Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Hairy crab
I hope David Hasselhoff doesn’t sue the scientists who named a species of crab after him. They decided to call the creature “The Hoff” because it farms a colony of bacteria on its hairy chest. They surely aren’t implying the real Hoff grows bacteria on his chest, although it might occur by accident after he hugs his girlfriend. The Hoff is so tall that her mouth would be smooching his chest, causing a potential transfer of oral cooties. He could avoid this mishap by lifting her off her feet before clasping her to his bosom, but such precautions are easily forgotten in the heat of the moment.
If the Hoff ever runs short of cash, he should consider selling his chest hairs to the Chinese, who are manufacturing a new brand of anti-pervert pantyhose. These stockings are coated with real human hair, so that girls who put them on appear to have hairy legs. This allows them to wear hot pants and miniskirts without attracting the attention of dirty old men. The main disadvantage is that worthy gallants would also be discouraged from approaching them. Another possible drawback is unwanted attention from male chimpanzees (but not male gorillas, who only pursue females in oestrus).
The Japanese are a different race from the Chinese and far more advanced in their perversions. Their women have had to endure being groped by dirty old men for decades, particularly on crowded commuter trains. The latest deviant fetish to have gripped Japan is “oculolinctus” or “worming”, where people lick each other’s eyeballs. All the medical experts agree that the practice is evil, unhygienic and far worse than growing bacteria on your chest.
“No good can come of this,” declared Dr David Ganet of San Diego. “If a person hasn't washed out their mouth, they might put acid from citrus products or spices into the eye.”
He should have cautioned that washing out your mouth with a powerful mouthwash might cause the eye to dissolve. In truth, eyeball-licking is only safe for creatures like lizards, which do not eat spicy food or citrus fruit and never use mouthwash. What’s more, they only practice auto-oculolinctus – I have never seen a lizard lick the eyeball of another lizard.
These kinky news items from the Orient make the confessions of Hollywood celebrities seem very tame by comparison. In a recent interview, the actress Zoe Saldana told ExtraTV.com that she prefers to live life in the nude:
I’m always naked,” she said. “That’s why I have to be careful with whoever walks through the door. If I ever have my gardeners walking around, I always have to draw the curtains.”
I suppose this story might cause a few desperate people to wonder what her naked body looks like, but it’s not a revelation that provokes much excitement these days. If Zoe wants to stay in the limelight, she’ll have to do more interesting things than take her clothes off. She could start by licking something unusual and telling us about it.
Labels: crabs, hairy stockings., nudity, oculolinctus, The Hoff, Zoe Saldana
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Food fights
Sergio Garcia has apologized to Tiger Woods for offering to serve him fried chicken for dinner. When Tiger said he found this “hurtful” I thought he must belong to the Chicken Liberation Front, but apparently Garcia’s remark was a racial slur. Was Tiger offended by the idea that all black men like fried chicken? Or did he resent the implication that he himself was a black man? You never quite know what Tiger is thinking behind that sulky cogitating face of his.
I don’t believe that black men in America are fonder of fried chicken than anyone else. Let’s not forget that Colonel Sanders was white, and a southern white too, whose grandpappy fought in the Confederate army. Why would such a man have invented a new recipe for the black man’s favourite dish? One might speculate he was guilty about slavery and hoped to make amends by selling fried chicken to the coloured folk. But if so, why wasn’t he at civil rights events, singing Negro spirituals and handing out KFC buckets?
I suspect that all humans who aren’t vegetarian are partial to fried chicken. If American blacks want to claim a special affinity for it, they ought to make their own brand of bird meat. I reckon Uncle Remus would have been a fine chicken icon. He had a better singing voice than Colonel Sanders and could have taught him a thing or two about old-fashioned southern hospitality. Does anyone doubt that the Uncle knew how to rustle up a mean pan of southern-fried poultry? I think we can take that as read.
Another recent victim of a food-related lampoon is Julia Gillard, the redhead prime minister of Australia. At a fundraising dinner for the opposition party, the following spoof item appeared on the menu:
Julia Gillard Kentucky Fried Quail - Small Breasts, Huge Thighs and a Big Red Box
I wouldn’t say it’s demeaning to link her name to quail, which many chefs consider to be a tastier bird than chicken. A little harder to pluck, maybe, but the effort is worthwhile when you get to the gamey flesh.
As for small breasts and huge thighs, they’re not necessarily unattractive in a woman who’s risen to high office. Most female athletes have similar attributes, and it furthers their capacity for high-level performance.
However the “Big Red Box” remark is a scurrilous allegation. The dimensions and colour of Ms Gillard’s box are a closely guarded secret which her political opponents are not privy to. Spreading spurious information about such a sensitive topic might make people think she was playing fast and loose with the nation’s defences. If I were an Australian, my patriotic bosom would seethe with indignation.
Most food insults are quite harmless, though. A few years ago, a gossip sheet claimed that Britney Spears was a hillbilly who ate squirrels and possums. Look at her now – career back on track and dating brainless bozos like the Britney of old. You can’t keep a dogged diva down by making apocryphal statements about her diet.
Labels: Big Red Box, Britney Spears, Food insults, Julia Gillard, Tiger Woods
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Oral hygiene
“I’m doomed,” he confided to me. “This is what happens when you go out of your way to please women, GB. Be wise and learn from my downfall.”
“Pull yourself together, manager!” I exclaimed. “There’s nothing to worry about unless you have the human papillomavirus. Why don’t you have a blood test to put your mind at rest?”
“What if I test positive?” he asked
I scratched my head and thought carefully before replying.
“If that lamentable eventuality should occur, I’d be obliged if you left me your nose hair trimmer.”
It’s a particularly poignant tragedy when someone contracts a deadly disease by giving pleasure to others. I blame the scientific community for not doing more to develop effective countermeasures. If they can pasteurize milk and pickle herrings, there must be a way of making the coochie safe for human consumption. Why can’t they create a sauce that would destroy all the virulent bugs while adding flavour to the dish? It’s never a bad idea to give people an incentive to take precautions.
One has to feel sorry for Mrs Zeta-Douglas, of course. I hope her husband makes it clear that the infected snatch he slurped on belongs to another lady, preferably one he savoured in his carefree bachelor days. An actress renowned for her beauty doesn’t want the public to think she’s a purveyor of poisonous juices. It’s hard to admire a woman’s face when you believe her nether regions are corrupted by a malignant effluvium.
Mr Douglas isn’t the only celebrity who’s been making statements of potential embarrassment to his spouse. At a recent awards ceremony, Victoria Spice found it necessary to elevate a microphone before addressing the hall.
“Oh I have to raise this, that doesn’t happen often!” she quipped.
The audience immediately understood this to be a reference to her husband’s manly appendage and roared with laughter. Mr Becks was not at the event, but the couple’s son was, which caused Victoria to repent of her bawdy remark:
“Oh my God I’m so sorry Brooklyn, they told me to be funny but that was completely off the cuff!” she said.
If Mr Becks is not man enough to give Victoria a regular seeing to, this intelligence should have been guarded like a state secret. Let’s hope Brooklyn recovers from the shock of hearing his mummy make light of daddy’s waning potency. A teenage boy who discovers his father is having problems in the stiffy department might well begin to doubt his own ability to raise the Jolly Roger.
Now that the cat is out of the bag, perhaps young Brooklyn should be sent to Michael Douglas for counselling. No one is better qualified to give advice on surviving the damage caused by a careless tongue.
Labels: embarrassing jokes, human papillomavirus, Michael Douglas, oral sex, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Blue is the bluest colour
The manager of the safari camp can’t wait to see the epic French lesbian film that won the Palme d’Or at Cannes.
“I had to sit through Brokeback Mountain with my buttocks clenched because my wife wanted to see it,” he said. “At last there’s a gay picture for the whole family!”
“That all depends on who’s in the family,” I observed. “I doubt it would have much appeal for the dowager aunt or the pet poodle.”
According to Variety magazine, the film has “the most explosively graphic lesbian sex scenes in recent memory”. I hope that doesn’t mean there’s fisting in it. I’ve never liked the practice myself. My old friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, says it reminds him of what he did to help mares give birth. We traditionalists believe that lesbians should stick to good old-fashioned carpet-munching and leave the more invasive procedures to the gynaecologist. Imagine having to call emergency services if someone’s hand got stuck in your birth canal. It’s not the sort of condition on which ambulance crews receive in-depth training.
A lot of women can’t fathom why men enjoy watching lesbian sex scenes, given that there’s no obvious role for them in the action. It’s a question that’s puzzled me too. Perhaps they imagine themselves doing a similar job to the referee in a boxing match, shouting out instructions, keeping score and breaking up clinches. I should imagine it would be easier than refereeing a real fight, where the contestants must abide by the Queensbury rules. There’s no need to penalise low blows in a Sapphic encounter.
No post about lesbians would be complete without discussing the latest exploits of Ellen Degeneres, who has recently acquired a $26.5 million mansion with her wife Portia di Rossi. Have you noticed how Ellen always wears men’s clothes when the couple appear in public? And that Portia is always referred to as her wife (and never vice versa)? This is Ellen’s way of telling us that she is the nominal husband in the relationship, which avoids the linguistic anomaly of having two wives in a marriage.
Maybe the opposition to gay marriage would be less strident if all gay couples adopted this convention, so that marriage remained a union between a husband and a wife. This would be easy to achieve for two men, when it’s normally pretty obvious who the wife is (e.g. Elton John in his marriage with David Furnish). Unfortunately, matters are rarely so clear-cut in a lesbian relationship. I really have no idea how they decide who wears the trousers.
Before you accuse me of being a nosey ape, I fully acknowledge that it’s none of my business how lesbians sort out their titular arrangements. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to know, of course. If any lesbian would like to let me in on the secret, she should send me a discreet email, which I would treat in the strictest confidence. Gorilla Bananas can be trusted not to spill the beans.
Labels: Ellen Degeneres, Elton John, fisting, gay marriage, lesbian
