Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Chinese take-away
I’m glad to hear that the Chinese authorities have not disclosed the full name of the panty thief recently arrested in the city of Yulin. His family name is said to be Tang, but that shouldn’t reveal his identity. There are vastly more Tangs in China than women who’ve had their knickers stolen. Mr Tang’s guilty secret was discovered when a ceiling collapsed under the weight of his contraband, said to number in the thousands. Women living in his apartment building had been complaining about their disappearing underwear, so it was easy for the police to join the dots.
Preserving Mr Tang’s partial anonymity will make it easier for him to lead a normal life if and when he is cured of his fetish. At the relatively young age of 30, he should respond well to aversion therapy and a diet rich in insect protein. Sadly, job opportunities for ex panty thieves are limited, even in countries with a good record of rehabilitating offenders. I don’t know what his career plans are, but I think he’d be pretty safe to employ in my neighbourhood. There is very little underwear to steal in the jungle.
I’m going to mention Mr Tang’s case when I visit the safari camp on New Year’s Day. The manager’s wife is terrified that a new world war will start in 2015 because of the film about Kim Jong Un. She arrived at this conclusion after reading threats of dire revenge made by the North Korean regime, which the BBC foolishly published on its website:
“Making and releasing a movie on a plot to hurt our top-level leadership is the most blatant act of terrorism and war and will absolutely not be tolerated,” declared the regime’s official spokesmen. “If the US administration allows and defends the showing of the film, a merciless counter-measure will be taken,” he added.
I’ve already told the manager’s wife that the North Koreans can’t make war without China’s support, but she doesn’t believe that China will restrain them. I will cite the case of Mr Tang to demonstrate the growing maturity of the Chinese. In the dark days of Chairman Mao, knicker bandits were publicly humiliated and forced to eat their own toe jam. Economic modernisation has brought China to accept that ideological subversion is not the root cause of every strange act. They now realise that many of their citizens have mental problems, which has brought them closer to the West.
As for the film, it seems that North Korean attempts at cyber-blackmail have failed because crowds are queuing to watch it at independent cinemas. I fear that many of them will be disappointed. A movie isn’t guaranteed to be good just because it offends Kim Jong Un – otherwise you could make a fortune by filming a fat Korean oaf wallowing naked in pig excrement. Thus far, the critics are unimpressed and the rabble are unamused. The pudgy upstart of the peninsula might yet have his vengeance by making his enemies waste their time and money in crowded movie theatres.
Labels: China, film critics, Kim Jong Un, knickers, panty thief
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Face-sitting protest
Yesterday I got a phone call from Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy. After expressing the usual Christmas greetings, he asked me why I hadn’t written a post in support of the face-sitting protest that took place in London on the twelfth of this month.
“Your moral support would have meant so much to them,” he said.
“Did you go to the event yourself?” I asked.
“God no!” he exclaimed. “What if someone had sat on my face? The climate at home would have turned distinctly frigid if my wife had found out. She might never have sat on my face again!”
“A calamity you were wise to avoid risking,” I remarked.
The protest in London was against a new censorship law which bans various practices from being depicted in pornography produced in the UK. After biting my lip to steel my nerves I reviewed the list myself, and concluded that while some of the proscribed acts were unimaginably vile, others were merely the kind of horseplay you would see on any visit to a baboon camp. One of the forbidden deeds, as you might have guessed, was a woman resting her nether regions on the face of a compliant partner.
It seems that many of the women protesting in London were porn stars. I find it difficult not to sympathise with them. After enduring gruelling hours getting pounded from all angles, sitting on someone’s face must feel like a perk of the job. Furthermore, it is sexist and discriminatory to outlaw acts aimed specifically at giving women pleasure, while allowing men to indulge in all their favourite vices. When I told my females about it, they vowed to sit on the face of any man who refused to let a woman sit on his face. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.
I'm glad to hear that an Italian politician is taking the issue of sexism seriously. Matteo Salvini, leader of the Northern League party, deplores the disrespectful ogling of scantily-clad women by so many of his shameless countrymen. To atone for this grievous sin, he has started distributing semi-naked pictures of himself to share the pain of Italian women. It’s too early to judge whether his gimmick will appeal to disaffected female voters, but someone must be looking at all the pictures he’s been circulating.
Why are statesmen like Signor Salvini never seen in American politics? Sex only becomes an issue in the US when some wretched scandal occurs, like the distinguished gentleman from New York texting photos of his distinguished dick. President Clinton has a lot to answer for in my view. The worst thing about his episode with Miss Lewinsky was that everything was done for his own pleasure, with no regard for Monica’s needs as a fresh young hoochie. If she'd been sitting on his face during most of their intimate moments, it would have put a completely different complexion on the affair. I have not the slightest doubt that America would now be a happier and healthier country.
Labels: censorship, Face-sitting, Italy, Monica Lewinsky, porn actresses
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Bum news
Victoria Spice has admitted to being a “pain in the bottom” without revealing whose rump she has troubled. That shouldn’t stop us from making an educated guess. I’d wager a ripe bunch of bananas that the bum in question belongs to Mr Becks, her devoted spouse. As a former footballer, his buttocks should be able to bear plenty of punishment before beads of sweat start appearing on his forehead and his groin. It’s a small price to pay for keeping the spark in your marriage alive.
Unfortunately for Mr Becks, Victoria is the type of woman who can dish it out but can’t take it. There’s not nearly enough meat on her tush to satisfy a man’s healthy appetite for butt bongo. If I were her husband, I’d be looking at Miley Cyrus with envious eyes. Miley is petite, but her rump is fleshy enough to be slapped around like pizza dough. Unfortunately for those who dream of pummelling her posterior, she has recently started dating one Patrick Schwarzenegger, son of the former Governator.
I’d like to know why this Schwarzenegger sprog is qualified to be Miley’s beau. Being the son of a famous pair of pecs shouldn’t give you the right to romance the cheekiest nymphette of our age. I hope Miley won’t consider marrying him until he proves himself worthy of the honour. Let him show the world what he’s made of by twerking with Madonna and kicking Bieber’s ass. An alpha male should acquire a reputation of his own rather than basking in the fame of his more illustrious mistress.
Whoopi Goldberg has recently reminded us that not everything associated with the bottom is good. She farted loudly on a TV chat show and had the class to accept responsibility for the deed. This would never have happened back in my circus days, when it was standard practice for humans to blame their farts on someone else. The clowns were constantly doing it and often accused me of creating their flatulence. I was generally content to give the accuser a scornful stare without issuing a formal denial, which would have compromised my dignity.
On one occasion I was forced to respond. After emitting a horrible little guff that sounded like a party horn and smelled like poison gas, a clown feigned to look at me with sad, reproachful eyes:
“Oh GB!” he whined. “Whatever have you been eating?”
“What?!” I thundered. “You accuse me of producing that pathetic little squeak?” “This is what a real gorilla fart sounds like!”
And rising to my feet, I turned my back and gave him a blast of wind resembling the base note of a trombone.
This is why I hope more humans will follow Whoopi’s example and be upfront about breaking wind. If your bowels are feeling turgid, make an announcement to the effect that you need to blow some gas out of your butthole and run to the nearest window. If you're going to fart, do it with dignity and concern for the innocent bystander.
Labels: butt cheeks, buttocks, fart noises, farting, Farts, Miley Cyrus, Mr Becks, Victoria Spice
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Persecution of an artist
I’m planning a raid on the Japanese embassy in Kinshasa to protest against the arrest of Megumi Igarashi, the artist who makes objects resembling her lady parts. We’re going to unfurl a banner on the roof of the embassy showing a photo-shopped image of the Emperor Hirohito giving birth to a sumo dwarf. The international media will be alerted before the embassy staff can take it down, resulting in profuse humiliation and disgrace. A journalist sympathetic to our cause will then ask the Japanese ambassador pointed questions about Miss Igarashi, adding to their ignominy. There is no better time to kick a man’s arse than when his pants are down.
Miss Igarashi’s most famous work is a kayak said to resemble her vagina. I cannot say whether it is a good likeness, because I don’t know what her vagina looks like and have no particular wish to find out. I am nevertheless certain that the kayak’s aesthetic qualities are immeasurably finer than much of the utter balderdash that passes for art these days. Censorship of this or any other effigy of the Igarashi coochie is an outrage that must be resisted.
Miss Igarashi has made a powerful statement defending her art and exposing the rampant pussyphobia of patriarchal Japanese society:
“Why did I start making these kind of art pieces? It’s because I had never seen the vagina of others and was too self-conscious of mine. I did not know what a vagina should look like, so I thought mine was abnormal. Manko and vagina have been such a taboo in Japanese society. Penis, on the other hand, has been used in illustrations and has become a part of pop culture.”
She makes an excellent point. The Maypole is well-known to be phallic symbol, yet no one is arrested for attaching ribbons to it or dancing around it like a ninny. And what about skyscrapers? Dr Whipsnade’s chauffeur once tried to rile me by saying that King Kong was suffering from penis envy when he climbed the Empire State Building. I quickly put the upstart in his place, but it irked me to have to defend an entirely fictitious ape who acted in ways that would have caused a real gorilla to die of shame. Miss Igarashi deserves the blessings of the celestial beaver for increasing the profile of the female genitalia, thereby helping to counteract all the cock and bull that’s trampling over the landscape.
My one criticism of Miss Iagarashi is her choice of the kayak as a motif for her lady-part art. I don’t think it’s a good way of making the vagina familiar, because paddling down a river is not an everyday event unless you happen to be a platypus. My preferred utensil for vaginal objets d’arts would be the condiment dish. Nothing would be more felicitous, in the opinion of this humble ape, than associating the female organ with food and the delicious sauces used to flavour it. You could learn a lot about a woman from the taste of her condiment dish.
Labels: celestial beaver, condiment dish, Japan, kayak, phallic symbol, pussyphobia
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
Cut-price cups
An Italian lingerie chain is celebrating its 50th birthday by offering discounts on its bras. No milk-nourished mammal could object to this news, but what should we think of their policy of giving bigger discounts on bigger-sized bras? Before denouncing the practice as discriminatory, let us ponder the words of first-officer Spock:
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Although busty ladies are not more numerous than their moderately stacked sisters, no one can deny that their bosom flesh outweighs anything Spock beamed onto the Enterprise. Being in greater need of support, the universal law of compassion dictates that their jahoobies should be catered for at economy rates. Some might even favour giving them free bras as part of a public chest-health program.
This generous promotion resulted in a particularly dense throng of customers at the shop in Padua. The store manager made the following statement to the press:
“Fortunately for us, many women in Padua are curvy. So this also benefited the buxom women economically, and not those who are as thin as toothpicks.”
The manager did not mention that many of the shoppers were men, an anomaly puzzling enough to make me scratch my chin with my toes. Let us analyse their possible motives logically, as Spock would do.
1) They were bra-hunting on behalf of their busty girlfriends.
2) They were hoping to find a busty girlfriend.
3) They wanted to ogle busty women and possibly cop a feel in the melee.
Option 1 can be dismissed on the grounds that there is no point shopping for bras if the breasts they are intended for are not at hand to try them on. It’s simply not possible to make such measurements by eye.
Option 2 is improbable because women looking for bras are in no mood to be propositioned or otherwise flirted with. You can’t mix business with pleasure where the boobies are concerned.
This leaves us with Option 3, which is a slur on Italian men that would make the noble Garibaldi pluck out his whiskers in disgust. On the other hand, Garibaldi is dead while Berlusconi still lives. Why should Italian men be less louche than a recent prime minister of the republic? Let us not be hasty in our judgements - the buxom ladies of Padua are invited to submit their evidence.
I give the last word to the actress Naomi Watts, still beautiful (if small-breasted) at the age of 46. In her latest movie she plays a Russian stripper who entertains Bill Murray, a role she admitted had stretched her talents:
“I just worked on my moves and my accent and my underwear,” she explained.
There is an important lesson here for women looking for bargains in a lingerie shop. However attractive the prices are, you won’t achieve anything unless you work on your underwear like Naomi. I wouldn’t go so far as to say this was a worthy parable for the Christmas season, because it obviously isn’t. But I hope it will generate goodwill between bosoms all of sizes.
Labels: Berlusconi, Bras, discounts, Italy, jahoobies, Naomi Watts
