Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Record-breakers
A correspondent asks me about my reading tastes. I tell her that the book of Guinness World Records has often kept me amused while idling in my hammock. Where else could you discover that Mr Bernard Clemmens of London managed to sustain a fart for an officially recorded time of 2 minutes 42 seconds? Actually, this particular feat must be documented elsewhere, as it is not in fact mentioned in the Guinness book. But my point remains valid. The almanac reminds us that humans will compete in activities of the utmost futility when the prospect of minor distinction beckons.
There’s nothing very clever about a prolonged emission of flatulence. I recall a chimpanzee who claimed he could fart out a tune.
“Let me hear what you can do,” I replied casually. “If your performance is virtuoso, I may recommend you to the wind section of the Berlin Philharmonic.”
So the chimpanzee bent over and gave me a rendition of Home On The Range. He was pretty much in tune for the first verse, but I detected flat notes in the chorus.
“You have a rare talent,” I said after he had concluded. “I’ll get back to you if we need a musical act for the Hairy Coconut Festival.”
My most memorable observation of human bodily convulsions occurred in my circus days. A Welsh clown was discussing the relative merits of the male and female orgasms with a pair of buxom wenches from the make-up section. I was loitering nearby, oiling the gearwheels of my bicycle.
“When I pull one off it’s like Krakatoa erupting!” he bragged. “Shoots across the room like a squirt from a water pistol!”
“Absolute bollocks!” declared one of the ladies. “I’ve jerked off dozens of blokes and it’s never gone further than a couple of feet. Who are you trying to kid?”
“You’ve only milked a few English oxen!” retorted the clown. “Try working the Valleys if you want to see what real men are capable of.”
“You’re on!” exclaimed the woman. “Let’s go back to my trailer. If it goes more than a yard I won’t charge you for the hand job. Otherwise you owe me twenty quid.”
“Oh no, Miss!” chuckled the clown, shaking his head in amusement. “With all due respect to your supple fingers, only my tried-and-tested methods are capable of producing a performance of Olympic dimensions. You can watch from the window of my trailer while Mr Bananas here can be the referee with the measuring tape.”
“The hell I will!” I interjected heatedly. “I have no expertise in officiating such events and no wish to get your mucky yoghurt on my fingers!”
Both ladies then used their considerable powers of persuasion to make me change my mind. They cajoled; they flattered; they pouted; they petted. No male primate likes to disappoint begging females, and I relented when they offered me a free grooming session with blow-dryer and tweezers.
We watched the clown make his preparations from outside. He tried to ignore us and concentrate on a picture in a magazine. After a few minutes, he flung off his clothes and knelt on his bed with the magazine lying open in front of him. He began to stimulate himself while staring furiously at the picture, his face moving ever closer to the image that so excited him. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was a photograph of the singer Bonnie Tyler. His eyes swivelled madly at the moment of release as he thrust his abdomen upwards.
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I was impressed by the power of the first spurt of fluid, which reminded me of a lemon being squeezed. When he was done and lying flat on his bed, I entered the trailer cautiously with measuring tape in hand.
“Showed ‘em, eh Bananas!” he mumbled breathlessly as I looked for the landing spot of his farthest ejaculation. When I found it, I measured the distance travelled as over six feet from the edge of the bed. Both ladies were forced to eat humble pie and give credit where it was due.
A few days later, I made the mistake of telling the clown that Mr Norris McQuirter was an acquaintance of mine. He immediately started pestering me to inform the world-record compiler of his accomplishment. With a deep sigh, I put pen to paper and duly received a reply from Mr McQuirter. It stated that the clown’s performance, although admirable, was no world record. Apparently, there was a society in Brazil in which men had honed this particular skill to the ultimate degree, achieving distances of over twenty feet. The most popular pictorial aid was a photograph of Shirley Bassey, gesticulating with mouth wide open.
The clown made no attempt to hide his disappointment when I gave him the bad news.
“Shirley Bassey!” he exclaimed. “Are they all queer or something?”
I gave him no answer and walked away shaking my head, reflecting on the rancour and bad sportsmanship to which overly-competitive humans were prone.
There’s nothing very clever about a prolonged emission of flatulence. I recall a chimpanzee who claimed he could fart out a tune.
“Let me hear what you can do,” I replied casually. “If your performance is virtuoso, I may recommend you to the wind section of the Berlin Philharmonic.”
So the chimpanzee bent over and gave me a rendition of Home On The Range. He was pretty much in tune for the first verse, but I detected flat notes in the chorus.
“You have a rare talent,” I said after he had concluded. “I’ll get back to you if we need a musical act for the Hairy Coconut Festival.”
My most memorable observation of human bodily convulsions occurred in my circus days. A Welsh clown was discussing the relative merits of the male and female orgasms with a pair of buxom wenches from the make-up section. I was loitering nearby, oiling the gearwheels of my bicycle.
“When I pull one off it’s like Krakatoa erupting!” he bragged. “Shoots across the room like a squirt from a water pistol!”
“Absolute bollocks!” declared one of the ladies. “I’ve jerked off dozens of blokes and it’s never gone further than a couple of feet. Who are you trying to kid?”
“You’ve only milked a few English oxen!” retorted the clown. “Try working the Valleys if you want to see what real men are capable of.”
“You’re on!” exclaimed the woman. “Let’s go back to my trailer. If it goes more than a yard I won’t charge you for the hand job. Otherwise you owe me twenty quid.”
“Oh no, Miss!” chuckled the clown, shaking his head in amusement. “With all due respect to your supple fingers, only my tried-and-tested methods are capable of producing a performance of Olympic dimensions. You can watch from the window of my trailer while Mr Bananas here can be the referee with the measuring tape.”
“The hell I will!” I interjected heatedly. “I have no expertise in officiating such events and no wish to get your mucky yoghurt on my fingers!”
Both ladies then used their considerable powers of persuasion to make me change my mind. They cajoled; they flattered; they pouted; they petted. No male primate likes to disappoint begging females, and I relented when they offered me a free grooming session with blow-dryer and tweezers.
We watched the clown make his preparations from outside. He tried to ignore us and concentrate on a picture in a magazine. After a few minutes, he flung off his clothes and knelt on his bed with the magazine lying open in front of him. He began to stimulate himself while staring furiously at the picture, his face moving ever closer to the image that so excited him. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was a photograph of the singer Bonnie Tyler. His eyes swivelled madly at the moment of release as he thrust his abdomen upwards.
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I was impressed by the power of the first spurt of fluid, which reminded me of a lemon being squeezed. When he was done and lying flat on his bed, I entered the trailer cautiously with measuring tape in hand.
“Showed ‘em, eh Bananas!” he mumbled breathlessly as I looked for the landing spot of his farthest ejaculation. When I found it, I measured the distance travelled as over six feet from the edge of the bed. Both ladies were forced to eat humble pie and give credit where it was due.
A few days later, I made the mistake of telling the clown that Mr Norris McQuirter was an acquaintance of mine. He immediately started pestering me to inform the world-record compiler of his accomplishment. With a deep sigh, I put pen to paper and duly received a reply from Mr McQuirter. It stated that the clown’s performance, although admirable, was no world record. Apparently, there was a society in Brazil in which men had honed this particular skill to the ultimate degree, achieving distances of over twenty feet. The most popular pictorial aid was a photograph of Shirley Bassey, gesticulating with mouth wide open.
The clown made no attempt to hide his disappointment when I gave him the bad news.
“Shirley Bassey!” he exclaimed. “Are they all queer or something?”
I gave him no answer and walked away shaking my head, reflecting on the rancour and bad sportsmanship to which overly-competitive humans were prone.
Labels: Bonnie Tyler, Shirley Bassey, Welsh clown
Comments:
<< Home
I never trusted clowns and now i know why, they're all a bunch of fiddlers. That's why they have to wear baggy trousers. And the makeup disguises the fact that they're cross-eyed from all that exertion. I shall never go to the circus again.
# posted by 
: Wednesday, July 11, 2007
: Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The things you do to keep your human counterparts content. What you might have recommended is that the clown tries again but optimises the trajectory of his emission. It is well known that missiles will travel further (laterally) if their launch pad is at an angle to effect a parabola
I was so happy to see you had a new post GB and was going to go so far as to ask you if you had libraries in the Congo. Naturally, I was impressed. :)
But to think of the rest of your post...you're so sick, GB. I'm convinced you need therapy...especially with liners like this:
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I think you'd do better with a novel then me.
But to think of the rest of your post...you're so sick, GB. I'm convinced you need therapy...especially with liners like this:
“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, MY LITTLE NEATH VIXEN?” he cried, the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar.
I think you'd do better with a novel then me.
# posted by : Wednesday, July 11, 2007
: Wednesday, July 11, 2007
I hold the record for 'Most Ladies Pumped In An Afternoon', although sadly they refused to print it on account of it being too lewd. They even rejected the pictorial evidence I supplied, the heathens.
# posted by : Wednesday, July 11, 2007
: Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Such a thing can be measured? I never knew. What a sheltered thing I am. You're brave for stepping into that trailer. You could've slipped on some runaway sperm and caused yourself some serious head trauma. Clowns are known for leaving sharp objects all over the floor, you know.
asym42: Disliking clowns is no reason to avoid the circus. You can jeer and boo them as much as you like.
Dr Joe: I think he had already optimised the angle at roughly 45%. These wankers know their physics.
Suzy: Yes, I'm a sick ape, Suzy. Can you cure me?
Lord Likely: That must have been difficult to achieve with 19th century equipment.
Jenny!: You could always put pressure pads on your boobies.
Kara: I'll be extra careful the next time I umpire such an event. You're really quite a sweet person behind that sassy exterior.
Dr Joe: I think he had already optimised the angle at roughly 45%. These wankers know their physics.
Suzy: Yes, I'm a sick ape, Suzy. Can you cure me?
Lord Likely: That must have been difficult to achieve with 19th century equipment.
Jenny!: You could always put pressure pads on your boobies.
Kara: I'll be extra careful the next time I umpire such an event. You're really quite a sweet person behind that sassy exterior.
Norris McQuirter's name suggests he might do rather well in an ejaculatory distance contest, himself.
It looks too that someone managed to hit that picture of Shirley right by her microphone. If it was a dartboard they'd have scored a 14, a 9, a 12 and maybe even a 5 too.
This is surely the explanation behind the firm set gravity defying hairstyle of Ms Tyler.
Not to mention the permanent distressed lip curl of La Bassey.
Not to mention the permanent distressed lip curl of La Bassey.
A mate of mine was once fired at Shirley's behest, for putting too much dressing on her salad. After she left the restaurant, he was rehired. I suggest That the melodramamtic Bassey could be used as a 'live fire exercise' targeting aid for these kind of record attempts. She may even agree to a bit of pre-competition bukkake, sort of like when AFL footballers spend time kicking goals just before the game.
I was enthralled from the word go with this post - tis brillig!
Now, Mr Bananas - I'm not sure about this clown friend of yours. I mean, sure, the Guiness Book of Records are great and hold a wealth of fantastic information... but being capable of 20 feet must be honestly 100% only meant for 40 year old virgins (or the like)
Now, Mr Bananas - I'm not sure about this clown friend of yours. I mean, sure, the Guiness Book of Records are great and hold a wealth of fantastic information... but being capable of 20 feet must be honestly 100% only meant for 40 year old virgins (or the like)
Dear gorilla bananas. I want to hear more about your time in the circus. Did you bite off any annoying children's heads? It's not cannibalism, after all.
Sam: I had to look at a dartboard to appreciate the cleverness of your second comment.
Jenny!: No one could ever accuse you of being afraid to experiment!
Misssy M: You've got a point. A lady who doesn't want jism on her hair keeps it high. But I'm not sure Shirley's lip curl is really distress.
Suzy: That's the best kind of cure!
Zuba: Stories like that always disappoint me. No matter how rich you are, you don't need your own salad dresser.
Rosanna: Thanks very much, Rosanna. Maybe a 40-year-old vrigin who'd never played with himself could do that. But who knows what Brazilian men are capable of?
Mrs Moi: There are loads of circus stories in my archives, Mrs Moi. I have lanced an arse-boil, sedated a quack, met Brigitte Bardot and turned a gypsy woman's urine blue. But we gorillas are pacifists and have no interest in biting off kiddies' heads.
Jenny!: No one could ever accuse you of being afraid to experiment!
Misssy M: You've got a point. A lady who doesn't want jism on her hair keeps it high. But I'm not sure Shirley's lip curl is really distress.
Suzy: That's the best kind of cure!
Zuba: Stories like that always disappoint me. No matter how rich you are, you don't need your own salad dresser.
Rosanna: Thanks very much, Rosanna. Maybe a 40-year-old vrigin who'd never played with himself could do that. But who knows what Brazilian men are capable of?
Mrs Moi: There are loads of circus stories in my archives, Mrs Moi. I have lanced an arse-boil, sedated a quack, met Brigitte Bardot and turned a gypsy woman's urine blue. But we gorillas are pacifists and have no interest in biting off kiddies' heads.
Mr. Bananas, capturing my world-record attempt did prove rather problamatic, as I had to hire a portrait answer to capture me in mid-thrust.
Holding the position for six hours straight took quite a toll on my poor back, I can tell you.
Holding the position for six hours straight took quite a toll on my poor back, I can tell you.
# posted by : Thursday, July 12, 2007
: Thursday, July 12, 2007
. . .the intensity of the experience not impairing his mastery of English grammar. . .
Good to hear. I find a dangling modifier quite troublesome during coitus.
Cheers.
Good to hear. I find a dangling modifier quite troublesome during coitus.
Cheers.
# posted by : Thursday, July 12, 2007
: Thursday, July 12, 2007
Distance Wanking!!
It could quickly develop into a sport - team events, doubles, singles, the possibilities are endless or it could even make the olympics...not the paralympics though..
It could quickly develop into a sport - team events, doubles, singles, the possibilities are endless or it could even make the olympics...not the paralympics though..
# posted by : Friday, July 13, 2007
: Friday, July 13, 2007
It would not be accepted, on account of women can't compete. I can't think why the clown didn't fancy Shirley Bassey, my uncle Fergus used to say she was the sexiest woman on TV after Pat Phoenix. I wouldn't mind looking like her (or Joan Collins) when I'm 94.
Lord Likely: My Lord! This is surely the first time that you have admitted to any physical limitation on your prowess! You risk disappointing your fans!
Randall: 'Dangling' is definitely not a word one wants to hear during coitus.
Jenny!: Wide open? I'd recommend having a bouncer at that particular entrance.
Raffi: Shari is not the belle she used to be, but Lamb Chop is still a hot little piece of fluff.
Mutley: You've got a lot of imagination for a dog, but I don't see why the disabled shouldn't have their own event.
Lady Daphne: I'm so glad you haven't yet seen those vile video clips which prove that certain women can indeed compete in this event. I agree that Shirley in her prime was a near-perfect looker. Apparently, some men are put off by her gestures and mannerisms.
Randall: 'Dangling' is definitely not a word one wants to hear during coitus.
Jenny!: Wide open? I'd recommend having a bouncer at that particular entrance.
Raffi: Shari is not the belle she used to be, but Lamb Chop is still a hot little piece of fluff.
Mutley: You've got a lot of imagination for a dog, but I don't see why the disabled shouldn't have their own event.
Lady Daphne: I'm so glad you haven't yet seen those vile video clips which prove that certain women can indeed compete in this event. I agree that Shirley in her prime was a near-perfect looker. Apparently, some men are put off by her gestures and mannerisms.
Oh I fear them all.
Carnies. Circus folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands....
Big dicks.
I must say, I'm not bothered where it lands as long as it's not in my hair, or my eyes..
xx
Carnies. Circus folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands....
Big dicks.
I must say, I'm not bothered where it lands as long as it's not in my hair, or my eyes..
xx
Mr Mutley sending ones ejaculatory efforts by post doesnt count .
Desist Sir , the postman was horrified
Desist Sir , the postman was horrified
GB, this post is superlative - I started reading with tremulous fear and finished it roaring with laughter (as usual).
Only one thing creeped me out - that 'Who's the Daddy' clown comment. Eerily reminiscent of that dodgy bloke Nirpal Dhaliwal when giving his (ex? current?) missus Liz Jones a hearty seeing to.
Uurgh!!!! (Not only did he say it - he wrote about it in the Standard. Ye Gods!!)
Stay sweet GB, my fave gorilla!
Only one thing creeped me out - that 'Who's the Daddy' clown comment. Eerily reminiscent of that dodgy bloke Nirpal Dhaliwal when giving his (ex? current?) missus Liz Jones a hearty seeing to.
Uurgh!!!! (Not only did he say it - he wrote about it in the Standard. Ye Gods!!)
Stay sweet GB, my fave gorilla!
# posted by : Friday, July 13, 2007
: Friday, July 13, 2007
For some strange reason, i feel obliged to quote wikipedia re the greek god priapus:
"..referring to the myth that he was ironically punished by the other gods for attempting to rape a goddess, by being given a huge (but useless) set of wooden genitals."
Serve the pervy git right, if you ask me. I bet he was a clown in his spare time.
"..referring to the myth that he was ironically punished by the other gods for attempting to rape a goddess, by being given a huge (but useless) set of wooden genitals."
Serve the pervy git right, if you ask me. I bet he was a clown in his spare time.
# posted by : Friday, July 13, 2007
: Friday, July 13, 2007
Now look. Just because I'm Welsh, and mentioned this recently on my blog, and just because I recently rearranged the title of my blog into a phrase which contained the word Wankers, it doesn't mean you have to go posting something so slanderous.
It wasn't Bonnie Tyler, it was Cerys Williams (the picture was Photoshopped and airbrushed and I'm myopic). And it wasn't six feet, it was two point one six metres.
I suggest you get your facts in order if you want to retainyour credibility as a hominoid diarist of note.
It wasn't Bonnie Tyler, it was Cerys Williams (the picture was Photoshopped and airbrushed and I'm myopic). And it wasn't six feet, it was two point one six metres.
I suggest you get your facts in order if you want to retainyour credibility as a hominoid diarist of note.
Domestic Minx: I would hate to see it get in your lovely eyes, DM. I believe that Biggus Dickus started off as a circus man.
Trish: Many different breeds, Trish, all some distance from normal.
Beast: I can't believe that Mutley would mail his jism. I'd expect him to collect it in an item of tupperware and throw it.
Spymum: Thanks, dear Poshmum. I thought "Who's your Daddy?" was quite common in America. Dhaliwal studied American literature at university, so maybe he picked it up in his reading.
Asym42: Poor chap. The other gods must have been making jokes like "your dick needs a coat of varnish" etc.
Foot Eater: It's so you to confess to a lewd act you didn't commit, Footie. We haven't been in touch for a while, but I remember your peculiar ways. Claiming to be Welsh is a new angle, though.
Trish: Many different breeds, Trish, all some distance from normal.
Beast: I can't believe that Mutley would mail his jism. I'd expect him to collect it in an item of tupperware and throw it.
Spymum: Thanks, dear Poshmum. I thought "Who's your Daddy?" was quite common in America. Dhaliwal studied American literature at university, so maybe he picked it up in his reading.
Asym42: Poor chap. The other gods must have been making jokes like "your dick needs a coat of varnish" etc.
Foot Eater: It's so you to confess to a lewd act you didn't commit, Footie. We haven't been in touch for a while, but I remember your peculiar ways. Claiming to be Welsh is a new angle, though.
I'm always amazed at the pitch of farts. So many levels and yet so uncontrolled.
Mutley told me you had a wanking competition on!
Mutley told me you had a wanking competition on!
Ms Smack: Mutley is always getting the wrong end of the stick.
Jungle Jane: He was! Do you have a preference, JJ?
Kristin: Too right! The Britons have been wanking themselves off since the Roman invasion.
Jungle Jane: He was! Do you have a preference, JJ?
Kristin: Too right! The Britons have been wanking themselves off since the Roman invasion.
I've always viewed clowns as quite innocent characters, really.
I'll never be able to see them in the same light again.
I'll never be able to see them in the same light again.
Lord Likely: Clowns look quite funny when a gorilla is holding them upside down by their ankles.
Rosanna: Brazilian women say "oyy! oyy!" rather than "oh! oh!" during sex. What does it mean?
Ms Pretend: Don't challenge him to a wanking contest!
Mosha: The chimp found work as a bunsen burner. You were privileged to see Dame Shirley perform live.
J.Ripper: Clowns are far from innocent, but respond well to a firm hand...as this anecdote proves.
Post a Comment
Rosanna: Brazilian women say "oyy! oyy!" rather than "oh! oh!" during sex. What does it mean?
Ms Pretend: Don't challenge him to a wanking contest!
Mosha: The chimp found work as a bunsen burner. You were privileged to see Dame Shirley perform live.
J.Ripper: Clowns are far from innocent, but respond well to a firm hand...as this anecdote proves.
<< Home
