Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Bag head
We gorillas aren’t spooked by humans who cover their faces. I’m well aware that it’s frowned upon in most human societies, because of its association with bank robbers, anarchists and other assorted scoundrels. But let’s not forget that Zorro and the Lone Ranger had to work incognito to avoid being pestered by autograph hunters. I don’t worry about the concealment of faces because I have faith in my sense of smell. No masked interloper could ever sneak up on me without his character and intentions being sniffed out in advance.
Consider the fellow pictured above. I don’t even need a whiff of him to know that he’s a certifiable nincompoop. His name is Shia LeBoeuf, which I would have assumed was an Iranian meat dish had the text below the photograph not informed me otherwise. The crowning glory of his twattery is the statement “I am not famous anymore” printed on the hoover bag over his head. When was he ever famous? There are shoe-shine boys in the Congo who are better known than he is.
It seems his exaggerated sense of celebrity has arisen from his part in a film called Nymphomaniac. Although one shouldn’t generally judge a movie from its title, I think we can safely pigeonhole this one as a turkey. You may as well make a film about a female fruit fly during the mating season. One of his co-stars in the movie, an obscure English actress called Felicity Gilbert, has warned him that he risks alienating his fans by wearing a bag over his head. I think he should be more worried about public-spirited bystanders kicking him in the arse.
I have nothing against nymphomaniacs, of course. Compulsive behaviour is not a sin to be condemned, but an illness to be regarded with compassion. Maybe they could be cured of their addiction by replacing it with something else, just as methadone is used as a heroine substitute. Some have suggested bungee jumping, but my prescription would be tomato ketchup. Having seen pictures of a 19-year-old student who consumes 75 kilos of the stuff every year, I am certain it would restore the virginal freshness to the cheeks of the most insatiable hoochie.
One must be careful not to misdiagnose women with a healthy sex-drive as nymphomaniacs. The singer Robbie Williams came perilously close to doing so when he described Australian women as “Olympians at sex”.
“I’ve got my wife and I am very, very happy, but I did think it was an Aussie that I was going to end up with,” he said.
I find this less surprising than he does. His brain may have loved the idea of Olympic sex marathons, but his body knew its limitations and vetoed the idea. The woman he did marry is of Turkish ancestry, so one wonders what she’ll make of his remarks. We don’t know whether she’s energetic in bed, but it’s quite likely she has a fiery temper. Maybe Mr Williams should wear a jockstrap beneath his pyjamas for the next couple of weeks.
Labels: Lone Ranger, masks, nymphomaniacs, Robbie Williams, Tomato ketchup
Friday, October 03, 2008
South Sea Hustler
An insurance broker tells me that a prostitute has applied for a job with his firm.
“How do you know she was on the game?” I ask.
“She told me to my face as bold as brass!” he exclaims. “She said it was how she paid her way through college!”
I advise him to proceed with caution. Prostitutes are well-qualified to be financial advisers, but you have to check their references very carefully. Did she always explain the contract to her clients in layman’s language? Did she give refunds to men who lost their bottle at the last minute? Did she sell many products that went bust (and nowhere else)? Being an unsentimental cash accumulator is all very well, but without professional ethics things go tits-up pretty quickly.
Let no one forget that a pair of upper-class courtesans were behind the most infamous financial scandal in history. The Countess of Darlington and Duchess of Kendall lured men of means into buying shares of the ethereal South Sea Company, cleverly selling their own holdings shortly before the bubble burst in 1720. Bewigged squires rendered shirtless by their imprudence railed in fury at their predicament:
“We have been undone by whores!” thundered one outraged victim. “And vexatious whores!”
They were undone, of course, by their own folly and greed. The first rule of investment is that crowds are inherently stupid. The second is that whores always sell at the top of the market.
Someone once asked me whether a gentleman should ever pay for sex. I replied that a gentleman should always pay for sex, if only to reassure the lady that she is worth it. If a cash gift is too crude, he should buy her flowers or a meal. It is psychologically helpful for the male to feel he is lucky to have got into the female’s pants, as he will then make the most of an opportunity that may not recur. The minute it becomes obvious that she wants it more than him, he begins to lose interest and his balls start to ache. I always give my females a treat of nuts or berries before mounting them, even if they’re in oestrus and gagging for it. They usually hurl them contemptuously into the air, but it’s the thought that counts.
Of course, a woman can make a fortune in the sex industry without selling her body to any slobbering oaf with a fat wallet. A 49-year-old divorcee did so by inventing the ultimate female sex aid. After years of frustration, she converted her vacuum cleaner into an instrument for pleasuring herself with pulses of vibrating air. It is claimed that the device can make a woman climax in a mere ten seconds, a feat which not even the Lone Ranger or Zorro could have accomplished.
Some people belittle sex toys as cheap substitutes for the emotional and physical fulfilment of a loving relationship. This may be true, but isn’t a cheap substitute better than an expensive one? And what devoted lover could make a woman come in ten seconds? As we say in the jungle: orgasm first, relationship later.
Labels: Lone Ranger, South Sea Bubble, Vacuum Screamer
