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, February 04, 2009
Sex, drugs and suicide
Three long-haired men once came to see me after watching my circus act.
“We want you to join our band,” they said.
“What sort of band is it?” I asked.
“Metal,” they said. “We’re called The Electric Chairmen. We let our fans decide whether we’re judges or executioners.”
“Or condemned men indeed,” I remarked. “What role do you envisage for me?”
“Drummer,” they answered. “We need a drummer who can hit extra hard.”
I sighed and shook my head. I am sorry to say that this silly, one-dimensional idea about the musical ability of gorillas was common long before Cadbury-Schweppes plc jumped on the bandwagon.
“I regret that I cannot play the drums,” I said. “I am proficient only in the recorder and the Congolese nose flute.”
“Don’t worry about that, man, we can teach you!”
“No, gentlemen, you will have to ask someone else. I believe Ringo Starr has been looking for a position since The Beatles dissolved their partnership.”
They left disappointedly and I pondered the attractions of being in a pop group. If it’s so good, why do so many of the most successful performers die young? Jim Morrissey, Curt Cockbain and Michael Hutchend all perished miserably from self-inflicted injuries. I suspect that a man who receives too much fellatio loses his grip on reality. He begins to think of his penis as a lollypop and suffers agonies of regret that he will never be able to taste its fruity flavours. The spine of an upright primate is simply not flexible enough. (We gorillas can do it but rarely bother – it’s not worth the back strain it causes). Perhaps I should write a paper on this for the Journal of Psychology. Even if my theory is false, men who aren’t getting any will feel better for hearing it.
Some pop stars, of course, manage to cope with the fame and the groupies without committing suicide. David Cassidy is one who lived long enough to write a memoir from the perspective of middle-age. It may have been helpful that his associates in The Partridge Family included the maternal Shirley Jones and the nymph-like Susan Dey. These two ladies were indeed a foster family for young David, Miss Jones being his actual step-mother and Miss Dey being a surrogate sister (albeit with one much regretted act of incest). Their presence surely helped to keep his self-destructive demon at bay.
A more functional explanation of Mr Cassidy’s survival is found in the reason for his nickname “Donk”. If half of what he says about his blessed physique is true, a woman would have needed the throat of a python to relieve him orally. It seems he was quite happy to use his prodigious organ in the orthodox fashion in any case. According to David, the Italian movie star Gina Lollobrigida was well-briefed about his dimensions:
The first time I met Gina she looked me up and down and said: “I hear you’re a monster. I want to meet the monster.” Well, I decided that if I had it, there wasn’t any point in just keeping it in the holster all the time.
Very obliging of him. My old circus chum Mario claims that it was this encounter that inoculated Mr Cassidy against the woeful fate of others in his profession. Apparently no man who has slept with an Italian actress has ever taken his own life. Mario was a notorious bum-pincher in his day, but I have no reason to question his knowledge of Italian show-business folklore.
Labels: David Cassidy, fellatio, Gina Lollobrigida, heavy metal
