Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Victoria Spice has admitted to being a “pain in the bottom” without revealing whose rump she has troubled. That shouldn’t stop us from making an educated guess. I’d wager a ripe bunch of bananas that the bum in question belongs to Mr Becks, her devoted spouse. As a former footballer, his buttocks should be able to bear plenty of punishment before beads of sweat start appearing on his forehead and his groin. It’s a small price to pay for keeping the spark in your marriage alive.
Unfortunately for Mr Becks, Victoria is the type of woman who can dish it out but can’t take it. There’s not nearly enough meat on her tush to satisfy a man’s healthy appetite for butt bongo. If I were her husband, I’d be looking at Miley Cyrus with envious eyes. Miley is petite, but her rump is fleshy enough to be slapped around like pizza dough. Unfortunately for those who dream of pummelling her posterior, she has recently started dating one Patrick Schwarzenegger, son of the former Governator.
I’d like to know why this Schwarzenegger sprog is qualified to be Miley’s beau. Being the son of a famous pair of pecs shouldn’t give you the right to romance the cheekiest nymphette of our age. I hope Miley won’t consider marrying him until he proves himself worthy of the honour. Let him show the world what he’s made of by twerking with Madonna and kicking Bieber’s ass. An alpha male should acquire a reputation of his own rather than basking in the fame of his more illustrious mistress.
Whoopi Goldberg has recently reminded us that not everything associated with the bottom is good. She farted loudly on a TV chat show and had the class to accept responsibility for the deed. This would never have happened back in my circus days, when it was standard practice for humans to blame their farts on someone else. The clowns were constantly doing it and often accused me of creating their flatulence. I was generally content to give the accuser a scornful stare without issuing a formal denial, which would have compromised my dignity.
On one occasion I was forced to respond. After emitting a horrible little guff that sounded like a party horn and smelled like poison gas, a clown feigned to look at me with sad, reproachful eyes:
“Oh GB!” he whined. “Whatever have you been eating?”
“What?!” I thundered. “You accuse me of producing that pathetic little squeak?” “This is what a real gorilla fart sounds like!”
And rising to my feet, I turned my back and gave him a blast of wind resembling the base note of a trombone.
This is why I hope more humans will follow Whoopi’s example and be upfront about breaking wind. If your bowels are feeling turgid, make an announcement to the effect that you need to blow some gas out of your butthole and run to the nearest window. If you're going to fart, do it with dignity and concern for the innocent bystander.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Persecution of an artist
I’m planning a raid on the Japanese embassy in Kinshasa to protest against the arrest of Megumi Igarashi, the artist who makes objects resembling her lady parts. We’re going to unfurl a banner on the roof of the embassy showing a photo-shopped image of the Emperor Hirohito giving birth to a sumo dwarf. The international media will be alerted before the embassy staff can take it down, resulting in profuse humiliation and disgrace. A journalist sympathetic to our cause will then ask the Japanese ambassador pointed questions about Miss Igarashi, adding to their ignominy. There is no better time to kick a man’s arse than when his pants are down.
Miss Igarashi’s most famous work is a kayak said to resemble her vagina. I cannot say whether it is a good likeness, because I don’t know what her vagina looks like and have no particular wish to find out. I am nevertheless certain that the kayak’s aesthetic qualities are immeasurably finer than much of the utter balderdash that passes for art these days. Censorship of this or any other effigy of the Igarashi coochie is an outrage that must be resisted.
Miss Igarashi has made a powerful statement defending her art and exposing the rampant pussyphobia of patriarchal Japanese society:
“Why did I start making these kind of art pieces? It’s because I had never seen the vagina of others and was too self-conscious of mine. I did not know what a vagina should look like, so I thought mine was abnormal. Manko and vagina have been such a taboo in Japanese society. Penis, on the other hand, has been used in illustrations and has become a part of pop culture.”
She makes an excellent point. The Maypole is well-known to be phallic symbol, yet no one is arrested for attaching ribbons to it or dancing around it like a ninny. And what about skyscrapers? Dr Whipsnade’s chauffeur once tried to rile me by saying that King Kong was suffering from penis envy when he climbed the Empire State Building. I quickly put the upstart in his place, but it irked me to have to defend an entirely fictitious ape who acted in ways that would have caused a real gorilla to die of shame. Miss Igarashi deserves the blessings of the celestial beaver for increasing the profile of the female genitalia, thereby helping to counteract all the cock and bull that’s trampling over the landscape.
My one criticism of Miss Iagarashi is her choice of the kayak as a motif for her lady-part art. I don’t think it’s a good way of making the vagina familiar, because paddling down a river is not an everyday event unless you happen to be a platypus. My preferred utensil for vaginal objets d’arts would be the condiment dish. Nothing would be more felicitous, in the opinion of this humble ape, than associating the female organ with food and the delicious sauces used to flavour it. You could learn a lot about a woman from the taste of her condiment dish.
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
An Italian lingerie chain is celebrating its 50th birthday by offering discounts on its bras. No milk-nourished mammal could object to this news, but what should we think of their policy of giving bigger discounts on bigger-sized bras? Before denouncing the practice as discriminatory, let us ponder the words of first-officer Spock:
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Although busty ladies are not more numerous than their moderately stacked sisters, no one can deny that their bosom flesh outweighs anything Spock beamed onto the Enterprise. Being in greater need of support, the universal law of compassion dictates that their jahoobies should be catered for at economy rates. Some might even favour giving them free bras as part of a public chest-health program.
This generous promotion resulted in a particularly dense throng of customers at the shop in Padua. The store manager made the following statement to the press:
“Fortunately for us, many women in Padua are curvy. So this also benefited the buxom women economically, and not those who are as thin as toothpicks.”
The manager did not mention that many of the shoppers were men, an anomaly puzzling enough to make me scratch my chin with my toes. Let us analyse their possible motives logically, as Spock would do.
1) They were bra-hunting on behalf of their busty girlfriends.
2) They were hoping to find a busty girlfriend.
3) They wanted to ogle busty women and possibly cop a feel in the melee.
Option 1 can be dismissed on the grounds that there is no point shopping for bras if the breasts they are intended for are not at hand to try them on. It’s simply not possible to make such measurements by eye.
Option 2 is improbable because women looking for bras are in no mood to be propositioned or otherwise flirted with. You can’t mix business with pleasure where the boobies are concerned.
This leaves us with Option 3, which is a slur on Italian men that would make the noble Garibaldi pluck out his whiskers in disgust. On the other hand, Garibaldi is dead while Berlusconi still lives. Why should Italian men be less louche than a recent prime minister of the republic? Let us not be hasty in our judgements - the buxom ladies of Padua are invited to submit their evidence.
I give the last word to the actress Naomi Watts, still beautiful (if small-breasted) at the age of 46. In her latest movie she plays a Russian stripper who entertains Bill Murray, a role she admitted had stretched her talents:
“I just worked on my moves and my accent and my underwear,” she explained.
There is an important lesson here for women looking for bargains in a lingerie shop. However attractive the prices are, you won’t achieve anything unless you work on your underwear like Naomi. I wouldn’t go so far as to say this was a worthy parable for the Christmas season, because it obviously isn’t. But I hope it will generate goodwill between bosoms all of sizes.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
A bull is saved
A gay Irish bull called Benjy has been saved from the abattoir. Good news like this doesn’t come along every day, so I’m making the most of it by clapping my hands and singing Hallelujah. The bull had been sent to a stud farm to impregnate cows, but unlike the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain he refused to act like a regular gun-slinging dude. Instead, he flirted outrageously with his fellow bulls, which did not impress the owner of the establishment. Realising that Benjy was a dud stud, he booked an appointment with a slaughterhouse to change him into a hunk of meat more lifeless than Channing Tatum.
Fortunately for Benjy, news of his impending butchery was reported to the press and reached the ears of Sam Simon, co-creator of The Simpsons. This soft-hearted cartoonist put his cash on the line to save the bull from a fate worse than butt sex. Maybe Benjy reminded him of Smithers, the gay manservant of Mr Burns who served his boss so devotedly. Whatever the subtext, the bull was spared and sent to a sanctuary in England, where he now mingles freely with other gay beasts.
Beef-eating carnivores should be especially pleased with this outcome. They can now tuck into burgers and steaks without worrying about whether they are feasting on the flesh of a gay martyr. If I were the CEO of McDonalds, I would guarantee that none of the meat served under the golden arches came from animals that were killed because of their sexual orientation or political beliefs. People who eat hamburgers have a right to know that the beef they are chewing comes from dumb livestock too reactionary to adopt minority lifestyles. Customers of the fast food industry shouldn’t be expected to navigate such political minefields.
One way of preventing this kind of persecution is to adopt sexual practices that transcend the gay/straight divide. A hermaphrodite sea slug that lives in the Pacific Ocean is provoking much wonder among Japanese scientists. Lacking fluency in Japanese, the BBC asked a museum curator called Bernard Picton to explain its mating habits:
“The penis from one fits into the female opening of the other one, and the penis from that one fits into the female opening of the first one, if you see what I mean,” he said. “I haven't seen anything like this before,” he added.
The most fascinating thing of all about this creature is that its penis is disposable. It discards it after mating and grows another one when the need arises, avoiding the burden of carrying useless baggage.
Humans often boast about how inventive they are, but they have never matched the sexual ingenuity of this sea slug. I suppose lesbians who wear strap-ons have come quite close, but even they would admit that attaching a plastic phallus to your loins isn’t quite as good as growing a real one. I hope this story will make humans humble as the Christmas season approaches. Those who recognise their own limitations will have more compassion for gay bulls and other oppressed fauna.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Beatle for Sale
“Money can’t buy you love, but it sure can buy you a Beatle,” he remarked wryly.
“Paul is a vegetarian and a friend of the gorilla nation,” I replied haughtily. “I will not believe gossip about him until I have researched the matter to my own satisfaction.”
My investigations have since confirmed that the story is well-founded, although there are several qualifications to add. A million dollars is pocket money for Paul, so he was clearly there to network and promote his own investment ideas. Many of those fund managers will soon be putting money into sea cucumber farms. They were also ardent fans of his music:
“I love you Paul!” screamed one investor, jumping up from her seat the moment he appeared.
I’m not the least bit envious of these people. The truly lucky ones were those who heard the Beatles rehearse in the studio. The Beatles themselves were incredibly lucky to have heard themselves play when they were playing.
Although I did not attend the famous rooftop concert at Savile Row, I am proud to reveal that a couple of chimpanzees were among the onlookers. Having been hired to appear in a TV commercial, they were being measured for suits in a nearby couturier when the music started. Quick as a flash, they scarpered out of the shop and bounded up the tallest building in the street to get a panoramic view of the action. The Fab Four’s hirsute appearance affected them as deeply as the music, which they danced to in the traditional arms-forward-bum-backwards style.
People often wonder why it took the police over 40 minutes to end the concert, which was causing major traffic jams as well as annoying several old farts in the vicinity. I can now clear up this mystery. When the Beatles started playing, a retired army colonel phoned the police to demand that they “stop that bloody din” coming from the roof of a nearby building. He put his phone receiver outside his window so the duty sergeant could hear it for himself, and this witless Plod, being no aficionado of pop music, told a couple of fresh-faced constables to “get the Monkees off the roof”. This caused the hapless Bobbies to waste half an hour trying to evict the chimps from their vantage point (an impossible task given the comparative gymnastic abilities of humans and chimps). It took another phone call from the irate colonel to make the sergeant realise his error and redirect his troops to the Apple studios.
To be honest, I don’t blame Paul for preferring to hang out with rich people like himself. His fingers and toes got badly burned by Heather Millstone, who not only fleeced him for 30 million bucks but aired a lot of dirty linen that should have remained in the laundry basket. As we say in the jungle, if you swim with the crocodiles it might cost you an arm and a leg.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
A spicy confession
Mel B, the Scary Spice Girl, has said she is no longer a lesbian:
“I was one of those for a few years but that was years ago,” she confessed on a chat show.
Call me an innocent ape, but I never knew she was ever “one of those”. Now that I do know, I don’t approve of her dismissing it as a bad habit she managed to kick. Being a lesbian is not like a fad for wearing Velcro underwear – there are serious issues to be pondered and important commitments to be made. The good lesbian is a pillar of her community, test-driving motorbikes and organising ladies’ bowling nights. If she is a famous diva, she should sing audacious songs to gee up the rank-and-file. The lesbian who only feathers her own nest is a freeloader at the party – the girl who eats all the cupcakes without helping to wash the dishes.
The ironic aspect of Miss Scary’s renunciation is that she was, by all accounts, a virtuoso in the Sapphic arts. Her debaucheries were astounding in their impudence and opportunism. A former playboy model called Luann Lee recalls how Mel followed her into a disabled toilet:
“I went into the handicapped stall because it’s bigger and I wanted to put my purse down and she just popped in with me. She said, ‘Do you mind?’ and came right in. She was a good kisser. Her lips are very soft and full and she has a tender touch. It was maybe a five-minute kiss and after that she started going for other areas.”
Would it be wrong to conclude from this that Miss Scary is a natural-born lesbian? I don’t claim to be an expert on such matters, but I can’t imagine a more flattering testimony.
The most startling revelation of all is that Miss Scary may have fondled her fellow Spice Girls. The precise nature of these intimacies has not been disclosed, although where lesbian acts are concerned, a little touching goes a long way. She did nevertheless claim to have kissed all four of them:
“Back in the day I had fun,” she told a goggle-eyed Howerd Stern. “I got my tongue pierced and I wanted to try out my tongue piercing and so I kissed them all.”
She did not say which of her bandmates was affected most deeply by her erotic advances. I would like to think she had the strongest designs on Miss Ginger, who would have surely reciprocated warmly. The thought of her dark limbs enwrapping Miss Ginger’s fleshy white body is a pleasing conjecture for primates of all species.
All in all, the record shows that Miss Scary was an enthusiastic dabbler in lesbian pursuits and took many positives from the experience. She should not have brushed off this important episode in her life as a youthful indiscretion. I would urge her to book an appointment with Ellen Degeneres to apologise and do penance. Even an ex-lesbian should sometimes be willing to eat humble pie.
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
My momma done tol' me
Halle Berry says her mother told her to always wear a bra, even in bed. While it’s nice to hear of a mother giving her daughter sartorial advice, she shouldn’t have made it public. According to Halle, following this dictum has kept her breasts perky at the age of 48, which suggests it was a valuable trade secret, like an old family recipe for pumpkin pie. Now that the cat is out of the bag, women the world over will be keeping their boobs permanently encased in the hope of replicating the Berry bust. This is unlikely to increase the sum of human happiness.
Let us consider the issues arising. There are women, I believe, who take great pleasure in removing their chest cups after returning home from a hard day at the souk. What will become of them now? Will they unhappily conform to the new orthodoxy or live with the guilt of allowing their breasts to swing freely? This painful dilemma would not have arisen if Halle had kept her trap shut.
Then there are other women, like my friend Kola Boof, who believe that liberating the jahoobies from their unnatural confinement is a revolutionary act of self-empowerment. If her comradely sisters suddenly started wearing bras, the consequences would be dire. I have visions of her wandering from hamlet to hamlet with her hair unkempt and her breasts smeared with soot, wailing and cursing like a vengeful priestess. Only those with nerves of steel would be unperturbed by her prophecies of doom.
As for the menfolk, one imagines they would approve of the greater quantity of shapely bosoms on display, although constantly turning their heads might strain their necks. But the realisation would soon dawn that these delightfully-packaged dumplings would never be available to play with in their denuded state. This would make them feel like boys in a sweet shop fully of juicy bonbons whose brightly-coloured wrappers they weren’t allowed to remove. The frustration would be intense and might drive many of them mad.
After painting such a grim prognosis, I should lighten the gloom with some cheerier news. Cameron Diaz has announced that she would be happy to “strip completely” in a film role, as long as it was in good taste and befitted the script. Even those who have no wish to see her naked should appreciate her willingness to go the extra mile for her art and her public. It remains to be seen whether the movie moguls will find a tasteful part for her to display her tasty parts.
I reckon the best way of holding her to her word would be to offer her the female lead in a big screen version of the Adam and Eve story. The early part of the film would have all the nudity, with Cameron frolicking unashamedly in glistening pastures and cavorting energetically with the furry creatures of Paradise. There would also be nude scenes with Adam, where they innocently play the humpy-pumpy game God taught them for the purpose of begetting. The biggest headache might be finding a convincing snake.