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?
Wednesday, July 08, 2015
I got an email from a blog lurker asking me what I thought of Shebani, the silverback who lives in Japan. Never having met the ape, I’m in no position to comment on his dinner conversation or grooming technique. I would hazard a guess, nevertheless, that he is not in Japan by choice. Gorillas generally avoid places prone to earthquakes, particularly if the fire exits are too narrow for their backsides.
Shebani has recently been in the news because Japanese women apparently find him more attractive than George Clooney (see comparison above). This is not as ridiculous as it sounds. In a country full of small hairless men, the women might well have unnatural hankerings for a big hairy beast. As for Clooney, he’s neither one thing nor the other. To the dainty oriental woman, he is different without being remarkable, like teriyaki turkey or goose.
I hope George doesn’t take his demotion in the primate hierarchy to heart. I know for a fact that there are female gorillas who would prefer him to Shebani. For all his smouldering good looks, the gorilla is remarkably inactive, spending most of the day glaring at people from a sedentary position. You could never say that about George. He’s always been a very mobile man, which appeals to lady gorillas who enjoy the thrill of the chase. If George ever found himself scurrying through the Congo rainforests, they’d be jumping on him from all angles.
As a newly married man, Clooney shouldn’t be concerned about this anyway. The only female he needs to attract now is his wife, and she seems more than happy with the millions he’s lavishing on their new home in the Thames Valley. The neighbours are none too pleased with all the construction work going on, but the typical English householder is renowned for being a grumpy old fart. I would advise George to attach a piece of hard cheese to the seat of his pants and invite his neighbours to kiss it whenever they complain about the nuisance he’s causing.
Whatever Japanese women think of him, Clooney can take comfort from the fact that his fellow thespians still hold him in high regard. The actress Eva Longoria recently declared that she wanted to be “the female George Clooney”. She should ask George to dress up in drag so she knows exactly what she’s aiming for.
I actually think a woman would have been more convincing in a lot of Clooney’s film roles. In Three Kings, he played a special forces major who memorably saved a comrade whose testicles were being electrocuted by an Iraqi villain. Clearly, it would have been much easier for a woman to keep a cool head in such a situation. She could have watched the man’s balls being barbecued without feeling sympathetic pangs in her own gonads, enabling her to execute the rescue plan with due care and deliberation.
When will Hollywood realise that women are often more credible in scenes involving sadism and torture?
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.