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?