Friday, November 23, 2012
Tongue penance
I was shocked to hear news of an Indian man who cut off his tongue in a futile attempt to persuade his wife to come back home. It seems he had abused her with insults so vile that she packed her bags and left with their young child. He then tried to make amends by removing the offensive organ, but his wife has yet to respond to his gesture of remorse. Let’s hope she does something more dignified than clapping her hands and dancing a jig.
I have to admit that I’ve never seen a living creature cut off its own tongue. It must be the damnedest thing. Can you imagine the willpower and dexterity required to keep your tongue stuck out while attempting to sever it with a sharp implement? Someone should invent a miniature guillotine that could slice it off cleanly without all the yanking and hacking of a manual excision.
As an act of atonement, what he did was worthless. There’s no point blaming your tongue for the sins of your mind. His wife must be less likely than ever to make up with him now. I don’t suppose they were into French kissing and oral sex in a big way, but there are other aggravations for a woman with a tongueless husband. Having to answer all the phone-calls and haggle with street vendors might test her patience. And interrogating her husband about his activities would be impossible unless they both learned sign language.
I hope this will be a lesson to all men who are abandoned by their wives for engaging in malicious banter. Amputating your tongue won’t win her back. If you want to show contrition, put on a gimp costume with a ball-gag and give your wife the key. Nothing says sorry like putting your fate in the hands of the person you offended.
As one marriage ends prematurely, another one continues beyond the grave. I refer to the Serbian woman who gave instructions for a likeness of her vagina to be carved on her grave to discourage her husband from pursuing other women. Before dismissing her as a crazy old bat, have a look at the engraving on her headstone (picture below). If it’s an accurate depiction, she had a remarkably handsome vulva with pleasing floral symmetry. I doubt her husband will find another woman with a coochie so cute.
The problem, of course, is that looks aren’t everything where sexual organs are concerned. No man ever satisfied his urges by admiring a beautiful vagina. This Serbian widower may have fond memories of his wife’s snatch, but when push comes to shove he’ll want something more inviting than an etching on a tombstone. Visiting the grave will just make him yearn for the real thing.
Is he worried that his wife will haunt him, as happened to the butcher in Fiddler on the Roof? He shouldn’t be. Ghosts can’t do a thing when a man and woman are horizontal. They just float around frustratedly, looking for something to blow on.
Labels: ghost, India, jealousy, marriage, tongue-cutting, vulva
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Pink Chaddi Campaign
I don’t normally speak out in support of worthy causes, but I’m going to make an exception for the brave young ladies of the Pink Chaddi Campaign. India’s finest floozies have joined hands to form a “Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women”, in defence of their right to enter bars unaccompanied and chat up the men they fancy. The main target of their ire is Pramod Muthalik, the leader of a fundamentalist cult that believes a woman’s lot in life is to make chapatis and aloo gobi for her fat-bellied male relatives.
The sisterhood is encouraging its members to send a pair of pink knickers to the execrable Mr Muthalik, in the hope that the aura of these heavenly garments will shame the neo-Thuggee demagogue into silence. I hope it works, but I fear that the bounder is beyond shame and will simply sell them on the black market (after trying them on himself). If the chaddies prove ineffective, I suggest they send him pink tampons instead. Deep down these reactionary types are colossal perverts, and I bet Mr Muthalik would insert a few into his rectum just to find out what it felt like. One hopes the experience would relax his inner tension and open him up to other viewpoints.
Indian women, of course, are famed throughout the world for their beguiling good looks and general voluptuousness. Many of them now prefer modern dress to the sari, which tends to fall off during funky disco dancing. I do hope the bigger-bottomed beauties think twice before wearing jeans – a baggy split skirt would surely look better than trying to squeeze mangoes into an egg carton. It’s also worth mentioning that many western men find the exposed tummy of sari-wearing Indian women very sexy. Back in my circus days I remember Ranjit Ram, the Indian knife-thrower, being questioned on this very subject:
“Is kissing a woman's belly-button allowed in India?” asked one of the clowns.
“It is allowed only if you blow rather than suck,” replied Ranjit grinning.
There’s no substitute for local expertise when learning the finer points of etiquette in a foreign land.
My final piece of advice for these gallant ladies is to open up their consortium to all well-wishers, not just forward women with loose underwear. The great moral campaigns of human history have always been inclusive in spirit. I myself would volunteer for a stint of chaperone duty to dissuade men of low character from thinking they have carte blanche to molest members of the sisterhood in pubs. (This shouldn’t involve any violence. I once did similar work for a pub in a downmarket area of London and everyone was as good as gold. All I had to do was sit in a corner reading an issue of the British Medical Journal. Ms Nelly Norkins, proprietor of the ‘Gag and Cosh’, was well pleased with my service.)
In due course, the leading lights of the movement might care to visit the Congo to compare notes with my females and organise symposia on matters of mutual interest. They don’t come any looser and more forward than female gorillas, and the ones in my band could certainly teach women a thing or two about the use of teeth in close encounters of the promiscuous kind. In the meantime, I sincerely hope that the pink-panty tactic wins the sisterhood much succour and acclaim. I wish them well from the bottom of my heart and the top of my bottom.
Labels: forward women, India, loose women, pink knickers
Monday, May 12, 2008
Indian heatwave
I hear that the teaming masses of India are rioting because of the hot weather. Someone should tell them that rioting only makes you hotter. Far better to relax beneath the shade of a leafy tree while being fanned by your personal attendant. Who could ever forget those leg-stretching lyrics sung by the sultry Ursula Andress?
Underneath the mango tree
Me honey and me
Dah dah dah dah doo
Female gorillas are not cut out to be fanners, so I usually hire a chimpanzee to pull the punkah. One must do one’s bit to create jobs and discourage idle hands from mischievous deeds. How do I occupy myself while being fanned? If I’m in the mood, I toot out melodies on my recorder while shaking a pair of maracas with my feet. We gorillas are well-equipped to be solo artists.
It seems that the Indians are furious about being subjected to lengthy power cuts. There simply isn’t enough wattage to keep the burgeoning number of electric fans whirring for 24 hours a day. That’s what happens in a booming emerging economy – people who once made do with the odd gust of breeze now expect to have non-stop ventilation. Enraged householders have stripped to their underwear and taken to the streets, abusing and harassing local officials. It’s a tactic that’s causing much commotion, given that the sight of Indian men in their chuddies has been known to spook elephants. One gets the impression that very few of the protesters are women in bra and panties.
I learned in my circus days how humans can lash out unpredictably when the temperature gets too high. I remember a blazing afternoon in Mexico City before an evening show. It was hotter than the Devil’s kitchen. I saw a dog pass water on the hubcap of a motor car, only to scamper away in panic when its piss sizzled and gave off steam. While the other performers rehearsed inside the big tent, I sat in a deckchair outside, wearing a sombrero and reading back issues of Josie and the Pussycats.
Presently, the ringmaster stormed out of the tent and addressed me angrily.
“Where’s my haemorrhoid cream?” he thundered.
“Your what?” I replied, barely suppressing a grin.
“Don’t play dumb with me, you big hairy ape! I checked the seat of your bicycle and it was greasy!”
“My dear Ringmaster, that’s just palm oil to prevent the hot plastic sticking to my bum. I assure you I have no need of your unguents.”
“I want to search your trailer!”
“Be my guest, Ringmaster. After you have done so, I suggest you make enquiries with the clowns. I saw them applying an odd-looking lotion to their chapped lips. You must take more care where you leave your medications.”
He stomped off muttering and harumping. “There goes an angry, red-faced man,” I thought.
Let us pray that India boosts her output to meet the growing demand. It will take a while for new facilities to be put in place, so interim measures are urgently required. Here are my suggestions:
(i) organise free bus tours to the Himalayan foothills for the ringleaders, to cool them down and make them giddy in the thin atmosphere;
(ii) use crop-spraying aircraft to deposit a fine mist of opiates over the rioters, so their wrath gives way to drowsy contentment;
(iii) instruct officials connected with the power industry to wear false noses and wigs, to make them a focus of ridicule rather than rage.
Sound social policy is the only remedy for civil disorder.
Labels: Chuddies, India, Punkah, Ursula Andress
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
India's porn dilemma
What ever is going on in India? Some upstart minister has banned a satellite TV channel for showing a woman licking an ice cream. Has the man had some kind of mental breakdown? Watching women eat desserts is one of the great innocent pleasures of life. I used to do it all the time in the circus and it never failed to perk me up. I even carried packets of freshening wipes to offer to ladies whose indulgence left them with particularly sticky mouths. The minister’s idiocy seems to be an extreme reaction to the fear of spiritual pollution brought about by India’s economic liberalisation. The older generation, steeped in the morals of the late Empress of India, are terrified that the young may discover the more authentic tradition of the Kama Sutra. What would then stop them from shaming their elders by discussing sexual gymnastics at the dinner table? Hence the desperate measures to keep anything resembling hanky-panky off the TV screen.
As a gorilla, I have mixed feeling about pornography. Animals living in the wild have no need of it because sex is going on all around them. We hairy apes treat live action as something to be enjoyed when you're having a picnic with the kiddies. Mating elephants are a particular favourite: it’s a bit like watching a drunkard outside his front door trying to fit a key into the lock – slapstick comedy at its finest.
As far as humans are concerned, any television producer will tell you that a bit of soft porn is essential to attract a decent audience for quality late-evening drama. In my circus days, I often saw the clowns watching TV plays exploring serious social issues such as poverty, alienation, family breakdown, etc. You can bet your last pair of undies that they wouldn’t have bothered without the prospect of a pliant pair of boobies materialising mid-way through the transmission. Dogmatic opponents of pornography should bear this in mind before condemning it as a corrupting influence.
Hard-core porn is a different matter altogether. Far from encouraging people to have sex, it seems to take the place of it. The man who gets addicted to watching other humans bonking is on a sure path to impotence. I have only heard one good argument for making such films, which was made, unintentionally, by an elderly Irish lady. This woman was a wealthy widow, who being a great fan of circuses had helped us with our pre-event promotions when we visited Dublin. After our opening show, the all-female acrobat team invited her to a trailer for drinks and a chin wag.
“Oi wouldn't tink av comin' widout de marvellous blatherin' gorilla!” said Mrs Sweeney.
I wasn’t the sort of ape to disappoint a lady, particularly if she happened to be a fan, so I went along to the trailer and took an unobtrusive seat by the rear window. For all her talk of marvellous gorillas, the widow Sweeney seemed a lot more interested in chatting to the girls, and after few drinks the ladies seemed to have forgotten I was there. As is customary on such occasions, the conversation drifted into matters of a personal nature.
“You gals are so lucky wid de pill an' de sex-oo-al revolooshun,” declared Mrs Sweeney. “Oi wus a teenager when oi got married an' me an' me 'usban' knew nathin' about sex. Nathin' at all!”
“What did you do on your wedding night?” asked one of the girls.
“We agreed ter show each other what we 'ad,” replied the aged one. “An' when oi saw what yer man 'ad oi burst into tears!”
You would scarcely believe the outpouring of sympathetic cooing this revelation provoked.
“I don’t blame you darling,” said one of the girls. “When I saw my first one I wanted to call the police!”
Her co-performers giggled as if recalling their own sexual initiations, while I remained impassive, staring at my toes with my ears pricked up.
“Wus a week before we wus 'usban' an' wife in de proper sense,” continued Mrs Sweeney, “an' tree years before oi got any pleasure from de act.”
“Well you’re luckier than my sister then,” piped a cheeky female voice. “She didn’t enjoy it until after her divorce.”
“Find a gran’ fella, did she?” inquired the Celtic dowager.
“Found a good sex toy!” retorted the acrobat, prompting the entire female contingent to laugh uproariously, Mrs Sweeney being the heartiest among them.
These reminiscences convinced me of the need for explicit – yet tasteful – sexual films, aimed particularly at the pubescent human maiden. A girl should not have to endure an unpleasant shock before her first experience of love-making, and should also be reassured about the adaptive qualities of the human cha-cha. I should imagine that my friend Dickie Attenborough would be the right man for the director’s chair.
Labels: ice-cream, India, porn
