Monday, May 28, 2012
British scientists are claiming that the dinosaurs polluted the atmosphere with their digestive gases. I have no reason to doubt this, but it seems like an insensitive thing to say about creatures that suffered a mass extinction through no fault of their own. Suppose I visited the graves of the scientists’ ancestors and inscribed the following words into each headstone:
The evidence suggests that this human was a colossal farter who stunk up the neighbourhood.
I bet they would feel insulted and humiliated. However flatulent your ancestors were, you don’t want it advertised to the world.
I’ve never understood the point of this kind of science anyway. The dinosaurs are gone, so let them rest in peace. What purpose is served by raking over the ashes and speculating about their bodily emissions? However copiously they broke wind, it is of no concern to the Earthlings of today. The looming perils of our Age were not caused by someone guffing 70 million years ago.
An infinitely more beneficial scientific breakthrough has occurred in the field of medical research, where biochemists have discovered that the saliva of a lizard can protect diabetics from the deadly diseases they are vulnerable to. These scientists deserve a hearty pat on the back, courtesy of my hairy paw.
One has to wonder, nevertheless, how the lizard spit could be safely harvested. Are they planning to kidnap lots of lizards and trick them into salivating by dangling fresh centipedes in front of their noses? If so, they ought to have more respect for the dignity of a proud reptile. There are surely more ethical methods. I once made a wild lizard spit by sneaking up on it shouting “Stand to, you ugly devil!”. But that still leaves the problem of collecting the saliva in a suitable receptacle. A lizard won’t spit into a test tube just because you hold it under its chin.
If we lived in a perfect world, diabetics would cohabit with lizards and French kiss them from time to time. I don’t know whether lizards enjoy that sort of thing, but I should imagine they could be persuaded by taking them out on a date and treating them to a mouse dinner. The best person to consult on such matters is my friend Stella Deleuze, the blond bombshell from Bremen, who owns a pet lizard called Zorro. Their relationship is affectionate.
These scientific remedies are not infallible, of course. Many moons ago, it was postulated that mare’s urine was a palliative for menopausal women. Consequently, ladies of the hot-flashing persuasion started drinking horse-piss to put the juice back into their lemons. Then it was found out that ingesting horsey hormones carries worrying health risks, which caused the treatment to go out of fashion.
My advice to menopausal women is to eat plenty of fresh vegetables and partake in activities which exercise the muscles of the posterior, such as cycling and climbing trees. If the tush is in good health, the rest of the body will follow.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The art of making crap
A correspondent draws my attention to a ground-breaking exhibit in Australia’s Museum of New Art. It is a device that mimics the mammalian digestive system by converting food into faeces. This poo-poo machine has been lauded for producing exquisitely malodorous turds which visitors can sniff at their leisure. Few of them are up to the challenge:
“It put me off because of the overwhelming assault on the senses,” declared Diane Malnic, a Sydney-based accountant.
Perhaps the senses of an accountant are rather too easy to overwhelm. An honest farmer, who knows the value of muck, might react more favourably. This machine wasn’t intended for namby-pamby city dwellers who have never fisted a four-legged beast.
The manager of the safari camp grinned facetiously when I told him about it.
“I always knew modern art was shit and now someone’s proved it!” he quipped.
That’s easy for him to say, but what does he know about art? The museum’s mission statement is to “shock, offend, inform and entertain” as if those were the relevant criteria. Frankly, I have my doubts. Watching Jerry Springer ticks all of those boxes, but not even an ignorant baboon would confuse that with art.
In my humble opinion, this turd-machine is a brilliant piece of technology rather than a work of art. Breaking down food, extracting the nutrients and shitting out the remnants is an amazing feat to perform mechanically. It makes one ponder about the true nature of food. Consider the following mathematical equations:
Shit = Food – Nutrients
Food = Nutrients + Shit
Food contains shit.
Is there a flaw in this logical proof? I sent an email to my friend Dicky Dawkins, who knows about these things, and he assured me that he wasn’t a shit-eater. Apparently, the excrement one expunges from the bowels acquires its shitty characteristics from the bacteria in the gut and other chemical processes. Making poo-poo is a mysterious and complex biological process, no less wondrous than the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly. Remember to feel awed the next time you have a dump.
Not all shit is the same, of course. In general, the most foul-smelling, disgusting excrement is produced by carnivorous creatures. I remember opening the door of a portable lavatory back in my circus days:
“Pooh!” I exclaimed. “Has one of the big cats been doing its business in here?”
“Sorry, GB, it was me,” said one of the female acrobats, blushing furiously. “I had steak for dinner last night.”
“Little girl make big stink!” I replied with an avuncular grin.
This incident taught me that the poo-poo of a pretty girl can be as vile and offensive as anything a hyena can produce. If you don’t want to make a stink in the bathroom, the only solution is to adopt the diet of a gorilla. Our dung is not much worse than Fresh Umbrian Clay with a hint of guacamole. But you’ll have to give up meat; there are no shortcuts in life.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Political boob in Mexico
A Mexican presidential candidate has blamed his poor performance in a televised debate on a voluptuous pair of breasts. They belonged to Miss Julia Orayen, a former Playboy model, who was hired to help manage the event. She naturally chose to perform her duties in a low cut dress, so her fans would instantly recognise her. You can’t blame a show business performer from using a trademark gimmick – it’s no different from Groucho Marx appearing in public with a cigar in hand.
Gabriel Quadri, the aforementioned candidate, claimed that the proximity of Julia’s jahoobies had made him nervous:
“It’s impossible not to concentrate your attention on a woman so spectacular,” he said.
This looks like an exaggeration to me. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no. Mr Quadri should realise that the mark of a statesman is his ability to focus on the issues when a pert bosom is in his field of view. Let's not forget that President Kennedy formulated many policy initiatives when he was motor-boating his secretary. A politician has got to be able to juggle different problems vying for his attention. You can’t whine about breasts when the voters are protesting about the price of eggs. The price of milk, maybe, but not the price of eggs.
Let’s hope Miss Orayen is hired to officiate the US presidential debates. It might encourage the candidates to loosen up and talk about women’s issues instead of acting like the honcho in a poncho. I suspect it would favour President Obama, who must have got used to white girls flaunting their chests at him in his college days. It would just be part of the scenery for him. Romney, on the other hand, has probably never seen his wife’s breasts in broad daylight. I’m guessing he’d break out in a sweat if Julia walked within groping range.
A politician renowned for ogling the female bosom is Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is to be played by Gerard Depardieu in a forthcoming biopic:
“I will do it, because I don’t like him,” said the potato-faced actor, adding: “I think he’s a bit like all the French, a bit arrogant. I don’t much like the French in any case.”
I think we should respect Gerard’s opinion, even though he’s a Frenchman himself. I don’t know whether DSK is guilty of half the things he’s been accused of, but he clearly thinks he’s entitled to sex on demand, which is an odious and self-defeating attitude.
My old friend Smacker Ramrod had more than his fair share of nookie in his bachelor days, but he took pains over each seduction, recognising that the thrill of the chase was as important as the coup de grâce. Being a true gentleman, he always made the girl think that she had dumped him when it was over, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounds, as in many cases she had actually dumped him. His experiences taught him that you don't fully appreciate the good things of life unless you’ve had to work for them.
Monday, May 14, 2012
A Chinese zoo-keeper has saved a monkey’s life by licking its anus. The silly creature got constipated after swallowing a peanut, but Zhang Bangsheng managed to coax the nut out by stimulating the orifice from which it eventually emerged. You’ve got to admire a man who restores a monkey to good health by rimming it for an hour. He deserves the title of “Righteous among the Humans” for his selfless act.
Some of you might be wondering why licking a monkey’s anus would cause it to excrete a nut. My response to such a question would be: Why are you asking me? If I had to guess, I would say it induces involuntary contractions in the monkey’s sphincter that progress up the digestive tract. But that would be pure speculation on my part. All I can say for certain is that you shouldn’t try it yourself. Leave such avant-garde techniques to the professionals – when you get constipated, put your faith in a trusty old suppository rather paying someone to give you analingus.
The good thing about this story is that it happened in China, refuting the unpleasant stereotype of the Chinese as a race of humans who heal sick animals by chopping them up and frying them in their woks. Many Chinese, in fact, are Buddhists who refrain from eating meat. An ancient Zen master once said that the truly enlightened will take pains to save the life of an insect. He was talking nonsense, of course, but his words were wise in spirit. Too many people don’t look where they’re sitting before planting their fat behinds.
Sadly, many humans lack the ancient philosophical wisdom of the Chinese. More lacking than most are the Welsh, who only ever practised vegetarianism when the English ate all their livestock. You wouldn’t catch a Welshman licking a monkey’s anus unless extortion or slavery were involved. Constipated primates are told to go for a curry in Wales.
The true attitude of the Welsh to animals is aptly illustrated by a recent incident in Australia, where a couple of cheeky boyos visited an aquatic menagerie in Queensland. Not being familiar with zoos (which don’t exist in Wales), they treated the animals like theme part exhibits to be toyed with at leisure. After letting off a fire extinguisher in the shark pool, they took one of the penguins back to their hotel, no doubt playing games with it in the bath. They were arrested soon afterwards and brought before a magistrate, who fined them without recording convictions, accepting the argument that they were mindless oafs rather than vandals.
What these stories show is that you’ve got to allow for culture and upbringing when judging human behaviour. Licking a monkey’s anus isn’t necessarily a lewd act if the person doing has been tutored in oriental philosophies advocating compassion for all living things. And treating a penguin as a bath toy isn’t a malicious act if the persons doing it are yokels from a bumpkin nation. Context is everything.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
A shocking case of gender discrimination has erupted in Brazil. A hotel catering for the needs of gay men is charging women over 100 times as much for a room. Douglas Drummond, the tanned and moustachioed owner of the Chilli Pepper Single Hotel, insists the policy is justified by the “different specific care” that women require.
“Everything is directed towards the gay man,” he explained. “The smells, colours and settings are chosen for their comfort.”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t gay men much closer to women in their preferences for interior design? As far as I can tell, a good many of them have adopted the persona of a bitchy and emotional woman. The excuse given by Drummond is surely nothing but dissembling and prevarication. He ought to hang his head in shame for making women pay through their noses for residing in his establishment. Any fool can see that his aim is to exclude them entirely. He may as well put up a sign saying “No wrinkly butts and women allowed”.
The manager of the safari camp sniggered wickedly when I mentioned this story to him.
“They want to screw them in their purses because they can’t screw them anywhere else!” he chortled obscenely. “Who knows – maybe some women will pay the high rates to watch gay men having sex.”
“Are women interested in such things?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” he replied. “Men love watching lesbians, don’t they?”
His premise that men and women are symmetric in their pornographic preferences was questionable. I doubt that women admire men’s bodies as much as men admire theirs. Flashers don’t get arrested unless they are men.
One shouldn’t assume, of course, that the only reason for a woman to stay in a hotel full of gay men would be to engage in voyeurism. Many gay men have doting mothers who would wish to accompany them on their vacations. And let’s not forget all the fag-hags who like to go on shopping trips with their gay boyfriends. It would be totally wrong to charge such women punitive rates in a misguided attempt to create a gay ghetto. The biggest poof on Earth would get bored of staying in a place like that.
I’m not suggesting, of course, that the hotel should open its doors to any woman who contracted a whim to hang out with gay men. Some women clearly lack the necessary interpersonal skills. An example of such is Dr Elizabeth Jasiak, the Polish psychiatrist who is facing a disciplinary hearing for addressing her colleagues by nicknames such as “Mr Pieface” and “Sausage Tits”. I don’t think gay men could handle that kind of abuse from a domineering woman. A good many of them might flounce off in a huff.
The common-sense solution would be to vet any woman who booked a room to make sure she had experience of gay men and understood their peculiar sensitivities. I should imagine a short questionnaire could sort out the sheep from the goats.
Friday, May 04, 2012
A lot of people are pouring scorn on Valeria Lukyanova, the Ukrainian model who’s had plastic surgery to make herself look like a Barbie doll. When the manager of the safari camp saw her picture, he said he wouldn’t throw her out of bed. A fair remark in the circumstances. Men have slept with far stranger creatures than Miss Lukyanova and lived to tell the tale, so throwing her out of bed would be a highly inhospitable act.
Whether she’d want to climb into bed with a man is another story. It seems to me that a woman who wants to attract men doesn’t aspire to resemble a piece of plastic with no vagina. I suspect her Barbie complex reflects a powerful desire to be loved and admired by little girls. Normal women satisfy this urge by bearing baby girls, but such a feat may be physically impossible for Miss Lukyanova. Getting a baby out of her would be like pulling a goose out of a chicken.
She actually reminds me of a sex doll, although she looks less human than the best models currently available. I’m a firm believer that the sex-doll industry is an exciting growth sector deserving a healthy weighting in a gorilla’s portfolio. The big breakthrough will come when married men start having affairs with sex dolls rather than other women. This will save many marriages, as it would obviously be ridiculous for a wife to be jealous of a lifeless dummy. Emotionally secure spouses might even participate in threesomes.
My old friend Smacker Ramrod says he’s never been tempted to cheat on his wife because of their use of role-play. A couple’s sex life never gets boring if they’re constantly pretending to be other people. According to Smacker, these subterfuges are only effective if they embrace good production values, with well-written scripts and realistic costumes.
A favourite plot involves Smacker playing a repair man called in to fix the boiler of a haughty diva (played by his wife). She lectures him arrogantly while he labours away, getting dirty and sweaty in the process. When the job is complete, he asks if he can wash in her bathroom, to which she reluctantly agrees, but not before removing most of the toiletries and issuing meticulous instructions on the appropriate use of the facilities.
While he’s having a shower, he senses the diva is spying on him. Keeping the water flowing, he creeps towards the door and catches her peeping through the keyhole. The tables are turned – he threatens to call the police and the diva begs for mercy. She offers him pecuniary compensation, but he insists on an eye for an eye: he has shown her his, so she must show him hers. The tearful and submissive diva reluctantly agrees.
You can finish off the drama for yourself. According to Smacker, the enjoyment is maximised when his wife refrains from showing any pleasure until the last minute. I don’t know whether this would be every woman's cup of tea, but it beats pretending to be a Barbie doll.