Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Hairy Potter
Does anyone feel sorry for Daniel Radcliffe, the Harry Potter actor? Okay he’s a millionaire, but millionaires can suffer. Do they not bleed if you prick them and smart if you tweak their noses?
When he was a child, he was an idol for millions of pubescent girls who dreamt of being his wizardess, to say nothing of countless full-bosomed women who yearned to smother his head. But those days are gone. Growing up, for Daniel, has been a painful transition from fresh-faced and boyish to bushy-eyebrowed and gnomish. Money is no antidote to the ravages of time.
Daniel is putting a brave face on his metamorphosis. He has starred in a handful of non-Potter movies, which were well received, although few people have seen them. And he recently informed Elle magazine that he’s taken to sex like a squirrel to nuts:
“I'm one of the few people who seem to have had a really good first time,” he said. “I'm happy to say I've had a lot better sex since then.”
Reading between the lines, you can see that he’s immensely proud of his copulatory deeds. His well-wishers should be pleased that he’s added to his toolbox since his Harry Potter days. However, most of his groupies still think of him as the former boy wizard. The actress Jennifer Lawrence, a girlhood fan of Harry Potter, admitted to screaming in excitement when she saw Daniel. Her enthusiasm fizzled out after they met, so a scream is probably all he got out of her.
Is Daniel wise to extend his acting career into adulthood? Maybe he should have followed in the footsteps of Shirley Temple, who became an ambassador. He would have certainly gone down well as Her Majesty’s emissary to the Congo. Wizards are feared and respected over here, and his face resembles a native species of owl. The local women would have shaken their booties at him before presenting him with a tribute of small rodents. He might well have become a celebrated figure of international diplomacy – “The Owl of Brazzaville”, we would have called him.
A career in entertainment is an unpredictable journey – some artistes are destined to be child stars who go no further, whereas others continue to perform in old age. I was delighted to hear that my friend Joan Rivers, whom we gorillas revere as a Great Earth Mother, recently officiated an impromptu gay wedding ceremony. Although marrying people isn’t technically show business, anything involving Mother Joan is bound to be a stand-up routine.
“It’s been so long since I had sex I’ve forgotten who ties up who!” she quipped.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this auspicious event, he said:
“I never knew she was a fag hag.”
“Not a fag hag, but a fag yenta,” I corrected him.
The manager is too ignorant to know the correct term for a Jewish woman who marries a gay couple. He is lucky to be acquainted with a learned gorilla who can educate him.
Labels: Daniel Radcliffe, Harry Potter, Jennifer Lawrence, Joan Rivers
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The world's funniest woman
“I’m here for the room service, not the animals,” says Joan Rivers as I carry her luggage into her room at the safari guesthouse. “Are you gorillas really my fans?”
“You are a legend in the jungle,” I reply. “Before we go to sleep we say: ‘A hundred blessings for Mother Joan and fifty more for her plastic surgeon.’”
“Hah!” she exclaims. “If you knew what I know, you’d give two hundred blessings to my plastic surgeon!”
That evening, at the bar, she expands on this theme to a TV producer from England.
“I always tell women ‘if you can afford it get everything done – the face, the boobs, the butt, the whole package’. Get real! Women are judged on their appearance, they always have been and they always will be.”
“How about labia reduction surgery?” asks the TV producer.
“LABIA?! You’re putting me on, right? Why would a woman want to pay for something only her gynaecologist gets to look at. Don’t those guys charge enough already?”
“No seriously Joan, there was a documentary* about it on British TV. A lot of women are having their flaps trimmed because they can’t bear the sight of their vaginas. It’s becoming like a nose job.”
“BUT WHO LOOKS AT IT!” shrieks Joan. “When I was a young woman, your vagina was neither seen nor heard. Not unless you did pussy farts in a freak show.”
“What about oral sex?” asks the TV producer.
“Hey gimme a break, I’m Jewish! I was brought up to believe that even thinking about such acts was asking for God to strike you dead with a lightning bolt!”
“But suppose a young, good-looking guy walked up to you today and said: ‘Miss Rivers, it has long been my ambition to eat you out.’ Would you let him?”
“Jeez, is that the kind of dialogue you write for British TV shows? I guess if he’s really set his heart on it I wouldn’t stop him. But only when I’m safely under the covers. And no torch! He has to burrow like a mole searching for a hole. Let him use his sense of smell.”
“But Joan, that would spoil half the fun!” complains the TV producer.
“I don’t care! If he wants to look and lick he can go suck a popsicle instead. What is this shit about staring at a woman’s pussy? Hey GB, do you look at your females down there?”
Having listened quietly to the conversation with a bar tender’s discretion, I am caught off guard by this unexpected question.
“Hum ah well yes, let me think,” I grunt, searching my memory. “I don’t make a habit of it, but I did once inspect a female’s vulva before mating with her.”
“So what happened?” asks Joan.
“After I’d stared at it for a bit, she said: ‘Are you going to fuck that thing or take a picture?’”
“Heheheh!” laughs Joan. “Your females sound so GREAT! I wish I could be a female gorilla. Not forever, of course, just for a couple of hours.”
“Why don’t you join them for their tree-dance?” I say. “When female primates shake their rumps together they become sisters under the skin. I’ll introduce you and play the bongo drums. You can keep your pants on.”
“The tree-dance?” inquires Joan. “Is that like humping a piece of wood?”
“Not quite,” I reply chuckling. “It more like pretending to give birth in an upright position.”
“That I can do!” declares Joan. “As long as it’s just pretending. My ovaries dried up in ’79.”
Next morning, Joan does her ‘Dot Matrix’ shtick from Spaceballs while I escort her into the jungle. She quietens down after I introduce her to the females – most humans are lost for words after they’ve been patted by female gorillas. Everything proceeds smoothly: Joan discovers her inner ape in the tree-dance and the females get autographed copies of The Life and Hard Times of Heidi Abromowitz. When we return to the safari camp, her mood is serene and contented – hanging out with gorillas does that for you. She tells me a lot of personal stuff, most of which I won’t reveal, and I feel like I’ve become her rabbi. Before I leave she makes a final confession:
“Hey GB, the night before the tree-dance I self-examined myself with a hand-mirror. More Mick Jagger than Lionel Ritchie, know what I’m saying?”
“You’re a lucky woman Joan,” I reply. “The Stones have always been big in the Congo.”
“And they’d be even bigger with my pussy as their lead singer!” she says laughing as I give her a parting embrace.
Joan Rivers always has the last word.
* Charliemingles funny and informative review of The Perfect Vagina can be found here.
Labels: Joan Rivers, Labia reduction surgery, Lionel Ritchie, Mick Jagger
