Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Subway romance
A correspondent sends me a heart-warming story from New York City. A young man notices a girl writing in her diary across a crowded subway carriage. Smitten by love, or possibly something stronger, he knows that he must speak to her. But alas! – she alights from the train before he can pluck up the courage to do so. In an agony of heartbroken remorse, he constructs a website displaying freehand drawings of the girl and himself, imploring the good citizens of the metropolis to help him trace her. And mirabile dictu, one of the girl’s friends clicks on the site and recognises her! Mr Patrick Moberg meets Miss Camille Hayton and they appear together on a TV chat show. After basking shyly in their brief moment of fame, they stroll off into the sunset, arm-in-arm.
Love at first sight is a curious concept for a gorilla. It implies that a fellow would fall for Cruella de Vil if her soul were packaged in the right body. Perhaps Ms de Vil would have been more lovable had her physical attributes been suitably appealing. But somehow I doubt it. The pages of history are littered with ladies who were beautiful but bad. The goddess Kali stuck out her tongue at her mortally wounded husband; the lady Messalina trounced Rome’s leading prostitute in a bonking content; Madam Mao Zedong was accurately described as “the baddest bitch in Beijing” by Chinese rap singer Ho Man Fuk. The sad fact is that a woman’s appearance tells you very little about her character, although I am reliably informed that the ones with tattoos make more noise in bed.
One thing that will have surely surprised young Patrick is that comely Camille is in fact Australian. Now, personally, I have yet to meet an Aussie girl I didn’t like. In general, they are easy-going, fun-loving ladies, with bottoms of above-average firmness (for humans). But will Miss Hayton be right for a romantic, sensitive lad such as Master Moberg? How will he respond to being called “a pillock” or “a drongo” in a spirit of playful banter? And how will she react to Patrick reciting poetry while they’re gazing at the New York skyline? Hopefully it will melt her heart, but what if she thinks he’s a poofter? The opportunities for cultural misunderstandings of this sort seem endless.
The picture of Camille drawn by Patrick suggests that her plump and rosy cheeks were a big part of the attraction. I don’t blame him for that. I myself have always had a weakness for women with chubby cheeks. There were several in my circus days who granted me the privilege of pinching their delectable face cushions. (I have similar ambitions for a couple of my female readers, who shall be nameless.) Hopefully Camille will be tickled pink at having a boyfriend who can’t get enough of her tasty chops. Looking at her photograph, another question comes to mind: Is there a polite way of asking a girl to massage your back with her chin? Having been a recipient of chin-to-back stimulation from female gorillas, I can assure you that Camille would be capable of grinding a man’s spinal cord into a state of transcendental bliss.
Perhaps the most amusing aspect of this uplifting tale is that Patrick received e-mails from young ladies who had no knowledge or interest in the whereabouts of Camille, but wished to present themselves in her stead.
“You’re so adorable!” they typically gushed. “Pick me instead!”
This reminds of a circus clown who prominently displayed a large portrait of his sister in his trailer. Visitors always asked him who she was. If he was with a woman he fancied, he would say that she was his late fiancé and break down in tears. Nine times out of ten, he ended up blubbering into their bosoms.
Labels: drongo, love at first sight, pillock, Romance
Friday, November 23, 2007
Sex doll relationships
The latest human sex dolls are getting very realistic. The company I own shares in printed photos of their new “Supersnatch” model in their annual report. In a recent TV documentary, a client confessed that he’d fallen in love with one of these dolls. Admittedly, he was a 78-year-old man with custom-built model based on his 22-year-old ex-girlfriend. The doll’s physical likeness to the girl was extraordinary. Her personality and conversational skills were pretty close as well, apparently.
The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.
An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.
The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.
Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.
The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.
An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.
The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.
Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.
Labels: sex dolls, Stepford Wives, yin and yang
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The French Disconnection
I don’t often defend the good name of a woman I have never met, but felt compelled to do so when a tourist referred to Cécilia Sarkozy as a “snooty bitch”. The fellow was miffed that she was divorcing the French president rather than rejoicing in the role of first lady. I expressed my dissent in forceful terms:
“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”
The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.
I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?
Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.
The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.
My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.
“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”
The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.
I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?
Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.
The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.
My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.
Labels: force de frappe, Hugh Heffner, Sarkozy
Friday, November 09, 2007
Sleepless nights
A religious guru in Malaysia is warning women not to wear tight clothes. Apparently it gives men in that part of the world sleepless nights, making them thrash about in their beds like spawning salmon, cruelly abusing their pillows. This, he contends, is a form of emotional abuse. Looking at the guru's picture, I think he should put his own house in order before telling women what to do. That wispy beard of his would drive female orang-utans insane with lust if he showed his face in the jungle. When a female ape gets the hots for a man she will lie on top of him and poke her fingers into every crevice in his body. It’s obviously not pleasant for the man, but the psychological damage done to the ape is immense. Instead of concentrating on the noble pursuits that Nature intended for her – rearing infants, foraging for food, reciting prayers, etc – she is corrupted by thoughts of naked primate booty and how she can get some. “Beware of man and the seduction of his charm that leadeth unto sin” is the proverb quoted to female gorillas from the moment they’ve eaten their first banana.
As a former circus ape, I find it difficult to entertain complaints about women who wear skin-tight clothes. That sort of attire is very much de rigeur in the ring, and concealing the contours of those pert little bodies would be cheating the customers. It isn’t necessarily advisable for ladies of a less athletic build, though. The gorilla perspective on the human female is that while her top half is improved by compression, her bottom half must be packaged with care. Frankly, it can give the appearance of trying to squeeze the groceries into a carrier bag that’s not quite big enough.
“Are women who dress seductively asking for it?” is the question posed by every talk-show host seeking to boost his ratings. Scantily-clad ladies tend to respond defensively when this suggestion is put to them by other humans. This is where being a gorilla helps. Human females can speak to me candidly, aware that my motive is anthropological rather than judgemental. Having interviewed a number of saucily-dressed damsels, the answer appears to be ‘No’. Rather than “asking for it”, they are “asking to be asked for it”, by the right man, in the right manner. And if the man or the manner of asking does not meet with their approval, they reserve the right to decline.
In the animal kingdom, these matters are resolved by the male giving the female a good sniff to find out whether she’s in heat. Hampered by their poor sense of smell, humans have to rely on cues and signals instead. Yet I’m not convinced that the women of today have got it quite right. The mini skirt and skimpy top often make her appear closer to spreading her legs for Mr Knobpants than she actually is. My feeling is that corseting the cleavage inside an 18th century bodice is closer to the message that the temptress is seeking to convey. The goodies are there for the taking, but getting them out is likely to be hard work.
Labels: bodice, Malaysian guru, wispy beard
Monday, November 05, 2007
Mailbag Blues
One of the problems with living in the jungle is the unreliable postal service. The minute you pay one troupe of monkeys to deliver the mail, their rivals get jealous and start mugging the bag carriers and eating the letters. They’ll only stop their sabotage if you pay them as well, which annoys the mail monkeys. “Why should we haul postbags through the trees when they’re getting paid for doing nothing?” is their complaint. I’ve tried telling them the New Testament parable about the workmen in the vineyard, but it doesn’t impress them. Jesus is viewed with suspicion by monkeys – they see him as a colluder with business interests and the propertied classes.I take no consolation from the fact that my hairless cousins are often similarly inconvenienced. Dr Whipsnade was recently in a huff about the British Royal Mail, which had suspended all services after its employees went on strike. Now you won’t find a millionaire more supportive of workers’ rights than the good doctor. When the fire fighters withdrew their labour, he made a point of visiting the picket lines and handing out packets of Doritos with a sour cream dip. However Larson Whipsnade is an avid reader of periodicals, and cannot tolerate interruptions to his weekly deliveries of The Mayfair Man, The Soho Squire and The Bloomsbury Tit (an ornithological newsletter). When I asked him about the pay and working conditions of British postal workers, he rapped his cane angrily against a sculpture in his drawing room.
“I’d like to tie their lazy hides to a dog sleigh!” he growled.
Yet whatever one says about the Royal Mail, they have many high horses to ride before matching the piously pigheaded postal workers of Canada. These moose-brained zealots are refusing to deliver mail on the spurious grounds that it contains pornographic images. It is indicative of the dismal moral climate in Canada that mailmen now believe they are entitled to inspect their cargo and scour it for titillating pictures.
As it turned out, the supposedly obscene material was merely a pamphlet published by the Sex Party, a miniscule political grouping campaigning for the rights of prostitutes, voyeurs and couples addicted to dogging. Quite understandably, they are suing Canada Post and using the accompanying media interest to publicise their platform.
“We are the first political party dedicated exclusively to sex-positive issues,” declared party secretary Rufus Horn. “Regular, energetic coitus purges the body of toxins and liberates the spirit from hostile and aggressive emotions.”
This is an entirely bogus theory, as it happens. Lions mate continually when the females are in season and it doesn't alter their nature one iota. They snarl, grimace and bite before they do it, while they are doing it, and after they have done it. It is a common human fallacy to suppose that getting laid frequently can change you into a different person.
Yet much as I pooh-pooh their philosophy, I defend their right to disseminate it by way of post. It is not for the mailman to examine the documents he is entrusted to deliver and withhold the saucier items from distribution. That sort of officious meddling should be left to the Vice Squad.
Labels: Canada Post, Royal Mail, Sex Party
