Wednesday, April 20, 2011
American Pie
I hear that little Jimmy Oliver has been making waves in the USA. Schools in California have banned him from their kitchens for fear of being shamed into feeding their children his “pukka” recipes. Someone should tell them that celebrity chefs like Jimmy are basically entertainers. You can watch them sprinkle and toss over a hot stove without the slightest intention of attempting to emulate their culinary feats. Jimmy is a sprinkler and a tosser par excellence, but British fans who want to taste his food just go to his restaurant.
The nature of Jimmy’s true calling should have been obvious when he appeared on the Letterman show and beguiled the audience with his cheeky cockney banter. His most memorable quip was that vanilla ice-cream contains an ingredient found in a beaver’s anal gland. Full marks to Jimmy for doing his homework and knowing that “beaver” is a rude word in America. There are no beavers in England, of course, only otters and ferrets, which are not particularly rude unless you put them down a man’s trousers.
I’m sure Jimmy means well in promoting healthy eating across the USA, but the premise of his transatlantic odyssey seems flawed to me. The problem with food in America is not its quality but its quantity. On my first visit to the country, I was surprised to discover that the restaurants served portions large enough for my appetite. While this was excellent news for me and other 500-pound gorillas, watching humans gorge themselves on this abundance made me feel queasy. When I noticed the overfed diners trying to squeeze their wobbly behinds into their capacious motor vehicles, my queasiness turned to revulsion. The USA, it seemed, was the Land of the Fat and the Home of the Bulbous.
Not everyone in America is overweight, of course. President Obama cuts a particularly pantherine figure as he prowls across the prairies, announcing his intention to run for re-election. I can’t help wondering whether the lardish folk of middle America resent being governed by such a svelte figure. Maybe Barry could win them over by promising to give them the secret of his slim waistline, which I suspect has something to do with sleeping with a black woman. His new campaign slogan might be “Vote Obama if you want to see your genitals without the aid of a mirror”.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I will be strictly neutral in next year’s presidential election. A gorilla does not meddle in human politics or hand-out endorsements willy-nilly. I have no idea who the Republican candidate will be, but I’m sure he’ll measure up to Barry in his vital-statistics – or her vital-statistics, for that matter. Let’s not forget Sarah Palin, still wowing her supporters and keeping in shape with her dumbbell exercises. If she wins the nomination, she’d be a much stronger candidate if she divorced her husband and persuaded Hilldog to be her running mate. The thought of two ladies cohabiting in the White House might be just the kind of gimmick that voters find irresistible.
Labels: Barack Obama, beaver, Hillary Clinton, Jimmy Oliver, Sarah Palin
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pregnant women
I got a boastful e-mail from Danny Craig the other day. International stardom has not cured him of the need to toot his own horn. It seems that a pregnant woman got so excited watching him jump about in Quantum of Solace that she went into premature labour. I was careful not to puncture Danny’s fragile ego. “Your ability to induce labour is just the tip of the iceberg,” I wrote in reply. “Many women have actually conceived after watching you pull out your revolver.” That should get him in the right frame of mind for the next Bond flick.
Impregnating a woman is quite tricky in reality. When a female ape is in season she’s a dead cert to conceive, even if she gets mounted by a goat. But many human females have problems with blocked tubes, fickle ovaries, or men who fire blanks. It can be incredibly frustrating for them. A 40-year-old woman from northern England recently bit her boyfriend’s tongue off in a drunken rage when she found out she wasn’t with child. Such desperate acts are all too common when a woman’s biological clock is ticking. One has to feel sorry for the man, even though he was as reckless as a baboon to let it happen. French-kissing an intoxicated woman is something you do at your own peril.
The tongue-munching madam will go to gaol for her offence, which is harsh in a way, although judging from her appearance she’ll probably enjoy herself in a women’s prison. My jungle instincts tell me that she suffered from “premature ovulation”, a reproductive dysfunction peculiar to butch ladies. In her eagerness to conceive, her eggs must have been popping out long before her hapless boyfriend brought his laborious huffing and puffing to a sticky consummation. Timing is everything in successful fertilisation. If the egg has gone off when the sperm arrive, they swim in the opposite direction holding their noses.
The biggest pregnancy-related news story seems to be about the woman in America who had octuplets. A lot of people are very annoyed with her for reasons I can’t quite fathom. My only complaint is her obviously false claim that she did it because she loves children. I love a good fruit pie, but I don’t eat them in quantities that make me shit out gooseberries. It’s pretty obvious that the woman has a “bitch-and-puppies” fetish – an uncontrollable urge to feel a litter squirming inside her and later sucking on her udders. She’s three pairs of tits short for final part of the fantasy, but the power of imagination often trumps such anatomical details.
My favourite pregnant women of the moment are the two luscious blondes who posed naked outside the bistro of Little Jimmy Oliver, the cockney chef. The were protesting against Jimmy’s wanton slaughter of pigs to fatten up his greedy punters with heaps of non-kosher food. His spokesman claimed that the pork served at the restaurant comes from “the happiest pigs you can get”. I bet they were a lot happier before Jimmy’s knife-wielding assassins cut their throats.
Meat-eaters have condemned the protest as “tasteless”. I don’t agree. It is a feast for the eyes to watch naked pregnant women, their boobies brimming with fresh milk, imitate dairy cows before their daily pumping. They certainly look much tastier than Jimmy’s pork chops. I only wish I’d been there to offer them encouragement and strike up a friendly conversation about the role of insects in the ethical diet of tomorrow.
Labels: Danny Craig, Jimmy Oliver, octuplets, PETA
