Wednesday, October 19, 2016
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Warren Beatty’s biographer estimates that Mr Beatty has slept with 13,000 women. 13,000 looks like a suspiciously round figure, so he’s probably rounding to the nearest 500. The allegation, nevertheless, is highly defamatory. In this day and age, the man-ho and the hoochie are equally despised. Hef, in his dotage, is a grim reminder of where a life of reckless debauchery leads. A ridiculous old ghoul in a dressing grown is not a fate to aspire to.
Mr Beatty, of course, denies having slept with anything like that number. Commenting on the claim, he said:
“That would mean not just that there were multiple people a day, but that there was no repetition.”
He makes an excellent point. If you don’t have any repeats, you won’t even remember what you did to whom. It will all be a blur of sweaty bodies and writhing flesh.
You have to admire the man for using arithmetic to refute a tall story. Much better than getting a po-faced lawyer to make a statement and threaten legal action. In any case, it’s very difficult for anyone to prove he hasn’t slept with an improbably large number of women. However many women back you up, there’ll be countless others who won’t bother to testify. And a few will make false confessions for the fun of it.
The fact that Warren Beatty hasn’t bedded thousands of women doesn’t mean he wasn’t a prolific stud in his heyday. One of his “repeats” was the saintly Joan Collins, still looking attractive at the age of 83. According to Joan, she was a very frequent repeat:
“I once shocked my friend Joanne Woodward – who was married to Paul Newman – by saying I needed a break because the endless bonking was exhausting me.”
I don’t see why Joanne Woodward was shocked by that remark. Don’t women enjoy girlie talk? Maybe she was surprised that Joan found it exhausting. For most women, sex is an invigorating tonic that charges up their batteries. It’s been scientifically proven that female athletes perform better after a quick bonk. Perhaps Joan isn’t the athletic type.
For the sake of argument, let’s assume that Beatty has slept with 500 women in show business. He still has to explain why he chose to settle down with Annette Bening. When asked this question, he gave the following cryptic reply:
“To answer that would be reductive, and she means too much to be reductive.”
I don’t see what point he’s trying to make. All knowledge is “reductive” in some sense. If you don’t reduce a phenomenon to something simpler, it remains a mystery. Maybe he just doesn’t want to embarrass his wife by listing all her good points. My own theory is that he found her pretty face irresistible. I’ve looked at Annette Bening’s face on many occasions, and I can’t find fault with it in any way. Having an exceptionally pretty wife must be a great consolation for a man whose incessant bonking has drained him of his virile juices.
Wednesday, October 05, 2016
Avid readers of this blog will know I’m not a fan of greedy humans who sue each other because someone insulted them or pinched their butt. However, there are some lawsuits that deserve the full support of any right-thinking primate. I recently read a news report about a woman from Chicago who discovered that her vibrator was collecting data about her intimate habits and passing them to the manufacturer. It must be what technology buffs call a “smart device”. Nuts to that. I bet it’s not as smart as the nosey baboons in my neighbourhood, whose manners have been greatly improved by me giving them a good kicking.
Technology firms insist that collecting such information is part of the “Big Data” revolution that will enable them to cater for the consumer’s every whim. Call me an old-fashioned ape, but I happen to believe that what comes to pass between a lady and her vibrator is as confidential as a confession to a priest. If a woman can’t keep her relationship with her sex toy private, the world will descend into degeneracy and baboonery. For once, the victim’s lawyer was not exaggerating when she said:
”This is one of the more incredible invasions of privacy we've ever dealt with.”
In the circumstances, it is fortunate that the client’s name has been kept secret, although her initials have been identified as “N.P.” Let’s hope that Chicago women with those initials are not now subjected to bawdy remarks or impudent sniggers. I certainly wouldn’t want to be a woman called “Nelly Pinhorn” living within the city limits. It’s probably a good time for such ladies to adopt the American practice of stating the middle initial of their names.
Now Gorilla Bananas is far from being an enemy of new technology, but I’m starting to think that too much emphasis is being placed on the free flow of information. Even tourists on safari are constantly peering into their smart phones when they ought to be looking at hippos snorting and farting, or lions licking their balls. The fact that even vibrator manufacturers are jumping on the bandwagon is a sign that the whole thing is becoming a dangerous obsession.
The good news is that some noble folk in the sex toy industry are focussing on what really matters – making their products more pleasurable for the user. I was fascinated to find an article on the BBC website describing what the dildos of the future will look like. Apparently, the University of Melbourne has introduced a course in industrial design that teaches students how to create sex toys with beautiful geometric curves and contours. One can only imagine the exquisite satisfaction they will deliver to their grateful owners.
Before anyone accuses me of jumping the gun, I’m not advising anyone to buy one of these toys until they’ve been thoroughly tested. I’m sure the manufacturers will send free dildos to bloggers who agree to post honest reviews. Frankly, I can’t wait to read them!
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
I’m wondering whether I should lend my support to the ‘Free the Nipple’ movement. In principle, I’m wholly in favour of liberating enslaved nipples so they can live their lives in comfort and dignity. However, the leader of the campaign is a young lady called Kendall Jenner, who appears to be completely out of her depth. When given the opportunity to speak out on the issue, she said.
“Lately, it's like I'm either braless or I have my bra out. I'm all about freeing the nipple.”
This was a very poor statement. She seems to think that allowing people to see the outline of her own nipples is the answer to everything. What about the average woman who has a regular job and is forced to keep her nipples under lock and key? The long campaign against slavery wasn’t won by Abraham Lincoln boasting about his own freedom and refusing to pick cotton. He had to fight a war and sign proclamations and do other stuff.
In my perplexity, I resorted to asking the manager of the safari camp what the Free Nipplers really wanted.
“They’re feminists,” he explained. “They want to have the right to drive men nuts by exposing their own nipples without letting anyone touch them.”
“But won’t men have the right to expose their nipples too?” I asked.
“Not the same thing,” he replied. “Our nipples aren’t as big and they don’t squirt milk. No one cares if they are visible.”
“Well, maybe you should pretend you don’t care about seeing a woman’s nipples,” I suggested.
“I could pretend, but my eyes would give the game away,” he said. “They’re like smart cameras programmed to zoom in on them.”
I thanked the manager for his opinion, but I don’t believe he speaks for most men. He must have some kind of udder fixation that makes him unusually agitated in the presence of a female nipple. Perhaps he was suckled by an enormous wet nurse when he was a baby. What I don’t understand is why this campaign is viewed as a feminist issue. The Suffragettes never demanded the right to expose their nipples or wear wet t-shirts. The cause of nipple freedom may be just, but it won’t be helped by making bogus assertions.
If the Free Nipplers want to be taken seriously, the first thing they should do is fire Kendall Jenner as their spokesperson. Although she’s a comely lass with decent nipples, she clearly isn’t up to the job of leading a mass movement. The next step would be to broaden their campaign to include a full range of nipple rights for all mammals. Dairy cows, for example, are compelled to have their udders sucked dry by ugly pumping machines. This is a far graver injustice than suffered by human females. Lastly, they should stop trying to humiliate men by implying that the male nipple is irrelevant. You can’t demand rights for yourself while acting as if others don’t matter.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
King Kong: a reassessment
Long-standing readers of this blog will be aware of my disdain for King Kong. I have a number of issues with that overgrown ape. First, that he stomped around his native jungle making a hullabaloo instead of foraging and fornicating like a proper gorilla. Second, that on escaping from captivity in New York City, he created havoc and climbed a skyscraper instead of making a beeline for the nearest forest. But third, and worst of all, that he fell head-over-heels in love with a human female, needlessly endangering himself to keep her in his hairy clutches. I hope I am stating the obvious in pointing out that real gorillas do not behave in this way. And those that did would flee to a barren rock to die of shame.
One of our human guests at the annual simian convention was a young American chap who told me he had recently graduated from the New York Film Academy. In spite of wearing a baseball cap back-to-front, he seemed quite knowledgeable for an American, so I invited him to parley with me on the King Kong question.
“You’ve got it all wrong, GB,” he said after listening patiently to my critique. “King Kong wasn’t in love with Ann Darrow. She was just a plaything who amused him by scampering about like a mouse and hollering at him whenever he tripped her up. Sure, he loved her, but in the same way that Long John Silver loved the parrot on his shoulder. It wasn’t a romantic thing.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” I mused. “I’d love to believe it, but answer me this: why did he risk his life to protect her?”
“People get very attached to their pets,” he replied. “Humans have often risked their lives to save their dogs. Remember Dorothy and Toto in The Wizard of Oz? Couldn’t a gorilla develop the same feelings for a pet woman?”
After considering the matter, I was forced to concede the point.
“Thank you for sharing your perspectives, young Sir,” I said. “You have marshalled your arguments well and given me food for thought.”
Plausible though his theory may be, it does not significantly elevate my opinion of King Kong. His infatuation might have resembled what humans feel for a kitten, but it was certainly a foolish one in the circumstances. Love-struck he may not have been, but sentimental ninny he certainly was.
If a nubile woman turned up on my doorstep in a helpless state, I would extend her every courtesy, but treat her in a formally correct way. The horseplay that occurred between Mr Kong and Miss Darrow would be out of the question until our relationship had progressed to a higher level. I would not endanger my life for her until we were bosom buddies, at the very least.
To the Ann Darrows of the world, I say this: Gorilla Bananas won’t bathe you under a waterfall until you’ve earned his affection. It might take a good fortnight to butter me up sufficiently.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
Apparently there’s been a werewolf sighting in the north of England. The creature is said to be eight feet tall with dog-like features and a bad breath problem. A traumatised woman made the following statement:
“It was stood upright one moment. The next it was down on all fours running like a dog. I was terrified.”
The British press have named the werewolf ‘Old Stinker’, which is a foolishly provocative jibe to make while the beast is still running at large. Admittedly it’s unlikely that the creature reads newspapers, but why take a chance? A werewolf with a grudge is less likely to keep its fangs to itself than a werewolf without one. Calling it names will only make it more difficult to achieve a negotiated solution involving mouthwash and a manicure.
Biologists have been quick to dismiss these werewolf reports as a case of mistaken identity, fuelled by fantasy and hyperactive brains. ‘Old Stinker’, they insist, must be an oversized dog. I suppose it’s possible that Scooby Doo could have been confused with a werewolf, especially after Shaggy had jumped into his lap. But I don’t respect scientists who pooh-pooh eyewitness accounts without doing the necessary detective work. They should be conducting field trips and collecting dung samples before jumping to conclusions.
Is it true that women have sexual fantasies about werewolves? It’s what all the werewolf movies imply. I remember a film called Wolf starring Jack Nicholson, who somehow got transformed into a creature of canine appearance. It made him behave like a hungry sex fiend intent on leaving his bite marks in a woman’s fleshy parts. Yet I don’t believe that a hound-like animal is a natural bedfellow for the human female. His teeth may be sharp, but his tongue does not probe with the required finesse. And doing it doggy-style gets boring after a while.
If a werewolf wants a mate, it really ought to be a female werewolf, who could match him bite-for-bite. Strangely, you never hear stories about lady werewolves. These days, most women are desperately keen to shave off their body hair, so the idea of turning into a furry bitch would probably horrify them. Nevertheless, there are some women who have the right personality for the role, with many of them keen to advertise their talents.
It’s been a long time since I visited the website of a dominatrix, so I’m glad to have an excuse to do so now. Sadly, I never provoked any of these viragos to leave a comment on this blog. In truth, their writing skills are not of the highest order, so you probably haven’t been deprived of any exquisite quips or bon mots. Nevertheless, if I do manage to strike up a friendship with someone like Mistress Tatiana, I promise to move heaven and earth to make her agree to an interview, which I shall publish in full for your enlightenment. Who knows, I might even persuade her to give her body hair a chance to sprout.