Wednesday, August 24, 2016
The making of Britney
Once again, I find myself thinking about Britney Spears. Not in a lurid or lustful way, I should hasten to add. I feel like an ornithologist observing a rare species of parrot and wondering what’s going on inside that birdbrain. This time, it’s the title of her new song that has me flummoxed. “Make me” is what it’s called. It’s the kind of thing a pina colada would say to a barman if the pina colada could talk. However Britney isn’t a cocktail, so what does she mean by that two-word instruction?
If the song were about food, it might be short for “Make me a possum burger”. I’ve never thought it remotely likely that Britney was a vegetarian – her sharp white teeth and hungry eyes remind me of a female hyena. Although she probably doesn’t screw up her nose at fast food, I’m sure she prefers fresh road-kill, skinned and sliced by an unkempt backwoodsman with a bushy beard. There was a rumour that she acquired a taste for squirrel when she was a girl, but she claims she only petted the critters.
But perhaps I ought to listen to the song before speculating about the meaning of its title. There might be a few subtle hints in the lyrics about what she’s asking for. Come to think of it, I can look up the lyrics directly without even listening to the song. Here’s a selection of some of the more pertinent lines:
I just want you to make me move
Like it ain't a choice for you, like you got a job to do
And make me oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh...
And make me oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh...
I think we can safely deduce that she isn’t talking about burgers. The last two lines seem to be saying “Make me moan like a harlot”, but the first two lines are more opaque in their meaning. “Like you got a job to do” could mean she’s hired a gigolo to pleasure her, but why would she need to tell him that? A gigolo would already know he had a job to do. What Britney is really saying, I suspect, is “Make me pregnant”. That’s the kind job she has plenty of history in asking for, and I don’t believe she’s done yet. The “ooh oohs” in the last two lines could be labour pains.
Now I’m aware there’s a video promoting the song, which could provide further clues about what it all means. The problem is that the current video is actually a replacement for a previous one that was withdrawn. A show business gossip site has revealed that the original video was axed because it was “too sexy”. “Too sexy for what?” I’d like to know. This earlier version should be re-instated in my view. Let Britney express herself freely, so we can scrutinise her movements and assess her desires and intentions. We won’t get to the bottom of this subject if people keep on censoring the evidence.
Labels: Britney Spears, censorship, possum burger, song lyrics
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Britney's dangerous obsession
It’s been a long time since I said anything about Britney Spears, which I feel I should apologise for. Not to my readers, who are probably glad of the hiatus, but to myself. Britney, you see, has been in my thoughts for a long time. She caught my attention many years ago, when she shaved her head and her coochie, allowing the paparazzi to take pictures of both of them. These were clearly the acts of a desperate woman having an emotional breakdown, which aroused my concern for her wellbeing. Somehow she survived that crisis, gradually expunging the gremlins in her head, and re-emerging triumphantly with her career back on track and her head full of hair. The state of her lady garden remains unknown, but I’m confident it’s being tended to with due care and attention.
Now Britney has recently been in the news for making it known that she wants to have a romantic relationship with Leonardo di Caprio:
"Britney has insisted she'll do whatever it takes to catch Leo's attention,” said a well-placed source.
You might think she’s being too forward in her pursuit of di Caprio, but that would be ignoring his previous attempts to seduce her:
“Leo always had a crush on Britney,” said the source. “When they saw each other at a party a few years ago, he made a play for her, but she wasn't single at the time.”
So why has the deal not been sealed? It seems that di Caprio is worried about becoming the de facto stepfather of Britney’s children, aged 9 and 10, sired by the oafish rap singer she was once married to.
“Leo's made it clear he likes Britney but everyone knows he's not interested in settling down or playing stepdad to her kids,” said the source. “She would have to be OK with knowing it would never be anything serious.”
It’s fascinating that these negotiations are being conducted by intermediaries, as if di Caprio were the Holy Roman Emperor trying to make an alliance with the Queen of Bavaria. Call me a sceptical ape, but the stepfather issue looks like an excuse to me. Britney’s children already have a biological father (oaf though he may be), and the rich can afford any number of nannies to ensure their kiddies don’t hinder their love lives. The fact that di Caprio has stated in advance that he doesn’t want “anything serious” suggests to me that his intentions are not honourable. I fear that he wants to use Britney like a sex doll and deposit her in the dumpster after he’s finished.
If I had Britney’s ear, I would tell her straight out that di Caprio is a heel unworthy of her amorous feelings. A mother of 34 years must put aside her girlish infatuations and wise up to the wicked ambitions of the dandy and the poodlefaker. I’d hate to see her go through another episode where her head resembles an ostrich egg and her cha-cha is exposed for public desecration.
Labels: Britney Spears, dandy, Leonardo di Caprio, poodlefaker
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Bieber's vertical hotline
An email correspondent informs me that Justin Bieber has claimed God spoke to him.
“Why haven’t you commented on this?” asks the e-mailer.
The short answer is that I’m a busy ape who doesn’t have time to monitor every crackpot assertion from Master Bieber’s mouth. I don’t pay attention to him unless he’s created some kind of commotion that has ruffled the eyebrows of the human masses. Furthermore, there’s nothing very clever about getting a voicemail from God – humans have been doing that for the past 3,000 years and it’s highly unlikely that Bieber was the chosen recipient for any new divine pronouncements.
Having already wasted time responding to the email, I thought I might as well investigate what kind of balderdash Bieber has been babbling to provoke such a missive. I managed to track down this news report and found its contents remarkably unedifying. At no stage does Bieber reveal what God said to him – he merely implies he got some kind of advice to put his affairs in order:
“I'm not super religious or anything but I just heard a voice and was like: You know what? I'm going to change my life around. I'm going to switch up some things and put some stuff together. I called my manager Scooter and said: We need to fix it.”
So speaketh the Bieb. I think we can safely say that the noise in his brain was not generated by any power higher than static electricity. The experience clearly spooked him sufficiently to consider turning over a new leaf, which will hopefully mean that his private parts are now kept hidden from public view. May the Lord make us truly grateful for that.
My foray into one line of inquiry led me, as often happens, down other avenues. It seems that Britney Spears has been expressing sympathy for Bieber while attempting to resurrect her own career:
“Whoever is in the spotlight, people are quick to judge,” she remarked. “You know, Justin Bieber, he's huge, and he experiences that. It's just the way the world works, unfortunately.”
I hope Bieber is not too much of a spoiled brat to thank Britney for her words of support, and he shouldn’t let her description of him as “huge” go to his head. David Cassidy used to be huge and look at him now: a burned-out poodlefaker of a man who sings sentimental ballads to rich old ladies. The biggest banana can shrink to the size of a cocktail sausage.
Britney is a pretty big banana herself, of course, and the manager of the safari camp recently referred to her as a “milf”. I’m not sure what that means, but I suspect it has something to do with the fleshiness of her thighs. Be that as it many, Bieber should ask her out on a date if he has any sense. A wayward pup like him needs a big sister type who’ll give his nose a tweak if he starts behaving like an ass.
Labels: Britney Spears, David Cassidy, God, Justin Bieber, poodlefaker
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Bog standard
Paul McCartney has revealed that he finished off many of his greatest songs while sitting on the toilet. Thus, the final verse of Let It Be was written while Paul was pooping in the gentleman’s lavatory at EMI studios. It reached number two in the British charts.
It’s much harder to compose a catchy tune while taking a leak, of course. The “tinkle-tinkle” noise is too distracting for most songwriters. Evacuating the bowels, by contrast, involves lengthy periods of silence interrupted by occasional bursts of wind and percussion. It is said that Beethoven composed his fifth symphony after a heavy lunch of bratwurst and ale.
Although it’s nice of Paul to tell us his song-writing secrets, I’m not really sure I wanted to know. An artist should preserve the mystique of his artistry, so the public remains in awe of his creative genius. When I was in the circus, I performed a conjuring trick that made the audience believe a clown had given birth to a snake. If anyone asked me how I did it, I told them it was voodoo magic from the darkest jungles of Africa.
Now, some would say that Paul hasn’t written a great song in the last 40 years, so his toilet technique must have faltered fairly quickly after the first flush of exuberance. Maybe the break-up of the Beatles affected the regularity of his bowel movements. There is, however, another explanation for the evaporation of his creative juices. A songwriter who achieves prolific early success is often distracted by other pursuits. In Paul’s case it was sumo wrestling. His interest in this oriental oddity arose when he toured Japan in 1993, and he now attends the major tournaments.
Paul only participates as a spectator, of course. He would not be such a fool to compete in a sport designed for stupendously fat men who enjoy wearing nappies. His love of the moob-wobbling spectacle inspired him to sponsor a stable of wrestlers to promote his latest album. He wisely refrained from composing a tribute ballad for them – how could it have improved on I am the Walrus, which John Lennon wrote 48 years ago?
But I shouldn’t give you the impression that I despise sumo wrestlers. They wouldn’t go far in the jungle, but why would they need to? You don’t have to worry about your lack of mobility if you can earn a billion yen by waddling about inside a ring small enough for a cat orgy. I did say they were fat, but I meant that as a description rather than an insult.
In truth, I hate it when humans use the word “fat” as a term of abuse. The latest victim of this nauseating habit was Britney Spears, who was called a fat bitch while performing in concert. I’m glad that Britney gave the heckler a choice riposte of her own, and am mystified that some commentators have criticised her for doing so. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.
Labels: Britney Spears, Paul McCartney, Poo-poo, song-writing, sumo, sumo wrestler
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Licking James Bond
A 26-year-old actress called Karen Gillan has said she wants to lick Daniel Craig’s face. Before you denounce her as a shameless hoochie, take note of her intention to perform this act in a professional capacity. Her dream is to appear in a Bond movie, playing a villainess who would demonstrate her brazen effrontery by slobbering on 007’s cheeks. According to Karen, her father was the inspiration behind this unusual ambition:
“My dad used to tell me when I was younger, ‘You don't want to be a Bond girl; you want to be a villain’. That stuck with me.”
Let’s hope her tongue doesn’t stick to Danny’s face. Knowing him as I do, I am certain he would not find the prospect appealing. That tanned, clean-shaven countenance we admire on the big screen is heavily coated with cosmetics. Licking it off would make him feel naked. Far from promoting her cause, Miss Gillan’s audacious announcement will make Danny very reluctant to work with her. She would have done less harm to her chances by saying she wanted to lick his arse.
There are surprisingly few good licking scenes in big budget movies. Steven Bauer wiggled his tongue at several women in Scarface, but his invitations came to naught. John Turturo licked his bowling ball in The Big Lebowski, but what did that prove? Any fool can lick an inanimate object. The only licking of actual flesh I can remember occurred in The Name of the Rose, when the ugly hunchback licked the leg of the sultry peasant girl. She didn’t like it one bit and cursed him in an obscure medieval language, which may have been French. Another good licking opportunity arose in the same movie, when the apprentice monk played by Christian Slater was ravished by the same peasant girl. But neither tongue got involved in the action – I suppose such things are often forgotten in the heat of the moment.
In truth, it is better to have your face licked by a cat than a human. The rasping feline tongue is admirably equipped for the purpose, whereas the human tongue is made for talking rather than polishing. This doesn’t mean that all humans are good speakers, of course. Britney Spears has a very attractive tongue, yet people have accused her of being too stupid to hold a conversation. Maybe she would be more articulate if she communicated in song.
Britney should nevertheless take heart from Kanye West’s recent statement about her:
“I am not Britney Spears,” he declared profoundly.
He may have meant it as an insult, but she should certainly take it as a compliment. The man has recently been charged with assaulting a photographer, and expects to beat the rap by boasting about his towering intellect:
“I’m the smartest celebrity you’ve ever fucking dealt with!” he told a lawyer in a deposition to the court.
One suspects he was exaggerating for effect. I can’t believe he’s brainier than 50 Cent or P. Diddy.
Labels: Britney Spears, Daniel Craig, James Bond, Kanye West, Licking
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Britney rules the waves
The music of Britney Spears is being used by super tankers to scare off Somali pirates.
“These guys can’t stand Western culture or music,” explained Second Officer Rachel Owens. “As soon as the pirates get a blast of Britney they move on as quickly as they can.”
I wonder whether the pirates are terrified of Britney herself. How would they react to seeing her in person, performing one of her booty-titty dances? A superstitious bandit might think she was a succubus from Hell, trying to damn his soul by giving him a boner. Maybe he’d feel compelled to squirt lemon juice in his eyes, critically impairing his kidnapping ability.
Now the Somali pirates are not technically jihadists, but their reaction to Britney suggests she could be America’s secret weapon in the war against Al Qaeda. It isn’t over just because bin Laden sleeps with the fishes. Not by a long chalk. Anyone who’s seen The Godfather knows that killing the Don doesn’t finish it – you’ve still got any number of Sollozzo’s and Barzini’s to take care of.
When I said “secret weapon” I actually meant “public weapon”, because nothing Britney does is a secret. If the US Navy made her an admiral of the 6th Fleet, president Obama could order her to make a butt-nekkid “Eat me Abdul” video with plenty of twerking. The US Air Force could then scatter the DVDs over North Waziristan and all the other Al Qaeda strongholds.
In US military-speak, I think that would severely degrade their combat effectiveness. How could they even think of planning martyrdom operations if they were constantly horny and masturbating five times a day? They wouldn’t even be able to hold their weapons straight without firing off in random directions.
Some of you must be thinking “What’s so special about Britney? Why not choose someone really hot like Katy Perry who would make the jihadniks pull their dicks off?” My reply would be that Britney has an innocent quality that appeals to the hard-core Al Qaeda types. Even in that crazy phase she went through, when she shaved her head and exposed her cha-cha, there was something naïve and vulnerable about her.
Katy, on the other hand, is guilty of many impious deeds, like telling everyone that Mick Jagger made a pass at her when she was 18. Jagger has recently denied doing any such thing, which might cause you to infer that one of them is lying, but I put it down to a cultural misunderstanding. Men of all nationalities have noticed that American women think you’re asking them for sex when you pay them the slightest little compliment, so maybe Katy got the wrong idea.
Mick Jagger’s method of seduction was explained in a song he sang in the 1960s called Let’s Spend the Night Together. It seems to have worked quite well for him. There’s no need to beat around the bush if you’re a legend of rock music whose underpants are stuffed full of cash.
Labels: Al Qaeda, bin Laden, Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Mick Jagger, super tankers, Western culture
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
Monday, November 07, 2011
Deceptive behaviour
Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I serve a drink to a young American man who resembles the actor Robert Downey Junior. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he confides that he is a compulsive womaniser. We gorillas are used to hearing such confessions from humans, who often confuse us with their shrinks.
“I pretend to be gay,” he says. “Women love having gay boyfriends who’ll go shopping with them and tell them their ass looks great. The gayness puts them off their guard and they soon start hugging and kissing me. After that happens, I just pick the right moment to stick my nose between their hooters.”
“What if they object to being caressed in that fashion?” I ask.
“They never do,” he replies. “Women are vain and can’t resist the idea of turning a gay guy straight. It makes them feel special.”
“What a sly fellow you are!” I exclaim. “Don’t try it in the Congo, though. Pretty boys who pretend to be gay over here end up in the tent of a tribal chief.”
I later reflect on the women deceived by this wily seducer. What went through their minds when the man-friend who said he was gay started nuzzling their jahoobies? Clearly, emotion and wishful-thinking must have clouded their judgement. The lesson for nubile women everywhere is clear: the man who talks gay but pets straight is not to be trusted. He is probably a devious bounder with dishonourable intentions.
Having said all that, it is noteworthy that there are men in America who can feign gayness without feeling shame. This is a social advance to be applauded. Obviously, they must drop the act when they’re in a redneck bar or riding with the Hell’s Angels, but that’s just a matter of common sense. You don’t go for a swim in a pool full of sharks.
Not so long ago, it was gay men who pretended to be straight. Some, like the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, even married women to camouflage their true nature. Apparently, women who perform this function are called “beards”. I learnt of this terminology when Chris Martin (the pop musician) referred to Gwyneth Paltrow (his wife) as a great beard. He was obviously joking, but it was still an ugly slur. No A-list actress should be given an epithet which befits the bush sprouting from Brian Blessed’s chin.
Do beards still exist in the modern world? Some people have jumped to the conclusion that George Clooney’s latest girlfriend is a beard, merely because she used to be a professional wrestler. That doesn’t follow at all. Being attracted to a female who can put you in a headlock has nothing to do with being gay, as any male gorilla will tell you.
I do have a suspicion that Britney Spears is an unwitting beard, though. Her current boyfriend is a narcissistic fellow called Jason Trawick, who co-starred with Britney in her latest pop video. Their simulated sex scenes were so unconvincing that Britney had to grope a couple of pillows to portray her ecstasy. A man who allows pillows to steal his love-scene obviously isn’t performing with his first choice.
Labels: beards, Britney Spears, gays, George Clooney, nuzzling boobies
Monday, October 11, 2010
A piglet squeals
Now I don’t dispute that Britney did behave like a sex-crazed vixen in need of a good seeing to. One wouldn’t expect anything different from the woman. Nor am I saying that the fellow should have jumped on top of her the minute she wiggled her naked butt-cheeks – that sort of behaviour is for the goats and baboons. But a man who expects to be financially compensated for being propositioned by a nubile woman has forfeited the right to own a pair of testicles.
There is always a polite way of declining a woman’s favours without making her feel like a heifer whose udders are unfit for milking. When holidaying in England, a few years ago, I had the privilege of reading the memoirs of Lieutenant Cornelius Wagstaff of the Royal Navy, whose journal was an heirloom in a stately home I visited. In its pages, there is a description of an incident that occurred during shore leave in Naples, when the Contessa di Napoli invited Wagstaff to her palace to examine some artefacts of the late Lady Hamilton.
When Wagstaff arrived, he found a home empty of servants apart from a maid, who gave him directions to the Contessa’s bedchamber before leaving herself. On arriving, he found that both the door and the Contessa were wide open. As the latter sprawled naked on her bed, arching her back like a pussycat about to be stroked, she addressed her guest as follows:
“Here I am and this is what I offer you.”
Like a true officer of the King’s Navy, Wagstaff composed himself before responding to the challenge of an enemy vessel. Taking a deep breath, he said:
“My lady! Your body is an exquisite temptation which causes my sturdy loins to surge with manly desire. Yet I cannot succumb, for I am betrothed to a woman who at this very moment clasps my portrait to her tender, yearning bosom!”
“I see,” said the Contessa. “Shall I dress and show you the palace?”
Wagstaff chewed his lip and frowned before replying to this question:
So the Lieutenant and the Contessa walked around the palace as innocently and as nakedly as Adam and Eve on their first day in Paradise. The Contessa was satisfied that her physical charms had not been scorned, and Wagstaff had turned what might have been an untoward incident into a triumph for British diplomacy.
Is there a man alive today with the manners and discretion of Lieutenant Cornelius Wagstaff?
Labels: Britney Spears, lawsuit, Royal Navy, sexual harassment
Friday, February 12, 2010
Britney's squirrel denial
Britney Spears has denied eating squirrel, but did anyone believe it in the first place? Having chased one of those critters up a tree, I am certain that no human is agile enough to catch one. Certainly not Britney, whose dopey face suggests slow reflexes and poor hand-eye coordination. What’s more, there isn’t nearly enough meat on a squirrel to justify the effort. When I finally grabbed the one that stole my nuts, I thought “this puny little rodent wouldn’t feed an anorexic weasel.” Not that I had any intention of eating it myself, of course – we gorillas are fastidious in abstaining from unauthorised meat products.
Now that Britney has responded to the squirrel allegation, it can only be a matter of time before she is forced into further denials. There is no end of furry mammals that an unstable young singer from a Hillbilly family may be plausibly accused of eating. Possum, raccoon, coyote, beaver? I doubt she’s tasted any of them, yet after making such a fuss about the squirrel story I can’t help wondering.
A circus clown once accused me of eating his pet gerbil. “Gorilla Bananas ate my gerbil” was the line he gave people who noticed the gerbil was missing. I knew at once that denying this absurd story would be undignified and counterproductive. “He who denied it, supplied it” was a popular saying of the time. So I responded with satire, putting up a succession of gerbil recipes on my trailer door. Here are some of those dishes:
Roast gerbil with parsnips and carrots
Southern fried gerbil with sweet potatoes and corn
Smoked gerbil with runner beans and wild mushrooms
Stir-fried gerbil in yellow bean sauce with rice noodles
Gerbil stew with broad beans and shallots
People soon got bored of hearing about gerbil main courses and started accusing the clown of being my stooge in a comedy routine. This upset him so much that he went to a psychiatrist to get over the loss of his pet. Under hypnosis, the clown revealed that he’d trodden on the gerbil by mistake and thrown its squashed carcass into a cement mixer. The memory of this event was so painful that he’d repressed it, substituting the false story involving me. I forgave him the calumny because he’d genuinely convinced himself of its truth. One must show compassion to the mentally unhinged whenever possible.
If I were Britney’s manager, I’d tell her to stop responding to the gossip sheets and take control the debate herself. No one will speculate about her appetite for bushy-tailed rodents if she gives them juicy titbits from the filly’s mouth. A confession is worth more than a hundred second-hand stories.
Christina Aguilera is one who has adopted this strategy, recently declaring that she feels irresistibly sexy in the nude and would rather see pictures of naked women than naked men. Unlike the Britney-eats-squirrel story, this is entirely credible and gives the reader useful information in relatively few words. It also diverts attention from Christina’s dietary habits, whatever they may be.
Labels: beaver, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Possum, Raccoon, Squirrel
Monday, April 06, 2009
Britney and Mel
Isn’t it wonderful to see Britney Spears back to her old self ? It warms the cockles of my groin to view pictures of her squatting on stage in a ring-mistress costume. I wish I could have been there to listen to her miming to her greatest hits. The audience supposedly lapped it up like cream from a freshly-milked cow.
As a former circus ape, I have to point out that calling her act “The Circus” wasn’t technically correct. You simply can’t have a proper circus without clowns. Dwarves and gimps are fine in their place, but they aren’t trained to make the right facial expressions when you kick them in the arse or pour custard down their pants. It’s a pity, really, because I’m sure there are many clowns who would have loved Britney to work them over.
Here’s a snippet of gossip you may not know: Britney owes her recovery to the tender loving care of Mel Gibson. The A-list actor and family man has confirmed that he took Britney under his wing when her fortunes were at a low ebb and she was apparently off her rocker. His many acts of kindness included inviting her to his villa in Costa Rica and watching her frolic on the beach.
The manager of the safari camp, being a cynical old vulture, suggested that Mel’s avuncular concern sprung primarily from a desire to pat Britney repeatedly on the bum. I, for one, don’t buy it. Why would a film star who has enjoyed simulated sexual intercourse with the most beautiful actresses in the world (including contact between opposing pairs of nipples) be remotely interested in Britney’s behind? Only people who don’t work in show business think there is anything special about a famous starlet’s tush. The manager was obviously projecting his own squalid fantasies onto Mr Gibson.
Is it possible for the human male to pat a woman’s bottom affectionately without being vulgar or suggestive? I think not. He simply cannot avoid leering indecently or making an off-colour remark – it is hardwired into his DNA. A male gorilla, on the other hand, presses the flesh of his females with great dignity. Paw-on-rump from a silverback is an act of pure physicality that would make any female feel special.
Yet bottoms are not the main issue here. The questions that confront us are: (i) Has Britney Spears permanently recovered from her breakdown? and (ii) Is Mel Gibson really a nice guy rather than a papist nutter who made a film depicting a man being tortured for 100 minutes?
The answer to the first question is “time will tell”. For the moment she looks like the bouncy Britney of old, but who knows when a relapse might occur? Much will depend on the quality of her underwear – and whether she chooses to wear it. The answer to the second question is “both personalities co-exist within the same tortured soul”. Mel’s desire to help flighty damsels in distress goes hand-in-hand with his tendency to fly off the handle and take things to extremes. He may well have been playing himself in the Mad Max movies.
I shall ask the local witch doctor to put a calming spell of soothement on both of them.
Labels: Britney Spears, goosing, Mad Max, Mel Gibson
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Italian Knob
An Italian visitor declares that Silvio Berlusconi is the biggest “pezzo di merda” in Western Europe. I feel obliged to reprimand him for his intemperate outburst.
“Sir, your remark is uncharitable for the Christmas season. Western Europe is full of enormous pezzi di merda. Perhaps Signor Berlusconi is the biggest one in Italy, although he has tough competition, what with the Mafia and Lapo Elkann.”
There follows a civil exchange of views in which our guest cites the following examples of objectionable conduct by the Italian prime minister:
1) He wore a headscarf following a hair transplant operation, giving the excuse that he had whimsically decided to dress like a pirate.
2) He discussed his wife’s extramarital affairs with other European politicians.
3) He complimented the American president-elect on his tan.
I offer no mitigation for the first complaint. The leader of a civilised nation should never give succour to pirates, even if it is limited to copying their sartorial habits. We quickly dismiss the possibility that he had converted to Islam and was wearing the hijab. A hedonistic fellow like Berlusconi would never give up wine purely to adopt a particular form of headdress.
On the second allegation, I am far more inclined to leniency. Frankly, I can’t see much wrong in gossiping about your estranged wife’s sex life, even if the aim is to divert attention from your own debaucheries. A cuckold has his rights, and it wasn’t as if he was kissing-and-telling or revealing bedroom secrets. Indeed, his behaviour may have done much to dispel the unpleasant stereotype of the jealous Latin lover, chasing his rival with a meat cleaver.
On the third point, I am not sure what to think. Barry Obama certainly has a fine-looking tan, but drawing attention to it may be tactless. I know enough about humans to be aware that a hue obtained from a visit to the tropics is crucially different from a congenital complexion. All the same, I sense that Barry is the kind of man to take such remarks in his stride and give the wag making them a smack on the back for his impudence. He certainly has the sun-tanned look of a coffee-commercial actor. Perhaps he should star in such an advertisement with the Secretary of State presumptive, to help her pay off her campaign debts. Imagine them together on a yacht, Barry loitering on deck with his shirt unbuttoned as Hillary brings him light refreshment in a bikini:
“Mmm-hmm! You sure make a mean cup of coffee, Hilldog!” he might say after savouring a long sip with his eyes closed.
I hear that the hotels in DC are fully booked for Barry’s inauguration in January. I expect they’re all terribly excited about the speech he is going to make. I hope he comes up with some new material rather than rehashing all the old stuff about “change, we can do it, yes we can”. If I were his speech writer, I’d make sure Britney Spears got a mention after all the trouble she’s been through. It’s very easy to criticise a woman for exposing her shaven cha-cha to photographers, but don’t forget that she was driven to it by her ex-husband, a worm so disreputable that even other worms find him slimy.
Never have I witnessed a celebrity divorce where the blame was so much on one side. Had I been the presiding judge, I would have sternly rebuked the repulsive rapster before plucking him like a Christmas fowl.
“Federline,” I would have said, “you are a talentless bounder! I hereby give full custody of the children to Miss Spears. You must also give her all your assets, including the clothes you are wearing. Officer of the court, strip this man at once! Leave his briefs on, though, he has caused enough offence for one day.”
Anyway, I hope that President Obama finds a job for Britney in his administration. Nothing too important, just a little something to allow her to regain her pride and present the middle finger to her critics. Given the state of her nether regions, ambassador to Brazil might be a good post.
The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return in one week.
Labels: Barack Obama, Britney Spears, Silvio Berlusconi
