Monday, September 24, 2012
Forbidden fruit
The manager of the safari camp is facing a grave moral dilemma:
“I don’t approve of what that photographer did, but I still want to see Kate’s boobs,” he said.
“I suggest you fight your voyeuristic urge,” I advised. “When I was in the circus, there was a clown who had a craving to be pissed on the face by a fat woman. When he finally gave into it, he felt dirty afterwards.”
“Well he would, wouldn’t he?” said the manager. “I’m surprised he found someone who agreed to do it.”
“Every fat woman has her price,” I remarked.
“That’s all very well, but my situation is different. Suppose one of the guests has a magazine with her picture in it. What am I supposed to do? Close my eyes?”
“You could provide the guest with a strip of adhesive tape to mask the duchess’s dumplings. If no one else can see them, you won’t feel so deprived.”
The manager sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance.
The latest news on this scandal is that the man who took the pictures is English. I can well believe it. There is something very un-French about secretly photographing a topless woman. When the Frenchman sees an agreeable pair of titties, he likes to observe them at close range and make the owner aware of his admiration. The obsession with still images of the bosom is a very English fetish.
Kate should be glad that he’s English, because it means he can be charged with treason. I’m sure he’ll get a fair trial before the jury convict him. What would be an appropriate sentence in this day in age? I would recommend squirting lemon juice in his eyes while electrocuting his nipples. A harsh penalty, to be sure, but one has to make an example of such guttersnipes to discourage other traitors in his profession.
A question of more than academic interest is why pictures of Kate’s royal rack are such a hot commodity. Three years ago, she was a middle-class English girl whose bust wouldn’t have turned many heads at a building site. Did marrying a prince automatically perk-up her puppies, causing her nipples to point at a higher angle of elevation?
My old friend Smacker Ramrod is the expert I consult on boob-related issues, so I put this question to him. He assured me that admirers of the female bosom would have been just as eager to see Kate’s jahoobies before she became a royal duchess. The big change, he said, was in the quality of the conversation piece thus acquired. No one is interested in hearing you talk about your neighbour’s norks if that neighbour is a nobody. But if you have have seen a famous pair of jugs, you may discuss their qualities at length, while speculating on the manner of their deployment in the recreational activities for which they were designed.
I think he hit the nail on the head, don’t you? Talking about what you've seen is half the fun for humans.
Labels: jahoobies, Kate Middleton, royal rack, treason
Friday, April 29, 2011
Snubbing the wedding
A girl in a gaudy dress and high-heeled shoes hands me a flyer outside Moorgate tube station - it is an invitation to attend a punk rock festival on the day of the royal wedding. The words “Don’t stand on ceremony!” are printed on the card in bold letters, along with a promise that the only mention of the Queen at this event will be “when we play the Sex Pistols”.
“What is the dress code for this jamboree?” I ask the girl.
“Bare midriffs are preferable but body piercing is optional,” she replies with a smirk.
“In that case I will have to excuse myself,” I say, “for I am both overdressed and under-perforated.”
I nevertheless keep the invitation as a souvenir, as it reflects well on the independent spirit of Londoners. I wholly approve of their refusal to pay homage to the princely nuptials, destined to be one of the most boring spectacles since Dick Whittington put a gold-plated collar on his pussy.
My lack of interest in the proceedings is not because I harbour a grudge against the House of Windsor. Although I have never met the Queen, we once exchanged meaningful glances in heavy traffic along the A243. In truth, I would turn my hairy back on any ceremony in which one might encounter weeping matrons, befrocked clergymen or overdressed horses. Putting on such a pageant to celebrate a marriage which hasn't even begun is like gift-wrapping an onion.
Prince William, of all people, should know that making solemn oaths in public is tempting fate. Look what happened to his parents. After a few years of unholy wedded angst with Diana, Charles was fantasizing about being a tampon in Lady Camilla’s birth canal. You may say that the prospects for the current pair are more auspicious, given that the bridegroom is not an emotionally-repressed fogey who was bullied into the marriage by his father. Yet who is to say that Kate will wear the glass slippers without getting corns? One person who has his doubts about her is Bernie Anus, my old circus chum.
“Her face is pretty,” he conceded over a tankard of ale. “But if I were Prince William I would have married a girl with a bigger bosom. It won’t be long before he’s wondering what it feels like to get his face buffed by a decent pair of jugs.”
“Isn’t that a job for the royal nanny?” I asked. “His cheeks look shiny enough, so maybe he’s already got it out of his system.”
“No man ever grows out of boob-to-face action,” asserted Bernie. “And there’s also Kate’s image to consider. A future Queen of England doesn’t want pitying looks from well-stacked women.”
“Have you considered the possibility that Kate’s accession will make small breasts fashionable?” I asked.
“Not until you just mentioned it,” said Bernie glumly. “I prefer not to dwell on doomsday scenarios.”
I didn’t pursue the topic further, as bust size is a trivial issue for us gorillas. Kate is undoubtedly a comely lass, but I wouldn’t watch her wedding if her breasts were bigger than Chesty Morgan’s.
Labels: Kate Middleton, nuzzling boobies, Prince William, punk rock festival, royal wedding
