Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Foot fetish
I hooted with glee on discovering that Madonna had ordered one of her backup dancers to kiss her feet. The luckless dandy was a few minutes late for a rehearsal and tried to placate his mistress by apologising profusely. “Kiss my feet!” demanded Madge, and the obedient fellow promptly dropped to his knees and smooched her perfectly pedicured tootsies. I hope he got a round of applause for his trouble. It takes a lot of courage to mess with a cougar’s paw, even if the cougar has asked for it.
I’m sure a lot of people will condemn Madonna for behaving like a bad-tempered queen in a medieval fairy story – a haughty tyrant who demands that her courtiers abase themselves for relatively minor indiscretions. In my view that would be missing the humour in the incident. In this day and age, the arrogant celebrity deals with errant minions by firing them on the spot without a reference. Ordering someone to kiss your feet is pure theatre – as well as being a quick and painless way of putting the incident to bed. I’m sure the dancer was mightily relieved he could atone for his misdemeanour in such a speedy and conclusive manner. He certainly wasted no time in obeying the command.
And let’s not forget that there many who would enjoy kissing Madonna’s feet and consider it to be a great privilege. Although I am not of this disposition myself, I would rather kiss her feet than any other part of her anatomy. They may not be as dainty as those of a Japanese woman, but they are surely sufficiently smooth and supple to make the experience tolerable. After they have been washed, I would guess they are the organs on her body least likely to give the kisser cooties.
Now some of you are probably wondering whether anyone has kissed my feet. Before answering this question, I should point out that a gorilla’s feet are not like those of a human. They are actually like a second pair of hands, which means I can toot out a tune on my recorder while shaking a pair of maracas with my feet. If you paid your respects to me while I was lying in my hammock, you would probably end up shaking hands with my foot.
No one has ever kissed my feet in the jungle. I’m quite certain of that. Kissing has no emotional significance for the hairy primates, so foot-kissing would be viewed as an evil perversion rather than an act of servitude. To curry favour in our community, you’ve got to groom your companions and scratch their itches.
I’m not so sure about my circus days, though. I definitely had human fans who would have kissed my feet if I’d allowed them to. And a few overexcited individuals did take liberties with my person before I could shake them off with a reprimand. But did any of these scallywags molest my feet? I’ll be damned if I can remember.
Labels: foot-kissing, humiliation, Madonna
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Putin Prank
Poor Elton John! Having announced to the world that he wanted to lecture Mr Putin on the subject of gay rights, he got a phone call from a Russian wag who announced that the president wanted to parley with him. Naturally Elton fell for the hoax, believing that the caller was the president’s interpreter. The prankster subsequently produced a recording of Elton nattering away like a ninny. He must be feeling like a fairy queen who got goosed by a wicked goblin.
Now, it’s widely believed that President Putin isn’t too keen on gays and I’m fairly certain the feeling is mutual. The Kremlin often publishes bare-chested pictures of their steely-eyed supremo engaging in macho pastimes to impress his female fans. Apparently, the women of Russia drool over such images. I dare say many of them fantasize about rubbing hot oil into his torso as he stares moodily into the distance.
Gay men, however, are a lot more finicky about the hunks they adore. A leisurely perusal of Mistress Maddie’s blog suggests one has to be a virtual Adonis to be a stud on the gay scene. The members of this community could not be fooled into idolising a middle-aged politician with sagging moobs, even if he talks tough and has his finger on the nuclear button. You’ve got to be packing weapons closer to home to impress the gay boys.
I remember reading a blog post written by a high-class lady escort, who asserted that all the best male escorts were gay. She admitted to treating herself to one of these gigolos when she got tired of servicing pot-bellied men. She also claimed that he achieved an intense climax with her, emitting a high-pitched scream. Should we believe this boast? I suppose he might have closed his eyes and thought of Channing Tatum.
Much as I hope that the Russians will lose their queer-bashing habit, I doubt their country will ever be a suitable place for the gay fraternity. The climate is simply too extreme for men who like to show off their bodies. The ideal homosexual homeland would be a tropical island with sandy beaches, coconut trees and plenty of ripe bananas. The main industry would be tourism, with guests of all persuasions staying in five star hotels serviced by firm-bottomed bellboys. The cabaret and theatre would rival Las Vegas and Broadway.
Could Elton John be the gay republic’s first president? It’s not out of the question, but he’ll have to be more wary of prank phone calls. It’s amazing how people keep on falling for the same old gag. Back in my circus days, I remember getting a call from someone who wanted to know if my refrigerator was running.
“It is no concern of yours, my inquisitive non-entity,” I replied. “My refrigerator’s condition is a private matter, only to be discussed with a qualified technician from General Electric.”
The caller uttered a few expletives before hanging up in frustration.
Labels: Elton John, gay republic, gays, hoaxes, prank phone call, Putin
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Queen and country
Pierce Brosnan has made the daring suggestion that the next James Bond should be gay. The idea is not quite as preposterous as it sounds. It would be good to have a Bond who dresses stylishly and knows all the fancy dance steps. A musical production on Broadway would not be out of the question.
Yet no one should underestimate the conundrums and dilemmas of pulling off such an outrageous coup. The thorny issue of sex inevitably rears its throbbing head. As anyone who’s followed the Bond franchise knows, carnal intimacy is no mere recreation for 007. He often has to sleep with women to pump them for information. Sometimes the baddies try to catch him with his pants down, but the attempt invariably fails, leaving them with much egg white on their faces. You know the day of reckoning is approaching when a cocksure Bond thwarts his treacherous assassins. While it’s certainly possible for a gay man to have sex with a woman (think of Oscar Wilde, Rock Hudson and John Travolta), it’s not in the nature of Bond to fake orgasms or shoot with his gun half-cocked. One limp love scene could ruin the entire movie.
Then there’s the question of dealing with the villains, most of whom are men. Despicable blackguards though they are, it cannot be denied that many of them are sexy beasts (e.g. Kamal Khan and his big-turbaned henchman in Octopussy). Could a gay secret agent kill a man in cold blood that he was sexually attracted to? Or would his finger tremble on the trigger as he pointed his lethal weapon? I don’t pretend to know the answer to these questions, but the doubts are sufficient to warrant a thorough investigation. The court calls Mistress Maddie as an expert witness.
Now, the sexuality of crime-fighting heroes is a recurrent topic of conjecture. Batman and Robin were thought to be in the closet by many, although that never stopped Catwoman from trying to bring out the tomcat in the Caped Crusader. Maybe the smell of his sweaty tights interfered with her gaydar. More recently, the actor who plays Spiderman has suggested that his character should by gay or bisexual. Actually, I don’t see how he could be anything inside that skin-hugging costume. Someone should solve the riddle of how Spiderman takes a leak before pondering the question of his sexual urges.
My own view is that the truly dedicated crime-fighter should be asexual, like the late Steve McGarrett of Hawaii-5-0. Anyone can see that James Bond is a ludicrous fantasy figure invented by Ian Fleming, a wannabe action hero who seduced women with champagne and sausages. Personally, I could never trust a public servant who was obsessed about sex. Dirty Harry rarely got laid, and when he did the woman had to practically open her thighs and sit on his face. That’s the way it has to be for a no-crap law-enforcer. You can’t be thinking about poontang when you’re protecting the public from villains and vagabonds.
Labels: Batman and Robin, gay crime fighters, James Bond, poontang, Spiderman
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
Quo fartis?
Taylor Swift has denied breaking wind during a live performance on MTV, even though the sound that tooted out as she bent over on stage was suspiciously fart-like. The TV station has supported her claim that a microphone malfunction was to blame, so I suppose that settles the issue. What reason would they have to invent an alibi for a megastar who earns them millions in advertising revenue?
As a jungle-dwelling ape, I know all too well how the ears can be fooled by deceptive sound effects. I remember once laughing at a squatting baboon who seemed to be passing gas like a punctured tyre, only to realise that the noise was being made by a serpent hissing in the nearby bushes. I felt like an utter ass on realising my error, as snakes are no laughing matter in the jungle.
Whether or not Taylor broke wind, I’m disappointed that she went to the trouble of denying it. The idea that pretty girls shouldn’t fart is one of the great humbugs of human society. Not only is farting a normal bodily function, it’s essential for good health. As well as releasing excess pressure, it removes pungent gases that would do no good if left to bubble and froth inside the intestines. Miss Swift could have made it socially acceptable for young ladies to discharge their flatulence openly and politely, instead of clenching their butt cheeks until an opportunity to sneak it out slyly arises.
Now some of you are probably thinking that I’ve overlooked a crucial question on the subject of farting. What about those in the vicinity of the perpetrator who must endure the obnoxious smell? This is hardly an issue in the animal kingdom because the odours are speedily dissipated in the open air. Not even a herd of flatulent wildebeest can stink up the entire savannah in all its vastness. It’s only the human fad for living in confined spaces that has made the innocent bystander a potential victim of malodorous emissions.
I’m not suggesting that modern humans should return to outdoor living, of course. Even a macho poseur like Bear Grylls, who conned President Obama into smooching his overrated arse, would find it impossible to endure in the long run. The solution, it seems to me, is good ventilation combined with a clear warning from the emitter of the gas to those within sniffing range. Nothing is achieved by the current practice of non-disclosure and denial. It only makes the problem worse.
What can never be tolerated is deliberately using the fart as a weapon. Fans of South Park will remember an episode in which Eric Cartman repeatedly farts on some innocent Muslims to make them confess to terrorist activities. There are also shocking You Tube videos of college boys farting in the faces of their sleeping room mates. It goes without saying that such abuses must be stamped out, but how will that be possible while farting and farting etiquette remain taboo subjects?
Labels: Bear Grylls, fart noises, farting, Farts, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, September 02, 2015
Frontal expression
So the mayor of New York is getting cheesed off about women walking around topless in Times Square. Good thing he isn’t the mayor of Brazzaville (or “Bra-less-ville”, as the manager of the safari camp affectionately calls it). It seems that he can’t simply order the police to arrest these ladies because they have daubed their breasts with brightly coloured dyes. This, apparently, is protected free speech under the American constitution.
Now the mayor is concerned that these street artists are exercising their right to free expression in a manner that will bewilder and upset tourists, possibly causing them to visit New Jersey instead. As he cannot remove them, he is seeking to close the pedestrian plazas in which they congregate. Critics of his plan have likened this to preventing pollution by sucking the Earth’s atmosphere into space.
“That's not a solution, it's a surrender,” said the president of a local business organisation.
The women, as one would expect, are protesting against what they see as an insidious attempt to deny them their rights.
You may be anticipating that an uninhibited ape like me would support the street performers in this dispute. “Not so fast” would be my reply. Just because we gorillas live free and easy lives, it doesn’t mean will we tolerate any form of bodily display. As a former circus ape, I know that it’s possible to present the female bosom in a highly provocative, not to say insolent, manner. I don’t want to regale you with anecdotes of a personal nature, but I can give you a flavour of what I mean by describing an incident from a film called The Graduate. It’s the scene where Ben takes Elaine to a burlesque bar, where they witness a performer twirling her titty-tassels in an exceptionally vulgar manner. My heart bled for Elaine as she rushed from the establishment in tears after being confronted with this brazen exhibition.
Now if the ladies in Times Square were performing such outrageous stunts, the mayor would have my full support in seeking to curtail their activities. However a video interview of Ms Rachel Jessee, a spokesperson of “GoTopless Day” parade, suggests that this is far from the case. She cogently argues in favour of normalising bare-chestedness in the human female, so that people no longer view it as something aberrant or unsettling. I should add that Ms Jessee’s own breasts were tastefully and teasingly exposed during the interview. I refuse to believe that she would lend her support to anything bawdy or offensive.
So after due consideration of the evidence, I declare the mayor of New York to be a reactionary ass whose ignoble scheme must be resisted with unrelenting doggedness. I urge the citizens of the great metropolis to rally in support of their beautiful and talented and street artists. I will not visit their city as a tourist until the liberated bosoms of Times Square are officially recognised as a symbol of its highest ideals, no less important than the Statue of Liberty.
Labels: Breasts, free speech, human titty, New York, topless women
