Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Gaga gets hitched
So Lady Gaga is getting married. I don’t know anything about her fiancé, but I predict the marriage will fail if he possesses an iota of machismo. The merest morsel of manly pride must be crushed like a pomegranate seed if he’s going to succeed as Gaga’s official bed-warmer. That’s the way it has to be when the queen bee elopes with a drone. He should get into the habit of thinking and acting like a lesbian in a man’s body. If he does that, he might yet make a good fist of it.
Gaga herself is as happy as a lark, fluttering around the globe with a gooey smile on her face, like a fairy princess whose frog has just turned into a prince. When Taylor Swift tweeted a few wistful words about Gaga’s enviable predicament, the bride-to-be reassured her that “your prince charming will come”. She must be suffering from the giddy vapours to write such drivel.
Now I don’t deny there are real-life examples of a successful marriage between a show-business queen and a beta male. Some time ago I discussed the nuptials of Kate Winslet, who had pledged her troth to an oafish-looking swain called Ned Rocknroll. If anything he was an omega male, yet Kate recently praised him as the perfect husband:
“I have a wonderful man in my life who is so incredibly supportive that makes it possible for me to have those experiences,” she said.
The “experiences” she refers to were related to her movie career rather than any kind of kerfuffle in the marital bed. Be that as it may, the couple had their first child on 7th December 2013, a son whom they named “Bear Blaze”. No boy should have a father whose name is sillier than his own.
Maybe the secret of their blissful union is that everyone knows their place. Ned is so far down the pecking order that he doesn’t bother trying to compete with Kate, meekly accepting his role as concubine and comic sidekick. One can imagine him happily strumming his electric guitar in the playroom while Kate is in the lounge, discussing her next film with the moguls of Hollywood. It could actually be a similar type of relationship to the one Paris Hilton had with her pet chimpanzee.
Let’s hope Miley Cyrus learns from Kate’s experience. Her romance with Patrick Swarzenegger is currently on the rocks because he was photographed canoodling with a floozy. The blighter is now begging Miley to forgive him, but the episode should have taught her that he’ll never be a suitable consort. His famous name has given him the delusion that he’s someone of note, rather than a superficial young rake of no distinction whatever. He’ll constantly be trying to compete for the limelight if Miley accepts his suit.
Will another Ned Rocknroll come along to give Miley the unconditional service and succour she requires? If not, she may have to marry her butler.
Labels: giddy vapours, Kate Winslet, Lady Gaga, marriage, Miley Cyrus
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Cleaning up her act
So it seems that Lady Gaga is going to censor her show for a concert scheduled in Dubai. Apparently some of her on-stage antics are too shocking and vulgar for the shy and sensitive folk over there. If I were a Lady Gaga fan living in Dubai, I’d be pinching my nipples in outrage. Fortunately I’m not, so I’m scratching my armpits in amusement.
Call me a naïve ape, but I honestly didn’t know there was anything risqué in a Lady Gaga concert. Now that I do know, I’m determined to discover what the silly floozy gets up to. According to one source, she likes to display her bare buttocks to her fans. I’ve seen too many baboons to find that shocking, but humans have a complex relationship with their bottoms. An accidental exposure isn’t usually offensive, but someone bending over and shaking their buns in your face is normally regarded as an insult. In Lady Gaga’s case, the issue is complicated by her creative impulse. I don’t think anyone should complain if she wiggles her rump to a well-chosen musical accompaniment. If you don’t like the performance, get out of the theatre.
Another source indicates that she likes to bare her breasts on stage. In my neck of the jungle that would be perfectly acceptable – the local humans would see it as paying homage to their ancient traditions. However, different cultural norms apply to titties in a desert society. Exposing them to the dry climate would cause them to wither and dehydrate, depleting the assets of the local sheikh, who might then have to barter one of his camels. If you live in a realm of scarcity, conservation of the booby stock is essential. Let’s hope Lady Gaga is aware of these cultural nuances and doesn’t provoke a ghazi to unsheathe his sword.
Should female performers be allowed to jiggle their jahoobies as a form of artistic expression? Personally I’m against it. I remember that awful scene in the The Graduate where Dustin Hoffman takes poor Katherine Ross to a strip club, and she is humiliated by a busty stripper who twirls her tassels in her face. Aggressive flaunting of the bosom is a form of intimidation not to be tolerated in any genre of entertainment. There is nothing wrong with incidental agitation, of course. A woman having a jog is all the more engaging if her boobies are bouncing up and down.
The actress Jessica Alba could give Lady Gaga a lesson in modesty. Jessica recently explained why she refuses to appear topless in any of her roles:
"I don’t want my grandparents to see my boobs," she told Glamour magazine.
It’s quite possible her grandparents would be proud of her breasts, but it’s equally likely they would feel shame or envy on seeing them. Jessica is absolutely right to play it safe. Will she show us her boobs when her grandparents have passed away? That is a question that should never be asked but often be contemplated.
Labels: buttocks, cultural sensitivity, grandparents, jahoobies, Jessica Alba, Lady Gaga
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Raunchy in Rio
Justin Bieber is getting naughtier and naughtier. The randy rapscallion was seen leaving a bawdy house in Rio with two courtesans in tow. His attempt to disguise himself by putting a sheet over his head was not successful. The paparazzi identified him by the tattoo on his wrist and the boner in his pants.
How will the Beliebers react to their idol’s latest escapade? I hope they forgive him. What Justin did was much better than having sex with a groupie, who might have tricked him into impregnating her. Something about Bieber tells me he’s not quite ready for fatherhood. The hair on his body isn’t quite bushy enough.
I’m not sure why he needed two escorts, though. When I asked the manager of the safari camp, he said:
“Bieber wants people to think he’s a real stud – a Texas Ranger who rides with a spare horse that he’ll jump on when the first one tires. He doesn’t fool me. I reckon he wanted the whores to treat him like a slave boy, stripping him naked and haggling over his body while they inspected it.”
Could this be true? It sounds like a service provided by prostitutes who’ve been to drama school, to say nothing of a stint in a livestock market. Who really knows what happened? We can speculate until the cows stop farting, but it isn’t even certain that deeds of a sexual nature occurred. Maybe Bieber just wanted to have a pillow fight with the girls because he thought they’d be easy to beat. I hope they went easy on him.
If you ask me, what Justin needs is a surrogate big sister – someone who’ll be his chaperone and only let him consort with harlots of good character. I can’t think of a better person for the job than Lady Gaga. Don’t be fooled by her brazen antics, which are only for show, to keep her in the limelight while upstaging her rivals and confounding her critics. If you want to make a name for yourself in show business, you’ve got to be outrageous and keep pushing the envelope. I did many extravagant things during my circus career, but does that make me a bounder? “Mais non!” as a Frenchman would say.
In a recent BBC interview, Lady Gaga said “I don’t find myself sexy”. It's an admirably modest statement, which proves she's unusually free of narcissism for a diva of popular music. It would also be the perfect riposte to anyone who told her to go and fuck herself. For this reason alone, it deserves to be added to the Book of Famous Quotations, if such a book exists.
You can see what Gaga is really like by the way she treats her poodle Fozzi. Never has a dog profited so much from the human mothering instinct. If Bieber were delivered into her custody, we’d see a very different young man emerge. One that was fully house-trained, like Fozzi, and wouldn’t visit whorehouses in front of the world’s press.
Labels: brothels, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, poodle, prostitutes
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Eproctophilia
A correspondent asks me why I haven’t commented on the strange case of a young man who is attracted to girls who break wind:
“I can’t think of anyone better qualified to offer an expert opinion,” he wrote. “You gorillas are constantly farting.”
This peculiar mixture of flattery and exaggeration deserved a curt response. We gorillas discharge gas from our bowels regularly, not continuously, and these emissions do not in themselves make us an authority on the subject. There are many things in life which are done reflexively with the minimum of philosophising.
“I have no interest in human fart fetishes,” I wrote in reply. “My flatulence is released into the open air, preferably when a stiff wind is blowing.”
He left me this link, which I ignored for a good twenty minutes until curiosity got the better of me. It makes fascinating reading. The young man in question is a 22-year-old from Illinois called ‘Brad’, who has a degree in fine arts. He became aware of his unusual fancy in high school, when a girl he had a crush on broke wind in class:
“This blew my mind,” he said. “Prior to that, I’d never really considered it. I knew by simple biology that girls farted, but hearing that the girl I had been fawning over was capable of such a thing sparked a strange interest in me.”
A British psychologist has written a paper about Brad in an academic journal:
“Eproctophiles are said to spend an abnormal amount of time thinking about farting and flatulence and have recurring intense sexual urges and fantasies involving farting and flatulence,” explained Professor Mark Griffiths of Nottingham University.
I’m sure most of my readers will find the idea of being turned on by farts repulsive, but look at it from another point of view. How liberating for a girl to go on a date where she doesn’t have worry about her effusions and could happily order a side dish of re-fried beans. She'd just relax her colon and let the conversation flow, with the occasional interruption from a ladylike ‘parp’. Let’s hope Brad finds a flatulent young female who will fart in his face until the cows come home. A match made in heaven it would certainly be.
I’d be interested to know what Lady Gaga thinks about eproctophilia. The young diva recently starred in a spooky promotional video for a campaign to build a new art institute. It is full of arcane rituals, such as wearing a blindfold with horns sprouting from the eyes, bending over naked in a forest, and hugging a block of ice (or is it quartz crystal?) while naked. I don’t know what it means, but I’m sure the new art institute is as a good as built. No one messes with the occult if they want a quiet life.
The question I’d like you to consider is whether a woman who performs such outlandish deeds could possibly be ashamed (or even coy) about breaking wind? If anyone could make farting fashionable, it’s got to be Lady Gaga.
Labels: eproctophilia, fart fetish, farting, Farts, Lady Gaga
Friday, October 12, 2012
Bosom brew
The manager of the safari camp got annoyed when I asked him whether he’d be guzzling a new range of alcoholic beverages from Germany. The innovation in the distilling process is to pour the liquor over the breasts of “glamour models” before bottling it.
“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” he huffed. “There’s no such thing as tit-flavoured booze and I’m not paying a hundred dollars for a bottle of vodka because it's been spilled over some bimbo's boobs!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much!” I thought before replying. “Do calm down, manager, I was only asking. I never thought a connoisseur of your calibre would be fooled by such a gimmick. I’m sure you wouldn’t buy their vodka if they let you suck it off the breasts.”
The manager rubbed his chin and cogitated before replying: “I doubt you could suck two fingers off a woman’s chest,” he said. “And you definitely couldn’t drink it in one swig. But I might pay the price of a single if they asked me nicely.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I remarked. “And thank you for sharing your expertise on this vital subject.”
The manager may well be right that only a fool would buy these spirits, but that’s hardly a fatal flaw in the business model. There are many fools in the world, and some of them will surely pay extra for alcohol that’s rinsed the rack of a nubile woman. Can we be certain, furthermore, that the dumpling-dowsing has no effect on the taste? I’d like to hear the verdict of a professional taster before coming to a firm conclusion.
Even if the liquor is chemically unaltered, it might well taste different to a man who knows where it’s been. Taste is a complex sensation affected by neurons firing in different centres of the brain. Back in my circus days, there was a clown who used to have a plate of sausages and beans while watching Benny Hill on TV. He said the beans tasted divine if he ate them when the bald fellow was getting head-slapped. As for the sausages, he saved them for the dolly-bird chase at the end. The taste of anything depends on the mood you’re in. I find bananas most appetising when I’m lying in my hammock watching the sun set; but they’re practically inedible if I’m sitting on a rock watching baboons mate.
None of this means I have any intention of sampling the bosom booze. We gorillas shun intoxicants that might make us foolish and cause us to behave like the crazy gibbon. I do wonder, nevertheless, whether the same idea could be extended to other foods. Would it be possible, for example, to insert a hen’s egg inside a woman’s birth canal so she could re-lay it? Perhaps it’s the sort of thing Lady Gaga might attempt if someone put the idea into her head. I should imagine a carton of her freshly laid eggs would fetch a handsome price in the market.
Labels: bosom-flavoured booze, Lady Gaga, re-laying eggs, taste buds
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Disposable waste
I notice a spate of incidents in which sex dolls have been rescued from rivers and oceans. One presumes they were dumped there by their owners. Is it possible that men who buy sex dolls grow bored or disenchanted with their company? I find the idea quite upsetting.
I discussed this ugly development with the manager of the safari camp.
“Couldn’t they have offered them for sale on eBay rather than callously disposing of them in that fashion?” I asked.
“What makes you think anyone would want to buy a second-hand sex doll?” he replied. “If I ever bought one I’d want her to be a virgin.”
“You might be disappointed,” I said. “I’m fairly certain they’re tested in the factory before being shipped to customers.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the manager. “I pity the poor fool who has that job! I wonder if his wife gets jealous – if he has a wife.”
“Why would she mind unless he brought his work home with him?” I said. “Would your wife be jealous if you copulated with a sex doll?”
“Yes,” answered the manager.
I didn’t argue the point. He knows his wife better than I do and presumably has reasons for his belief.
I personally think it should be a crime to treat sex dolls like garbage. They may not have feelings, but they possess a stoic dignity that ought to be respected. The fact that they were mistaken for real women before being rescued from drowning shows how beautifully crafted the latest models are. The virginity issue is nonsense, of course. I’m sure they’re as good as new after a thorough douching.
Some of you might be wondering whether I own shares in a company that manufactures sex dolls. I am happy to answer your question. Yes, I do. I once asked the directors, at the annual general meeting, why we didn’t make dolls that looked like famous actresses or pop stars. They said the women would sue us. When I suggested asking them for permission, everyone just laughed.
One female celebrity who might agree to have a sex doll made in her likeness is Lady Gaga. She prides herself on being unconventional and “out there”, so maybe she’d take it as a compliment. Her latest avant garde exploit was to be photographed naked on the toilet. She claims she did it to highlight the eating disorders she endured in her adolescence. I don’t quite see the connection unless she suffered from constipation.
What fascinates me is how small the toilet bowl is compared with Miss Gaga’s bottom. I’m sure this isn’t because her bottom is particularly big. My theory is that she will only sit on small toilets because of a morbid fear of falling into the bowl. Maybe she did actually fall in when she was a little girl, and now has a phobia.
I admit the above is pure speculation on my part; but if I’m right, she ought to have plenty of sympathy for sex dolls that get dumped in the sea.
Labels: falling into a toilet, Lady Gaga, sex dolls
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Madonna lets it hang out
Madonna has deliberately displayed her breast at a concert in Istanbul, provoking wild screams of delight from her delirious fans. The antics of a desperate woman. Or do I mean “the antic”, given that only one boob was exposed? Singular or plural, I’m not impressed. I’ve seen baby baboons emit more dignified cries for attention.
The reaction of the audience was entirely predictable. Any diva can drive her fans nuts by exposing her flesh. If Madge really wants to prove something, she should show off her rack at a dairy farmers’ convention. Men who milk cows for a living know a high-class udder when they see one.
A naïve chimpanzee once asked me why Madonna didn’t just retire on all her millions and live on an island paradise, gorging on fresh fruit and sitting on her boyfriend’s face.
“What a naïve chimpanzee you are!” I exclaimed. “No amount of money can replace the thrill of live performance in front of adoring fans. Adulation like that makes you higher than a parrot!”
“How come you know so much about it?” asked the chimp impertinently.
“Because I used to perform in a circus, you impertinent chimp!” I replied. “I assure you my fans were no less devoted than those of Madonna.”
Dumbfounded by my answer, the chimp fingered his navel and wandered off.
Don’t get the wrong idea about my circus act. The hero-worship I got was not achieved by displaying an organ or gland. We gorillas are mellow apes who shun behaviour that might provoke a hysterical reaction.
The manager of the safari camp thinks Madonna’s eccentric behaviour is a response to her rivalry with Lady Gaga.
“She looks at Gaga and sees a younger version of herself,” he declared. “People her age don’t like that. It reminds them of their own mortality.”
“That’s an unusually perceptive remark from you,” I remarked. “Have you been reading something?”
“Yeah, The Complete Idiots’ Guide to Psychology,” he confirmed.
To my way of thinking, any rivalry that provokes a 53-year-old woman to bare one of her breasts is a destructive one. It can’t be helping Gaga either, who is a confused young woman in need of a good role model. The world of popular entertainment doesn’t need a tit-flashing competition between two of its leading lights.
If you ask me, Madonna should end this pointless feud with a bold and generous gesture. Let her offer to adopt Miss Gaga as her daughter. Rather than exposing her bosom on stage, make it a comforting resting place for Lady G’s troubled head.
Becoming family would allow them to perform together, by which I mean singing duets rather than doing anything lewd or incestuous. Would it make them the first mother-daughter band in history? Apparently not. An informed source tells me that a country music duo called ‘The Judds’ has that honour. No matter. They could always break new ground by inviting Bieber to join them in a mother-daughter-puppy combination. The sight of little Justin frolicking with his mistresses would tug the heartstrings of every pet owner.
Labels: Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, Madonna, tit-flashing
Monday, December 05, 2011
Lady Gaga's secret
Lady Gaga has revealed the secret of her “perfect skin”. Apparently, her alabaster complexion is maintained through lots of orgasms and spinach. I share this information with the manager of the safari camp, who hopes to entice La Gaga over here for a holiday.
“Her spinach-orgasm therapy wouldn’t protect her skin from the mosquitoes,” I remark. “You’ll have to warn her if she visits.”
“Wouldn’t the sound of her orgasms scare off the mozzies?” asks the manager facetiously.
“Indeed not,” I reply. “Only female mosquitoes bite, and they wouldn’t be intimidated by her caterwauling. The female of the species instinctively knows when a creature of the same gender is getting herself off.”
“In that case you’ll have to give her some of your natural jungle ointment,” says the manager with a smirk.
“She’ll have to pay for it,” I insist. “Jungle skin cream doesn’t grow on trees, and she could easily afford the full retail price.”
“Aren’t you worried she might think you’re a tight-fisted wanker?” guffaws the manager before sauntering off. I suppose he thinks he made a joke of some variety.
As well as discussing her beauty secrets, Gaga explained why her love affairs have been short-lived and turbulent. It seems the artistic types she attracts soon grow envious of her musical talent:
If I go to the piano and write a quick song and play it back, they are angry with how fast and effortless it is. That's who I am, and I don't apologise for it.
I believe Mozart had similar problems, but Gaga is kidding herself if she thinks it’s why her boyfriends keep throwing her out of bed. Methinks the lady doth boast too much. The real reason for her break-ups might have something to do with her annoying little habits, like having 37 orgasms a day to avoid getting zits. And how do we know her skin is really so wonderful beneath the layers of make-up she puts on? I suspect her true complexion is like that of the Milky Bar Kid – pale and creamy, but lacking in lustre.
Now, the Scandinavians claim that the best thing for the skin is a sauna. I once got invited to one in Sweden, by a couple of flaxen-haired girls who had watched me perform in the circus:
“Please join us, GB!” they begged. “It will open up your pores and flush out the toxins. We will blow dry you afterwards if you like.”
I thought it best to decline tactfully: “A most generous offer, ladies, but sweating is for the hairless. We gorillas flush out our toxins in other ways.”
The girls were bitterly disappointed, and in truth I could have easily endured a sauna, which is not so different from the climate of a tropical rain forest. My real fear, of course, was wagging tongues. A gorilla should never get into a cabin with naked women unless there are witnesses who will testify to the absence of hanky-panky. That idiot King Kong has given us enough bad publicity.
Labels: hanky-panky, Lady Gaga, Mozart, perfect skin, sauna
Monday, September 27, 2010
Godiva and Gaga
How would you have reacted if Ms Gille had stripped off in a cab you were driving? I take the view that such behaviour is usually a cry for help. Rather than dumping her on the police, I would have attempted to soothe her disquiet and address her legitimate concerns.
“Madam,” I would have said, “your current state of undress is plainly the consequence of an agitated mind. What say I bring you a cup of coffee from yonder café, that we may discuss your aspirations in a civilised manner? Nudity is far more likely to yield a satisfactory outcome when combined with friendly negotiation. You will forgive me for taking the car keys with me.”
As it was, the woman was arrested and must now face the humiliation of a courtroom appearance, where she will no doubt be lectured by a supercilious judge, while enduring the indecent smirks of the lackeys who attend such proceedings. Never was a fare-paying passenger so cruelly rewarded for exposing her assets.
Truth be told, these are stressful times for women of all classes and persuasions. Even mega-stars such as Lady Gaga are feeling emotionally and sartorially vulnerable. The eccentric diva has attracted much comment for wearing a dress made of meat, but it seems that this was merely a ruse to divert attention from deeper insecurities. I say this because a former female assistant of Gaga has revealed that her boss couldn’t bear to spend the night apart from her. The fact that the assistant was married did not deter Gaga in the slightest. She would send text messages to her employee's husband saying:
“Can your wife stay with me tonight?”
For some reason, the husband rarely attempted to interpose his veto. Perhaps he was intimidated by Gaga’s status and wealth, or maybe he was flattered by her interest in his spouse. Whatever the whyfores and wherefores, his wife spent more time in her boss’s bed than his own.
Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I should emphasize that there was no sexual motive in any of this – Gaga was simply frightened of sleeping alone and wanted to snuggle up to a girlfriend. It seems that her bold and brassy image is merely a front for a timid little girl who’s afraid of the Bogeyman. If she ever visits the Congo, I’ll be sure to introduce her to my females so they can soothe her girlish anxieties. There are few safer places to rest your head than the hairy bosom of a female gorilla.
Labels: female insecurity, hairy bosoms, Lady Gaga, witch doctor
Friday, July 30, 2010
Kylie accuses Gaga
“I think there's an element of me in her,” said Kylie.
Possibly wishful thinking and hopefully not a statement of intent. If it came to a catfight, a crazy bitch like Gaga would pluck out Kylie’s pubic hair. Someone should invite the divas to a wigwam where they can share a peace pipe and inhale each other’s smoke. Those squaws need to become blood sisters before they start stealing each other’s boyfriends, which would lead to heinous atrocities.
Kylie’s outburst reminds me of a lowland silverback who claimed to be Mick Jagger’s role model. This is what he said about the rubber-lipped crooner:
“When I was performing back in ’63, I noticed that young Englishman in the audience, gaping at me night-after-night like a trout. Everything he later did on stage – the voice, the face, the strut – he took it all from me. And my bass player was a baboon who looked like Bill Wyman. The first time I saw ‘The Stones’ I thought they were a tribute act.”
But his females said he was lying, so we can’t take his word for it. Jagger has obviously been copying someone, but for all we know it could be his Latin master.
A tourist once asked me if I thought Tom Jones had been influenced by a gorilla.
“No,” I replied. “He was clearly influenced by the gospel, rock, folk, jazz and blues singers of his youth. But perhaps you meant to ask whether Tom Jones is genetically close to a gorilla.”
“Well is he?” asked the tourist.
“Let me put it this way,” I replied. “There are certain ancient genes in the human line which, for reasons not yet properly understood, are more fully expressed in particular individuals. Such persons are invariably hairy-chested men who exude a pungent sexuality that induces middle-aged women to throw their knickers at them.”
“Are you saying he smells like a gorilla?” asked the tourist.
“I don’t know what he smells like,” I said, “but it seems to bring out the female gorilla in women.”
In truth, the behaviour of all primates is driven by the urge to imitate. I often observed human kiddies pretending to be gorillas after I’d given a performance in the circus. I suspect many of the adults would have done so too if they hadn’t feared ridicule. The ape-impersonators in the remake of Planet of the Apes had a grand old time. Even Helena Bonham Carter, renowned for playing posh English roses, found the experience enlightening:
I had to go back and learn how to be still. I had to learn an economy of movement, but to be immensely focused. To stop intellectualizing and instead make everything physical and be present and alive in the moment, which is completely ape-like. Apes are more sensual and tactile than we are.
Humans sometimes ask me whether I found Helena attractive as an ape. I have to remind them that she played a chimpanzee, not a gorilla. If I were a male chimpanzee, I should imagine I’d want to pin her to the ground and put my tongue in her mouth.
Labels: Helena Bonham Carter, Kylie Minogue, Lady Gaga, Mick Jagger
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Lady Gaga - the inside story
A tourist at the safari guesthouse asks me to speculate on whether a bugging device would fit inside Lady Gaga’s vagina. Although not familiar with the diva’s internal dimensions, I assure him that current eavesdropping technology would be up to the task. The latest miniaturised gadgets could comfortably nestle inside the tightest of birth canals. I nevertheless feel bound to ask what noble purpose would be served by placing the said gadget in Lady Gaga’s reproductive tract.
“I’ve heard a rumour that one of her lovers likes to talk to her twat before giving her oral sex,” explains the guest. “I’d love to know what he says to it.”
“Why on earth would anyone do that?” I ask. “It’s not as if you could get a decent conversation going.”
“Dunno,” replies the guest. “It might be like a gardener talking to his plants before watering them. It’s supposed to make them more receptive to the moisture.”
“In that so?” I remark. “In that case, one would suppose he woos the coochie with honeyed words. A haughty or boastful tone is unlikely to put it in a good mood. All of which will remain within the realm of conjecture, as there is no feasible method of implanting the listening device without Lady Gaga noticing.”
“How about embedding it inside a tampon?” asks the visitor.
“A clever idea, but I doubt any creature whose reflection is visible in a mirror would be interested in feasting on Lady Gaga’s vulva when its condition necessitated the use of a tampon.”
“Maybe her gynaecologist could be bribed,” he persists.
“I don’t know who the man is, but ones presumes he is eminent is his field. It would have to be an enormous bribe to induce him to risk his reputation by sneaking a gizmo into the holy of holies. I fear you will make no progress on this project until a method of debriefing pubic lice is discovered. My advice would be to wait until her lover spills the beans. They always do in the end.”
I am inspired by this conversation to do some research on Lady Gaga’s social activities. It seems that she mates promiscuously with humans of either gender. In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine, she spoke about her boyfriends’ attitude to her bisexuality:
"The fact that I’m into women, they’re all intimidated by it. It makes them uncomfortable. They’re like, “I don’t need to have a threesome. I’m happy with just you.”
I find this very puzzling. Surely most men would consider it a privilege and an education to participate in such lavish adventures. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that when such opportunities arose he always brought a pen and paper to take notes. “There is nothing a woman can do to a woman that a man can’t do to a woman,” he wisely remarked.
So, in spite of her prodigious fame and fortune, it appears that Lady Gaga’s experience of men is rather limited. All her male lovers seem to be insecure wimps who resent her Sapphic activities and talk when they should be acting. I hope she soon meets a real man like the great Tom Jones: he would show her how men pleasured women in the days before oral sex was invented.
Labels: bugging devices, Lady Gaga, Tom Jones, wooing the coochie
