Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Legal issues
Can a gorilla be held in contempt of court? The manager of the safari camp warned me that a judge could send me to a zoo for a couple of weeks if I called him an idiot. He’d first have to find me, of course. There are regions of the dense Congo jungle that even witch doctors fear to tread. In any case, I have no intention of calling anyone names. There’s a big difference between denouncing a dubious decision and likening the fellow who made it to an ass or a donkey. A judge who refuses to tolerate such criticism is a judge that has grown too big for his boots.
I make these remarks because of a couple of legal rulings I feel obliged to comment on. The first one concerns Madonna, who went to court to prevent the auction of various “intimate items” she claims are hers. Apparently, she had an affair with a rapper and convicted felon called Tupac Shakur in the 1990s. Among the items for sale are a letter he wrote to her and some underwear he mysteriously obtained.
Madonna claims the items were stolen and I’m inclined to believe her regarding the letter. Unless Mr Shakur had forgot to post it, it must have been removed from her possession without her consent. But on the underwear, I’m not so sure. Even if she never gave them to the rapper, she might have carelessly left them in his house. Once you do that, it’s finders keepers. A woman can’t expect to retain control of her panties if she takes them off and neglects to retrieve them.
Madonna is no doubt worried that people will attempt to humiliate her by sniffing the panties and saying they smell like tuna fish, but a woman who has given her underwear to a gangster cannot credibly claim she has a reputation to protect.
The other legal judgement that piqued my interest concerns the Electoral Commissioner of Papua New Guinea, whose name is Mr Patilias Gamato. Mr Gamato got very upset when a blogger started calling him ‘Mr Tomato’ and published pictures of him with his head replaced by the said fruit.
“He made some defamatory statements and also called my surname 'tomato',” said Mr Gamato. "I don't look like a tomato, I'm a human being.”
The judge took pity on him and issued a court order preventing the blogger from making any more tomato gags.
As one who is named after a fruit, I have little sympathy for Mr Gamato. There is nothing wrong with being associated with a much-loved salad ingredient. I would have advised him to change his name to ‘Tomato’ to pre-empt any jokes.
I can see the judge was trying to be kind, but too much kindness can turn a man into a blithering ninny. Anyone that thin-skinned will be a target for wags until the cows come home. Mr Gamato, I fear, will soon discover that there are worse insults than being called ‘Tomato’.
Labels: asses, donkeys, judges, Madonna, tomatoes
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Quid pro quo
Madonna has taken the art of political campaigning to a new level. At Madison Square Garden, she offered hovering voters the following deal:
“If you vote for Hillary Clinton, I will give you a blowjob, OK? I’m good. I’m not a douche, and I’m not a tool. I take my time.”
Sensing some ambivalence in the audience, she added:
“I have a lot of eye contact, and I do swallow.”
You could argue it’s sexist not to offer women anything, but she may have assumed the female vote is already in the sack. From another point of view, a man might feel aggrieved at the implication he will sell his vote for sexual favours. If such men exist, the manager of the safari camp is not one of them:
“If you won’t change your vote for a blowjob, what will you change your vote for?” he asked.
I sensed he would pooh-pooh any answer I gave him, so I scratched my chin and remained silent.
The fatal flaw in Madonna’s proposal is that there’s nothing to stop a man from agreeing to the bargain and voting for a different candidate. The secret ballot is a devilish impediment to such innovative forms of electioneering. She could reduce the risk by denying the inducement to 50-year-old men with beer bellies and Donald Trump. The demographic data indicate those groups are very unlikely to vote for Mrs Clinton.
In truth, I doubt that Madonna will win many votes for Hillary. Her tactics are too outrageous for the typical swing voter. If I were a member of the Clinton team, I would ask Pamela Anderson to join the campaign. She’s the kind of celebrity who appeals to voters who don’t know anything about politics, government, current affairs and other complex subjects. Sometimes you need an advocate who can simplify the issues to words of one or two syllables.
Pammie has recently been speaking out about the dangers of pornography. She says she has dated men who preferred watching porn to having sex with her, blaming their aberrant (and some would say wasteful) behaviour on their addiction to adult entertainment. She’s probably right, although we can’t rule out the possibility that they went off Pammie after realising they preferred women with smaller breasts. Those who have gorged excessively on Black Forest Gateau sometimes acquire a liking for cupcakes. Whatever their problem was, you have to give Pammie credit for raising public awareness of the issue:
“I want a sensual revolution because in the age of technology people are becoming desensitised and there are these multiple images and videos that get stranger and weirder,” she said.
I don’t think I’ve seen the really weird stuff, but I agree with the gist of her argument. Once you go down that path there’s no telling where it will end.
Is it too late for pornography to become an election issue? I can’t see it swinging voters in one direction or the other. But it might persuade the undecideds to stay at home.
Labels: American politics, Hillary Clinton, Madonna, oral sex, Pamela Anderson
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Telling tales
I’m no fan of Madonna, but I do take exception to Rupert Everett calling her “the Antichrist”. The Book of Revelation makes it crystal clear than the Antichrist will be an amphibious beast with ten horns and seven heads. Madonna may look like that when she’s having an orgy, but that doesn’t mean she can bring about the Armageddon and give Jesus a good run for his money.
He can’t get his story straight, because he also called her an “old, whiny barmaid”. This is no more accurate than “the Antichrist”. In my experience, barmaids are friendly buxom women who pull levers and push tumblers. Madonna couldn’t do that if she tried. Nor is she is particularly old for her age. The “whiny” part is more plausible, but how would Mr Everett know? You have to be pretty intimate with a woman to evaluate her whininess, and that’s not something he’s known for doing.
As well as calling her names, he told everyone this scurrilous anecdote about her:
“I went out to dinner with her and Sean Penn and she was wanking him off under the table. She was furious that I said that in 1985. So what? I thought it was rather romantic.”
I don’t blame Madonna for being angry about such loose talk. Her relationship with Penn was short-lived and she probably regrets having touched his todger. And Everett is clearly lying about finding it “rather romantic”. For a heterosexual couple to perform a sex act in front of a gay man is clearly an ugly, taunting type of behaviour. He probably flounced out of the restaurant in a huff.
Another reason for Madonna being upset about the anecdote is that it may not be true. Maybe she just playfully grabbed Penn’s crotch and the “wanking” aspect is poetic exaggeration. This is the perennial problem with show business memoirs. The author is under tremendous pressure to spice things up to make the book a best seller. No one ever made a pile of cash by sticking to the facts.
Tom Jones is one entertainer who would not need to invent stories for his autobiography. There are hoards of women who say he serviced them like a bull and they can’t all be lying. But he may not want to reveal the saucy details out of respect for his dearly departed wife. You have to respect him for that.
One thing Sir Tom is happy to discuss is whether he is actually a black man. He made the following statement to a British newspaper:
“When I first came to America, people who had heard me sing on the radio would be surprised that I was white when they saw me. Because of my hair, a lot of black people still tell me that I'm just passing as white.”
Last year, he announced he was having a DNA test to settle the issue once and for all. He hasn’t disclosed the results, but I predict that all his ancestors living 100,000 years ago were black.
Labels: Antichrist, handjob, Madonna, Rupert Everett, Sean Penn, Tom Jones
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Foot fetish
I hooted with glee on discovering that Madonna had ordered one of her backup dancers to kiss her feet. The luckless dandy was a few minutes late for a rehearsal and tried to placate his mistress by apologising profusely. “Kiss my feet!” demanded Madge, and the obedient fellow promptly dropped to his knees and smooched her perfectly pedicured tootsies. I hope he got a round of applause for his trouble. It takes a lot of courage to mess with a cougar’s paw, even if the cougar has asked for it.
I’m sure a lot of people will condemn Madonna for behaving like a bad-tempered queen in a medieval fairy story – a haughty tyrant who demands that her courtiers abase themselves for relatively minor indiscretions. In my view that would be missing the humour in the incident. In this day and age, the arrogant celebrity deals with errant minions by firing them on the spot without a reference. Ordering someone to kiss your feet is pure theatre – as well as being a quick and painless way of putting the incident to bed. I’m sure the dancer was mightily relieved he could atone for his misdemeanour in such a speedy and conclusive manner. He certainly wasted no time in obeying the command.
And let’s not forget that there many who would enjoy kissing Madonna’s feet and consider it to be a great privilege. Although I am not of this disposition myself, I would rather kiss her feet than any other part of her anatomy. They may not be as dainty as those of a Japanese woman, but they are surely sufficiently smooth and supple to make the experience tolerable. After they have been washed, I would guess they are the organs on her body least likely to give the kisser cooties.
Now some of you are probably wondering whether anyone has kissed my feet. Before answering this question, I should point out that a gorilla’s feet are not like those of a human. They are actually like a second pair of hands, which means I can toot out a tune on my recorder while shaking a pair of maracas with my feet. If you paid your respects to me while I was lying in my hammock, you would probably end up shaking hands with my foot.
No one has ever kissed my feet in the jungle. I’m quite certain of that. Kissing has no emotional significance for the hairy primates, so foot-kissing would be viewed as an evil perversion rather than an act of servitude. To curry favour in our community, you’ve got to groom your companions and scratch their itches.
I’m not so sure about my circus days, though. I definitely had human fans who would have kissed my feet if I’d allowed them to. And a few overexcited individuals did take liberties with my person before I could shake them off with a reprimand. But did any of these scallywags molest my feet? I’ll be damned if I can remember.
Labels: foot-kissing, humiliation, Madonna
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Stolen Kiss
An on-line magazine has accused Madonna of “ruining everyone’s childhood” by publishing a cartoon of herself smooching Snow White. I’m just glad the seven dwarves didn’t get into the picture. Madonna should beat the rap on the legal technicality that it’s impossible to ruin the childhood of someone who is an adult. Once you have grown up, your childhood is either irretrievably spoiled or irreversibly coated in sugar candy. Short of getting into a time machine and chasing down your infant behind, Madonna is powerless to influence the matter.
She might have ruined the childhood of actual children, of course. But I suspect that most kids have other things on their mind, like inventing a text abbreviation for the word “bodacious”. Perhaps the Disney Corporation should interview Pinocchio to find out whether he’s developed a taste for crazy dyke action.
A potentially more serious charge about the cartoon kiss was made in the following tweet:
“Urgh Madonna! Snow White was supposed to be a 14 year old girl! Wrong just wrong!”
It’s a fair point, but wasn’t Snow White also kissed by a prince after the dwarves had exhibited her in a glass coffin? No one ever accused him of molesting an underage girl, even though she was in a coma and unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, the prince rubbed salt into the wound by marrying her shortly afterwards. There’s no point condemning Madonna for a peck on the lips if the girl is being ravished in a royal four-poster. In Snow White’s position I’d be grateful for the diversion.
It would interesting to carry out a survey of fathers with teenage daughters, asking them whether they’d prefer to have their child deflowered by Madonna or a moody young fellow with raging hormones. Madonna may like to present herself as daring and outrageous, but she’s pretty sentimental about girls of a similar age to her own daughter. My guess is that she’d execute the operation with extreme tenderness and sensitivity. Lesbian sex can be a beautiful thing if no one is trying to prove she can outdo a man.
You’ve got to be careful how you handle lesbians, though. The BBC has been accused of deliberately killing off female characters involved in same-sex relationships. I’ve not watched any of the TV shows in which this allegedly occurs, but I can understand the frustration of dedicated viewers. It’s like being told that oysters are off the menu just when you’ve acquired a taste for them.
The facts regarding the lesbian cull appear to be damning, but I’m not convinced that the BBC is responsible. Its culture has been lesbian-friendly ever since ladies’ tennis started to attract high ratings. It saddens me to say this, but I suspect that many young actresses do not want to be typecast as lesbian characters. They fear that once the public sees them in that way, they’ll never be offered a part where Zac Efron wraps his tail around their haunches. Isn’t that why Jodie Foster kept her Velcro in the closet until she was too old to play the love interest?
Labels: BBC, crazy dyke action, Jodie Foster, kissing, lesbian, Madonna, Snow White
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Blunderbutt
I wonder what became of the British inventor who made a giant metallic bottom to fart in the direction of France. I purposely ignored him when he first unveiled his creation to avoid giving publicity to his unneighbourly stunt. But now I can’t help wondering how his career has progressed since blowing one off at the French. Is he still weaponizing buttocks or did he sell his expertise to the whoopee cushion industry? You never know what someone who commits a notoriously vulgar act will end up doing. I believe the Maori who mooned at the Queen later prospered in dry goods.
It goes without saying that his prank was the height of folly. The first rule of effrontery is not to cause yourself greater inconvenience than the target of your scorn. It must have taken him months to construct that enormous arse and equip it with an effective delivery system. A device like that cannot be tested without making a big hullaballoo and who knows whether the French were even aware of his hostile emission? It would have been much easier to visit Paris and put a freshly-baked croissant in his trousers.
Now, we gorillas patched up our quarrels with the French a long time ago. I can honestly say that there’s no bad blood between us, although we still refuse to utter a word of their language, which no ape can speak without sounding like a sissy. When I toured France as a circus performer, I never failed to bring the house down by miming to a Charles Aznavour song. Whatever you say about the French, they are second to none in their appreciation of culture.
Perhaps I sympathise with the French because we gorillas are routinely and gratuitously insulted. I was dismayed to hear of an “academic” at St. Andrews University who pranced around the campus in a “gorilla suit”. He claims it was part of a research project to examine how people react to sightings of mythical creatures like “Bigfoot”. I hope a few discerning souls reacted by telling him to take off his obnoxious costume and stop mincing about like a halfwit.
He responded defensively when a newspaper accused him of wasting resources on a foolhardy escapade:
“It’s a serious study of people reporting things,” he whined. “All my work gets published in proper scientific journals.”
Does it indeed? Well, there’s a scientific journal in the Congo that would certainly accept his paper. It’s called the The Annals of Arsing About and its editor is a baboon.
I should not end without offering words of support to Madonna, who recently took a tumble while performing one of her songs. I never had a pratfall in my circus career, but a clown once fell on top of me, which was no less mortifying. People who found her mishap amusing are ignoble yahoos with no understanding of slapstick humour. As Laurel and Hardy brilliantly demonstrated, such incidents are only funny with the appropriate build-up and ritual.
Labels: Bigfoot, farting, France, insults, Madonna
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Presidential bids
Charlie Sheen’s announcement that he intends to run for president has been greeted with hoots of delight in the Congo. The parrots are squawking, the crocodiles are grinning and the baboons are displaying their rumps.
“I wish I could vote for him,” said an excited chimpanzee. “It’s about time the humans had a leader who’s a bigger fool than the commander of the ape brigade.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I replied. “And he won’t be the leader of all the humans anyway, only the richest and fattest of them.”
There’s a long way to go before Charlie gets elected, of course. The road to the White House is snaky and strewn with potholes. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into his “truth and transparency” platform, but it remains to be seen whether it impresses the voters. I’m not a fan of transparency myself – if nothing is opaque, where is the shade to shelter from the sun? The only transparent creatures are jellyfish and the like, whose internal organs are visible to the naked eye. If humans could see their own insides it would give them the collywobbles.
As for truth, it sounds good in principle, but didn’t an American general say “You can’t handle the truth”? He had a good point. How many Americans know that Yellowstone Park is a giant volcano that could erupt at any minute, cooking their country in a pile of superheated ash? As the Bard once wrote, “Tis better to live in ignorance than piss your pants to no purpose”.
Now, I’m not saying that Charlie would be a bad president – high-minded campaign slogans can quickly be shelved after the battle is won. Yet he must be stopped for one overwhelming reason: his election would further delay the historical necessity of a lady president. My ears are still burning from Gloria Steinem’s bitter remarks after Hillary lost the nomination to Obama. Surely no one in America wants to hear that again.
Is Mrs Clinton girding her luscious loins for another shot at the top job? I confess it’s very difficult for a gorilla like me to read her body language. Although I’d be happy for Hillary to win, I don’t think she would beat Charlie. A Washington insider has no chance against a Hollywood pro – Ronald Reagan proved that. Charlie could only be defeated by a woman who’s a bigger exhibitionist than he is.
You can probably guess the candidate I have in mind. She recently displayed her talent for political theatre by exposing her butt cheeks at the Grammy Awards:
"I wasn't mooning, I just lifted my dress up,” she explained. “Mooning is like naked butt. Everyone's seen my naked butt.”
Does anyone doubt that Madonna’s version of “truth and transparency” would kick Charlie’s campaign into the quicksand? It would also breathe new life into the American system of representative government. No country can call itself a true democracy until the people have seen their leader’s naked butt.
Labels: American politics, butt cheeks, Charlie Sheen, Madonna, naked butt
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
Tits in her ass
Someone has sent me an incredibly dull video of Madonna prancing about in hot pants and announcing (in a sullen voice) that she intends to start a revolution. An empty threat if ever there was one. The super-rich never start revolutions – they’ve got too much to lose. The last thing Madge wants is mobs of angry proletarians invading her private estate and demanding the use of her Jacuzzi. The real reason for the video is explained in a line she utters approximately 3 minutes and 36 seconds from the start:
I have tits in my ass and an insatiable desire to be noticed.
This is the only convincing statement she makes in the entire 17-minute film; I hope they carve it on her tombstone. It attests to her pride in the 55-year-old butt cheeks she possesses, which were partially exposed during much of the performance. I’m not going to comment on her buns myself, apart from noting how white they looked in monochrome film. If Madonna wants me to compliment her rump, she should book an appointment for a manual examination.
People often suggest that I make my own promotional video. “GB,” they say, “the world needs to hear your mission statement.” I admit there is much I could do to educate humanity about free jungle living and the enjoyment of hirsute pursuits. But I’m worried about becoming a cult figure and starting a new religion. A lot of impressionable humans became followers of the Jedi faith after seeing the Star Wars films. I once saw a wild-eyed woman kissing an effigy of Chewbacca – I averted my eyes from her gaze before she could attempt to mesmerise me.
To my knowledge, there is no religion based on worship of the Muppets, probably because they are utterly limp and lifeless without a human hand inside them. The American Museum of History has nevertheless decided to exhibit the best-loved characters, including Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. The pair were supposedly lovers, of course, although nobody knows whether their cross-species romance was ever consummated.
Would it have been physically possible for Kermit and Miss Piggy to have had carnal relations? Admittedly, there was a danger of the porcine one getting overexcited and squashing her lover in the melee. And if she took a more passive role, the absence of an amphibious appendage might have left her disappointed. Yet frogs are slippery, smooth-tongued creatures capable of pleasuring a female with multiple techniques. My guess is that Kermit was quite capable of extracting ecstatic squeals from his chubby and amorous sweetheart.
On the principle that any pornography you can think of exists, I decided to google “Kermit Miss Piggy sex”. Most of what I found were amateurish efforts like this one. Has no thin man ever thought of putting on a frog costume and making love to a fat woman wearing a pig snout and a blond wig? It can only be a matter of time, I suppose.
Labels: butt cheeks, Kermit, Madonna, Miss Piggy
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Too pretty to work?
The manager of the safari camp has been drooling over pictures of Miss Laura Fernee, the 33-year-old woman who claims she is too attractive to have a career.
“I’d give her a job,” he muttered, while breathing heavily on his computer screen.
“That’s very generous of you,” I remarked. “Nevertheless, she may have loftier career ambitions than being your masseuse. She has a doctorate, you know.”
“She can play doctor with me whenever she wants,” replied the manager oafishly.
I left him to his daydreams.
Miss Fernee says that whenever she finds employment her workmates make life impossible for her. The women assume she is a brainless bimbo, and when they discover she is sharp of mind they resent her even more. The men, by contrast, ignore her intellect and prowl around her like bears hoping to stick their paws in a honey pot. As a result of these intolerable aggravations, Miss Fernee is unemployed, subsisting on a monthly allowance of 2000 pounds sterling from her parents, which she uses to buy the designer clothes and accoutrements befitting a woman of her beauty and refinement.
I feel for Miss Fernee. Judging by appearance is one of the great weaknesses of homo sapiens and she has fallen foul of it. It’s not her fault that she resembles a Venezuelan beauty queen. Nor should she have to work as a supermodel or gangster’s moll just because of her looks. Perhaps she should consider shaving her head and wearing false whiskers. Her appearance would still be striking, but less likely to provoke envy or lust, and more suggestive of the deep thinker she clearly is. How many bald bearded women have ever been treated like vacuous strumpets? I can’t think of a single one.
Another young lady whose beauty is bringing her unwanted attention is Lourdes, the 16-year-old daughter of Madonna. When I say “unwanted” I mean “unwanted by her mother”, who insists that Lourdes and her boyfriend court under the gaze of a burly bodyguard, whose presence is intended to deter any hanky panky. I fear that Madonna’s maternal protectiveness may be thwarted by another human weakness, which is the susceptibility to bribery. Lourdes and her beau surely have sufficient ready cash to persuade their overseer to look the other way for 20 minutes while they sneak into a motel. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the daughter of a pop idol.
Should Madonna have had hired a gorilla to be the chaperone? I can honestly say that I never took a bribe during my circus career. If I were Lourdes’ minder, I wouldn’t think of letting her grease my palm in return for turning a blind eye to her intimate encounters. No, I would let her fornicate free of charge. Given that Madonna lost her virginity at the age of 15 without damaging her career prospects, she is a silly old hypocrite for trying to keep her daughter chaste at the age of 16. The latest photos of Lourdes and her boyfriend suggest that the train has left the station and is about to blow its whistle.
Labels: bimbo, bribery, career, Lourdes, Madonna
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Pussy protest
I fear that Madonna’s show of support for the Pussy Riot girls has contributed to the severity of their sentence. The audacious punk trio were deservedly arrested for breaking into Moscow’s main cathedral and performing on the altar without observing the required dress code. I would have certainly thrashed any baboon who played a prank like that, so I don’t see why their stunt should have gone unpunished. However sending them to prison is absurdly harsh. Locking up humans for irreverent behaviour is like sitting on a parrot for calling you a silly ape, which is something I’ve never done.
I knew Madonna had made a mistake in championing their cause when the Russian deputy prime minister called her a moralising slut. Something in the tone of his voice told me he resented being lobbied by a woman who has engaged in lewd acts with a crucifix. The Russians, of course, expect appeals for clemency to be made on bended knees, which is not a posture Madonna has adopted since she broke up with “Jellybean” Benitez.
A sensible compromise for resolving this acrimonious affair was proposed by Anastasia Volochkova, the nude ballerina. It seems that performing a traditional Russian art-form while stark naked has enabled her to see both sides of the issue. She suggested the girls should atone for their act of sacrilege by polishing public toilets until the enamel surfaces gleam. An appropriate act of penance, to be sure. I would also give them a mild spanking for calling themselves ‘Pussy Riot’, which is a needlessly provocative name. There’s no need to draw attention to your kitty when you’re entertaining the masses.
Now, some of you are probably thinking that I’m a politically naïve ape who isn’t aware that the girls were protesting against President Putin and his lackeys in the Orthodox Church. Yes, yes, I know. I am quite aware that an increasing number of Russians view Pootikins as snake-eyed assassin, even while the majority still revere him as an invincible sex symbol who cradles the Motherland in the pit of his groin. I don’t know which side is correct, but I’m sure that performing cheeky acts in a cathedral won’t settle the matter. The anti-Putin faction should focus their energy on more constructive deeds, like dropping coconuts on the heads of carefully selected Kremlin henchmen. Great causes have been advanced in the jungle by such methods.
Whatever you say about the Pussy Riot girls, far worse offenders are getting off scott-free. I’m thinking particularly of Ryan Lochte, the American Olympic swimmer, who cheerfully confessed to peeing in the pool while warming up before a race. This foul young man has caused his fellow swimmers to participate in water sports for which no medals are awarded. I hope someone pisses on his head the next time he visits a shopping mall. As for the future of US swimming, I should imagine the youngsters who were inspired to take up the sport are already beginning to have second thoughts.
Labels: Madonna, pissing in swimming pools, Pussy Riot, Putin, Russia
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
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Madonna and child
A man on safari tells me that Madonna is going to visit the parents of her 22-year-old companion, Jesus Luz.
“Perhaps she wants to adopt him,” I suggest.
The man seems doubtful, but agrees it would be a fitting way of formalising their relationship. The boy’s natural parents surely love him dearly, but they can’t give him the start in life that Madonna can. In her delicate embrace, young Jesus would be nurtured with the most fragrant oils and lotions, rubbed tenderly on his chest, thighs and buttocks. Living in a well-heated mansion, there would be no need for him to wear clothes as he swung on the indoor climbing frame, his adoptive mother watching his movements with burgeoning pride and excitement. Let us hope that the paperwork can be finalised quickly without legal challenge.
The religious significance of the adoption would be enormous. The sight of Madonna mothering her own baby Jesus would surely strengthen the faith of Roman Catholics everywhere. It might even attract new converts. Anglicans fed up with the namby-pamby nonsense from the Church of England and its bearded archdruid might be tempted to migrate to Rome on seeing this miraculous re-enactment. I hope Pope Benny makes the most of the opportunity by granting an audience to Madge and Jezz and having his picture taken with them. Giving them his blessing might technically be blasphemous, so perhaps he ought to let them bless him.
I shouldn’t really be nagging the Pope because he has a lot on his plate at the moment. A great row has erupted among the faithful in Spain after a group of mothers who call themselves “Daughters of the Generalissimo” sent an open letter to the Vatican. They have inquired whether a devout Catholic wife should ever permit herself to attain a physical climax during marital relations, adducing their own opinion that any child conceived in such debauchery would be the Spawn of Satan. The Pope has deferred judgement pending consultation with Cardinals experienced in such matters. Spanish feminists, meanwhile, have expressed their fury by burning their knickers in the Plaza de España in Madrid.
If I had the Pope’s ear, I would advise him that it was perfectly lawful for a woman to experience elation during the physical act of love. There are many precedents in Holy Scripture – Bathsheba was never punished by the Lord for enjoying a jiggy with Mr Biggy and Delilah was obviously an insatiable minx who liked it mean and dirty. The only stipulation for the pious wife is that she should remain silent while in the throes of ecstasy. The purpose of marital congress is procreation, and no righteous husband should have to listen to his wife making a hullabaloo when he’s trying to impregnate her. It’s the sort of thing that might put a man off his stroke and make him forget what he was doing. A few soft little moans and sighs should be all that is permissible.
Speaking of procreation, I was disappointed to hear that Paris Hilton has failed to make good on her promise to produce a brood of little Parisites. Her latest beefcake suitor was callously dumped after she discovered he was “boring”. She should stop being so picky if you ask me. Does she want to be impregnated or entertained? Men who can do both generally prefer not to breed with vacuous floozies.
Labels: Jesus Luz, Madonna, Paris Hilton, Pope Benedict
