Wednesday, February 03, 2016
Hiding the salami
The manager of the safari camp is laughing his head off at the news that the Italians covered up their nude statues for the visit of the Iranian president:
“His beardiness better not visit the Congo Basin Nature Reserve to see you apes shagging in the open air!” he guffawed.
“Especially not if you were his guide, pointing and hooting at every instance of primate copulation,” I remarked. “He would be well advised to crawl on the ground with his eyes on the mud.”
It would be all too easy to condemn the Italians for denigrating their own culture to pander to the prudery of a gangster in a turban. I give them credit for taking every precaution to avoid an embarrassing incident. No one can deny that men have been sexually aroused by stranger things than nude statues. Imagine what would have happened if an Iranian bigwig got a boner while being escorted round the Borghese Gallery by La Contessa di Contini. An Italian lady is not lacking in aplomb, but the goatish advances of a bearded despot might provoke her to snap her purse shut on his bulging pantaloons. The statues could take care of themselves, of course. Not even a sex-mad mullah would get any joy from something that cold and rigid.
Now the Iranian president is in Europe to negotiate trade deals with the wily occidentals. If I were the Italian trade minister, I would secretly offer him a consignment of the latest sex robots. The first batch could be sent to the Supreme Beardy to try out – once he had passed them halal, further deliveries could be made to the revolutionary guards and other die-hard supporters of the regime. It goes without saying that your average Ali Bulbul would not be allowed to own one – a key purpose of a theocracy is to ensure that the masses don’t partake in the deviant practices of the leadership.
There are a number of contradictory opinions on whether sex robots will be good for humanity. A group of academics have come out strongly against them, believing they will encourage their users to treat real people like robots:
“We think that the creation of such robots will contribute to detrimental relationships between men and women, adults and children, men and men and women and women,” said Kathleen Richardson of De Montfort University.
However the singer Ana Matronic thinks they will be a godsend for people who can’t have sex because no one wants to sleep with them:
“The development of robots could be very suitable for people who need the right person and might not be capable to form what we would consider a normal relationship,” she explained.
As a gorilla, I find it impossible to decide between these arguments. However, Ana Matronic is surely right that the robots should be offered to the needy and frustrated. Maybe they could be made available on prescription to people whose doctors won’t have sex with them.
Labels: Ana Matronic, beards, Iranian regime, nude statues, sex robot
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Carla and the mullahs
I wonder if the Iranian regime regrets calling Carla Bruni a prostitute. I doubt it upset her very much. France is one of those great nations where being a courtesan does not prevent a woman from becoming a national icon. The beautiful Madame de Pompadour serviced King Louis XV with great distinction until her untimely death at the age of 42. She was given a state funeral and her mourners included Voltaire, who bemoaned the fact that her life had been cut short when so many decrepit old farts were still living. I remember saying something similar when Princess Diana died, although grief may have disordered my wits.
Perhaps Carla should have responded to the Iranians as follows:
“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”
It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom.
“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”
It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom.
The only vulnerable point in Sarko’s palace security is the midgets he has hired as his bodyguards. The problem with midgets is that: (a) they are very easy to bribe, and (b) they are small enough to hide under a bed. The Iranian regime might well have recruited one of them as an informant by offering him a regular supply of pistachio nuts, a snack which they possess in ample supply. If so, Sarko’s fear of being dwarfed in public may have exposed his darkest secrets to the Big Turbans in Teheran. Vanity is downfall of all great Frenchmen.
As a former circus ape, I have fielded my fair share of insults from humans resentful of my fame and rugged good looks. A fat-bellied oaf once called me “a big hairy cunt” when I was having an evening stroll after a show in Chelmsford. As there were no women or children in the vicinity to overhear his coarse remark, I decided to treat him leniently.
“There is no such thing as a hairy cunt, you fat-bellied oaf,” I said. “The hair which decorates the female pudenda is always located on the perimeter of the sexual organ rather than actually on it. This is true for female gorillas as well as women.”
His only retort to my anatomical treatise was to make a noise like a braying jackass. I decided to let this utterance pass without comment. A dignified silence is usually appropriate when an effective riposte has already been delivered. So, after turning my back on the fat-bellied oaf, I ambled away leisurely while thrusting my rump from side to side.
Labels: Carla Bruni, fat-bellied oaf, Iranian regime, Madame de Pompadour, Sarkozy
