Wednesday, October 07, 2015
Political news
A Peruvian prostitute is seeking election to the country’s legislature. Angela Villon Bustamante (for that is her name) made the following announcement on a popular TV show:
“Vote for me and I’ll make Congress a more respectable brothel.”
As a political slogan, I would say it’s the sex worker’s equivalent of Motherhood and Apple Pie. Unfortunately her official campaign video is in Spanish, so I can’t give you the details of her platform. I asked the manager of the safari camp whether he had a bilingual guest who could translate her manifesto into English – his inquisitive nature required me to fill him in on the details.
“What’s all this to you?” he asked with an insolent grin. “Are you thinking of inviting Miss Busty-man-tits to join your harem if she doesn’t get elected?”
“Your satirical remarks will not deflect me from my purpose,” I replied. “Do you have a Spanish-speaking guest or not?”
“Not at the moment,” said the manager. “But if anyone called Sancho Panza or Speedy Gonzales makes a booking, you’ll be the first to know.”
There are those who would say that candidates like Angela make a mockery of the democratic process. I would argue than human institutions need to be continually revitalised by fresh ideas. It’s incredibly boring for a gorilla to listen to politicians pontificate about the same old issues in the same old way. An experienced courtesan like Angela (she is 51 years of age) would have the ability to think outside the box and come up with new positions. And if necessary, she could think inside the box and adopt the same old positions. Prostitutes are flexible and can adapt to different situations.
Of course, Peru is a minor thicket in the political ecosphere and Angela is unlikely to make it much bushier. The big jungle is the USA, where everyone is currently mesmerised by Donald Trump and his campaign to be the next American president. It seems he got ahead of the pack by the ingenious tactic of saying the first thing that came into his head rather than applying careful forethought to his utterances. To the average voter, this made him sound “genuine” rather than an ignorant buffoon.
I knew Trump would be a force to be reckoned with when he said that a woman who had annoyed him had “blood coming out of her you-know-what”. It was astonishingly daring of him to imply he had intimate knowledge of her menstrual cycle. Presumably he did not, so it must have been an audacious bluff. He reminded me of a crazy baboon I once saw chasing a lioness and trying to bite her tail.
One can only imagine the grievous calamities his reckless behaviour might cause if he ever became president. His hair also resembles a dead furry animal, which means that other world leaders would not take him seriously and snigger behind his back. Clearly he must be stopped, but who is going to beat him now that Hilldog’s campaign is faltering?
Labels: American politics, Donald Trump, Hilldog, Peruvian politics, prostitutes
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Having it both ways
After getting jilted by the vile Schwarzenegger sprog, Miley Cyrus is now hinting that she’s bisexual:
“I never want to label myself,” she declared. “I am ready to love anyone that loves me. I am open!”
If I were Miley’s pater familias, I would advise her against being too open. The world is full of cunning opportunists looking for tempting openings to infiltrate and exploit. I’m not saying she should keep herself closed, but it’s possible to compromise by being slightly ajar. A girl must be ready to batten down the hatches if anything untoward tries to poke its head in.
Now, bisexuality is common in Nature. It works best in creatures like snakes, which can mate without getting into fixed positions where one is on top of the other. Whether humans can achieve this is debatable – I should imagine it’s possible on a friction-free surface with plenty of lubricants. A nimble waif like Miley should be more capable than most, but that doesn’t mean she should rush into any sort of wriggly manoeuvre. Recovering from a broken heart is not the best time for willy-nilly experimentation.
It’s good to see that the temporary lull in her private life isn’t stopping her from pushing the artistic envelope. Consider her recent appearance at the “Adult Swim Upfront Party” in New York City. Miley arrived at the event in an innovative butterfly costume, her small but shapely breasts covered with attractive nipple plasters. Before singing a bawdy song, she had the good manners to banter with the guests:
“Are you guys drunk yet? Are you guys high yet?” she asked. “No?! You’re going to be at a show where I’m dressed as a fucking butterfly and not be high? I’m down to share.”
I’m not sure what the last sentence meant, but the tone of her remarks is positive.
Returning to the subject of bisexuality, I wouldn’t be surprised if most powerful women were endowed with such inclinations. You don’t get to be a powerful woman without being competitive, and why would a competitive woman deny herself something a man can have? If we look at the contemporary political scene, our eyes are inevitably drawn to Mrs Clinton, who is more than capable of returning our stares. I don’t know whether Hilldog has said she’s running for president, but I’m happy to endorse her in advance of the announcement.
The question no one has thought of is this: If Mrs Clinton becomes president, who will be the first lady? It can’t be Hillary herself, because that would give her two roles. Bill is probably hoping to have the job, but the thought of him hosting official functions in an evening dress is too horrible to contemplate. The only solution I can think of is for Hillary’s mistress to move into the White House, putting her nose to the grindstone for the good of the nation. But how can this happen until we know who the blessed woman is? The ball, I believe, is in Mrs Clinton’s court.
Labels: bisexual women, Hillary Clinton, Hilldog, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
Exposing Hillary
A cry-baby movie director is complaining that no one will help him make a biopic about Hillary Clinton:
"When I approached people for interviews, I discovered that nobody, and I mean nobody, was interested in helping me make this film,” whined Charles Ferguson.
He sounds like a frustrated village gossip who’s annoyed because all the local snitches are shunning him. In his opinion, this refusal to spill the beans is a betrayal of American democracy:
“I don't think it's a victory for the media, or for the American people," he declared pompously.
The man is an ass and I’m glad his insidious project has been scuppered. You can bet your bottom’s last dollar that the film would have shown Hilldog in compromising positions with other women, which would have brought aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States, who are the last humans on Earth who deserve to be aided and comforted.
Speaking as a gorilla, it wouldn’t worry me at all if Mrs Clinton were a Velcro vixen. If any woman has earned the right to be a lesbian, it’s her. When you’ve been publicly cuckolded by a succession of empty-headed floozies, you’re fully entitled to a few private dalliances of your own, be they Sapphic or otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a Nosey Parker film maker should pry into your personal affairs and tell lurid tales to the world and his wife.
In any case, these Hollywood directors can’t be trusted to give an accurate depiction of the facts. The accursed Oliver Stoned served up a giant barrel of buffalo piss about the Kennedy assassination, which the ignoramuses of our time lapped up like cream from the she-elephant’s udders. The human masses have had their fill of fictionalised political codswallop and don’t need a film about Hilldog to shave further points off their waning IQs.
Oddly enough, the Republicans are also against the film, because they think it would give the former first lady unfair publicity for her next presidential bid. Now I’d like to see a woman in the White House as much as the next ape, but surely Hillary has missed the boat. She’s beginning to look like a crotchety old spinster whose finger shouldn’t be on anyone’s nuclear button. And don’t forget about Bill, who would insist on moving back with her so he could scent-mark his former territory. It would be like a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with the same cast as the original.
Of course, you’ve got to give Hillary credit for inspiring women to get into politics. Even a girl like Miley Cyrus, who is a novice in political affairs, is talking about her plans for world domination. One has to wonder what office of state she plans to hold, given that she’s telling everyone what a bad bitch she is. If I were president I’d appoint her Chief Dominatrix to make sure all the whips and nipple clamps were being used correctly. She could start by giving lessons to the Senators’ wives.
Labels: gossip, Hillary Clinton, Hilldog, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
Friday, June 10, 2011
Cat noises
An Australian senator has been forced to apologise for meowing at the country’s lesbian finance minister. It’s not clear whether he was mocking her gender or her sexual orientation. Whichever is true, there’s no reason for women to get huffy about being likened to cats, which are rather attractive creatures in spite of their airs and general moodiness. It’s better to be an animal that people stroke than one which they ride or milk.
I wouldn’t like to be in the minister’s shoes now that she’s revealed the chink in her armour. Australia is a nation renowned for its uncouth and vulgar jesters. If any of these pranksters see her in a restaurant, they won’t hesitate to put a saucer of milk on her table. Whenever she appears in public, she’ll have to listen to larrikins making pussy-pussy noises or telling her to lick her whiskers. She may as well wear a Catwoman costume to pre-empt all the jibes she’s going to face.
I used to laugh my head off when people tried to make animal noises in the circus. Most humans are only any good at mimicking dogs and pigs. The English aristocracy are not too bad at horses. Only men with very deep voices are capable of sounding like a gorilla. Tom Jones is one, and Davy Attenborough managed to imitate some of our grunts after soaking his scrotum in rum. I remember a pie-faced fellow trying to impress me with “Ook! Ook!” noises after watching me perform in the ring. He was hopeless.
“You sound like a castrated baboon!” I jeered. “You’d better get some hormones injected if you want to impress a female gorilla!”
In spite of rubbishing his performance, I didn’t mind the fellow having a go.
Humans are perfectly entitled to express their inner ape in front of a real one. They might not get the approval they yearn for, but there’s no harm in trying.
When all is said and done, I salute Australia for putting a carpet-munching Sheila in charge of its financial affairs. Where are the gay women in high offices of state in America? Conspicuous by their absence if the rumours about Hilldog are false, which I certainly believe them to be.
The most eminent lesbian in America is Ellen Degeneres, who recently invited a beefy black man onto her show. It seems he became a pin-up for American women after exposing his hunky torso on an aftershave commercial. To please her mainly female audience, Ellen encouraged him to remove his shirt to wild acclaim.
If President Obama is re-elected next year, he ought to consider appointing Ms Degeneres to his cabinet. A woman of her populist instincts could keep him in touch with the voters and give him sound advice on when to bare his chest. She could also accompany Mrs Clinton on her overseas trips, ironing her panty girdle and licking her into shape before her encounters with foreign statesmen. Any tomcat who dares to meow at Hilldog will be paying a visit to the vet.
Labels: Ellen Degeneres, Hilldog, lesbian, meowing
Monday, November 08, 2010
The ringtone revolution
My afternoon nap is disturbed by the noise of ululating women. They are celebrating the news that Mrs Cherry-Blair and Hilldog are planning to give them cheap mobile phones. This noble act of philanthropy will transform the lives of millions of African women. Instead of walking to the bazaar to gossip about the president’s latest mistress, they will soon be able to do so while feeding the hens or stroking the rooster. (But not while milking the goat, which requires two hands.)
It may surprise you to learn that I do not, myself, own one of these devices. I do have a mobile number, but anyone who dials it is directed to the phone of a chimpanzee. This chimp screens my calls to save me the bother of telling salesmen and other hucksters to piss off. If I get a legitimate caller, the chimp arranges a time for a return call and lends me his phone for this purpose.
Before you accuse me of exploiting the chimp, please be informed that he receives a generous stipend for his pains. He is ungrateful in spite of it, continually whining about the inconvenience of being my receptionist and so forth. His latest complaint is that women have been sending revealing photos of themselves to my number.
“I didn’t realise I had to be your pimp as well as your secretary!” he bleated. “I want extra money for dealing with those messages. All that naked flesh is ruining my appetite. It looks unnaturally bare, even for humans!”
He was obviously exaggerating his distaste to better his bargaining position. The chimpanzee who can hustle Gorilla Bananas has not been born.
“You accursed fool!” I barked. “Do you think I have any idea who those women are? Some practical joker must have given my number to a swingers’ chat room. You have my permission to delete such messages immediately. And I’m not paying you extra because you can’t stop yourself from ogling!”
“All right,” he agreed meekly. “But don’t you want to look at the pictures yourself? They are still on my phone and there might be someone you know there.”
He had a point. This business of “sexting” has become such a craze that there’s no telling who might be dabbling in it. The practice is highly disreputable, of course, and videos have been made warning against it. But for some women, this might simply increase the thrill.
“Very well,” I said. “Bring me your phone and I will scrutinise the photos before deleting them myself. Most of the women will certainly be strangers to me, but I cannot rule out the possibility that someone I know has suffered a lapse in standards. If so, I will punish her accordingly and instruct her to desist.”
I am currently waiting for the chimp to give me his phone. I sincerely hope that no woman in my acquaintance has sent me an indecent photo of herself. Because if she has, Doctor Spank will be paying a visit to Bottomland.
Labels: Hilldog, Mrs Blair, sexting, spanking
Friday, August 20, 2010
Chelsea's wedding
I overheard the tourists at the safari guesthouse discussing whether the Clintons had snubbed president Obama by not inviting him to Chelsea’s wedding. It was a topic on which I could not hold my peace:
“Not getting an invitation was the best piece of luck he’s had since the Republican phone sex scandal!” I exclaimed. “If he’d gone to the wedding, protocol would have required him to give a speech praising Chelsea. Flattering a girl he’s never given a second look would have made him look like a chicken-greaser!”
“I dunno,” said one of the guests. “Lying convincingly shouldn’t be so difficult for a politician.”
He had a point. I later pondered the words that Barry might have chosen for the occasion. Perhaps he would have said something like this:
When I saw Chelsea at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, I thought: “Man, that white chick’s got a great ass!” If I hadn’t been married to my lovely wife Michelle, I would have definitely asked Chelsea to be my date at The Detroit Gospel Choir’s Annual Karaoke Dinner.
A touching tribute like that would have surely transformed Chelsea into the perfect blushing bride. But it might not have impressed the guests all that much. They would have known that a woman always gets compliments on her wedding day, no matter how frumpy or boney-assed she is. Barry is pretty good at sounding sincere, but even his majestic oratory has its limits.
He could have given another type of speech, of course – one harking back to all the fond memories he had of Chelsea since she was a tiny tot:
When Bill Clinton was running for governor of Arkansas in 1982, I was privileged to be a junior staffer on his campaign team. One of my most important jobs was baby-sitting little Chelsea when her mom and dad were on the campaign trail. Now people: I can tell you her poop smelt just as bad as the possum shit I accidentally trod on when stuffing “Vote for Bill” flyers into mail boxes. But when she started hollering I said: “You wait ‘til your folks get home, Missy, changing your diapers is a task way above my pay grade!”
This sort of reminiscence would certainly go down well with wedding guests. The one allegation that humans will always believe is that someone else’s shit smells bad. If I announced that Queen Rania of Jordan produced turds that smelt of buffalo crap, people would assume I’d worked as a lavatory cleaner at the Royal Palace in Amman.
The downside of delivering such an anecdote is the risk of alienating the president’s core constituencies, who might think that smelling the poop of a white baby had taken him into Uncle Tom territory. Hilldog might then have to reciprocate by saying she’d smelled the poop of the president’s daughters, a confession which would make her surly and irritable. Much muttering and scowling would occur in the corridors of power.
So all things considered, I think the Clintons did the president a favour by not inviting him to their daughter’s wedding. But they should have invited Monica Lewinsky – leaving her off the guest list was just petty.
Labels: Barack Obama, Chelsea Clinton, Hilldog, Monica Lewinsky, smelling poop
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Queen and I
When I tell American tourists that I used to live in England, they often ask me whether I ever met Queen Elizabeth II. Sadly we were never formally introduced, although our paths did once cross on the day of the Epsom Derby. On her way back home from the races, her car stopped alongside my car at the traffic lights. As our eyes met, I licked my thumbnail and rubbed it on my chin in a circular motion. The alpha females all know what it means, and Her Majesty gave me the biggest ear-to-ear grin you could ever wish to see on the face of a reigning monarch. I later received a jar of royal jelly from Buckingham Palace with a card signed “ERxxx”.
Yes, indeed, the Queen gazed into my soul and evidently liked what she saw. I think she sensed we were kindred spirits, both being expected to perform in public, albeit in very different ways. Her job was the harder by far. I never needed to worry about making a fool of myself because people always assumed it was part of my act. But the Queen had to be constantly in control of her emotions lest she was photographed making a silly face. That’s not easy given the number of people she meets, some of whom will inevitably scratch their crotch in her presence.
The latest attempt to embarrass England’s gracious monarch occurred when a couple were caught dogging on the lawn outside Windsor Castle. Apparently it was a spur-of-the-moment thing which they later much regretted. As the Queen was in residence, the royal security police had no option but to pounce on the pair while excited Japanese tourists clicked their cameras. Her Majesty, of course, remained impassive during the whole fracas. People sometimes forget that she is an accomplished horse breeder who has watched hot pumping stallions cover countless mares. For those who have witnessed such deeds, human coitus is a spectacle no more shocking than gerbils having a cuddle.
Much less impressive than Queen Elizabeth are her immediate family. The fogeyish Prince of Wales continues to denounce his pet hates in front of audiences who grin sheepishly at his fixations. One thing I know as a gorilla is that you should never complain about architecture. Human erections are part of the landscape and no more worthy of condemnation than the mountains and trees. One should especially avoid criticising tall buildings in case people think you have a penile complex. From the way Wally Prince Charlie goes on about these edifices you’d think they were giant dildos inserted half-way up his celestial butt-hole.
A lot of Americans seem envious of the British monarchy, but there’s nothing to stop them having their own titular sovereign. Mrs Obama is too tall for the job and the base of her neck looks inappropriately sturdy – a warrior princess perhaps, but a queen definitely not. Hilldog, on the other hand, is naturally regal in her demeanour and full of queenly qualities. Her only demerit is to have been repeatedly cuckolded without retaliating, which is not in the spirit of Catherine the Great. She won’t be worthy of her nation’s crown until she gets out of the hen coop and sows some royal oats. Assuming, of course, there is still a man bold enough to pin her to the bed.
Labels: dogging, Hilldog, Prince Charles, The Queen
