Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Apps with benefits
A cheeky baboon asks me if I have the Bang with Friends app on my smartphone.
“In the first place, I don't have a smartphone," I reply with casual haughtiness. "And in the second place, the app would be redundant, because I never bang with friends. Such behaviour inevitably causes discombobulation, which upsets one's mental equilibrium. Begone, you cheeky baboon!”
After doing some research, I discover that the app is not quite as bad as it sounds. The “friends” whose banging it facilitates are actually “Facebook friends”, which usually means some stranger who gave your second cousin a manicure. I have never met most of my Facebook friends, which is just as well. I’m sure a good many of them would become my enemies if I did.
So “Bang with Friends” actually means “copulate with a stranger who’s as horny as you are and doesn’t want any complications”. Not an entirely respectable pastime, but far less disruptive than banging a real friend. These facts notwithstanding, the makers of the app are being sued by another company for theft of intellectual property rights. Since when has playing the pander been intellectual property, I’d like to know? I hope this jealous lawsuit gets kicked out of court for tortious interference.
On the subject of sex with strangers, a silly girl has got some undeserved attention by asking random men whether they’d like to have sex with her. Apparently, a lot of them said “yes” without even checking whether she was in oestrus.
Now, there’s nothing clever about filming frisky young bucks making fools of themselves. The manager of the safari camp, being a frisky old buck, said they should have responded to her proposition with another question, such as:
• Can I see you naked first?
• Is your father a policeman?
• Would you like to sit on my face?
I couldn’t resist asking my old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, how he would have replied to such an offer. He said that as a happily married man he would have politely declined by pleading impotence:
“Would that I were able, my dear woman, but unfortunately my testicles were crushed like chestnuts in a bicycle accident,” is the form of words he suggested.
You’ve got to love his old school gentlemanly manners. It’s high time it was taught to the younger generation, whose uncouth behaviour has been exemplified by an unfortunate incident on a BBC breakfast show. It seems that the camera panned to a photo of Prince William that had been crudely defaced by cartoon doodles, one of which depicted a penis sprouting from his royal forehead.
Even if Prince William were in fact a dickhead (which is by no means certain), scribbling on one of his photographs is not a genteel way of making the point. A well-bred pamphleteer would have composed a short poem advancing the proposition and hired a jester to read it to the crowds outside Buckingham Palace. There’s always a civilised way of arguing your case, however strongly you feel about it.
Labels: Bang with Friends, dickhead, frisky young bucks, Prince William
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
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Royal Flush
My females have been cackling excitedly about the royal princes’ tour of Africa.
“Why don’t you invite them here?” they piped. “We’d make them feel at home.”
“No you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Feeling at home for them means playing polo, visiting chutney factories and having their toenails clipped by a servant. They aren’t used to your jungle tricks and you haven’t learned the correct etiquette. I don’t want you thrusting your hips at them instead of curtsying.”
That shut them up. In truth, I was worried that a similar faux pas to the one in Botswana might occur, where a nervous rock python pissed itself in fright after being introduced to the princes. Being English, they were too embarrassed to deal with the mishap like the president of Zambia, who sternly rebuked a monkey for passing water on his jacket. Let’s just hope the incident hasn’t left a sour taste in their mouths.
In accordance with royal protocol, the identity of the nurse who accompanied the princes remained a closely guarded secret. A hapless photographer who tried to take her picture was set upon by the royal bodyguards and forced to sit on a pineapple. If you think William and Harry are too old for a nurse you know little of the customs of the British monarchy. It is essential, on such visits, to keep the princes well clear of local floozies who would eagerly squat before them in the hope of receiving a royal rogering. The role of the nurse is to lessen the appeal of such sordid temptations by regularly milking the princes of their manly juices. The job is normally offered to a lady familiar with livestock breeding, who can render the service with clinical detachment. Surgical gloves and Vaseline are essential tools of the trade.
The finale of the princes’ tour was a visit to South Africa, causing some people to suggest they were only here for the World Cup. Such cynics forget that they also met various dignitaries, including that great man whose long struggle for freedom inspired millions of down-trodden humans, and quite a few up-trodden ones as well. I refer, of course, to Bishop Tutu, who received the princes in one of his most fetching purple frocks. I don’t know what he said to the boys, but I’m sure he spiced up his sermon with plenty of whooping and jigging.
I had the honour of meeting the Bishop when he stayed at the safari guesthouse.
“Toots, “ I said, “don’t you resent all the hero-worship that Mandela gets when you did all the hard work in the dark days of P.W. Botha?”
“Not at all, GB!” he chirped. “My heart is full of joy for having done God’s work. And what makes you think I don’t have my own fans?”
He made a good point. The Bishop's many quiet admirers include a team of scientists who obtained a sample of his DNA. They discovered he belongs to one of the least in-bred human populations on Earth, which might explain his sunny disposition. This is something the princes should bear in mind when listening to the morose prattle of their bat-eared father, who recently condemned Galileo for a remark he made in 1597. When royalty breeds with royalty, the results are rarely pretty.
Labels: Bishop Tutu, in-breeding, Prince Charles, Prince Harry, Prince William
