Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Putin Prank
Poor Elton John! Having announced to the world that he wanted to lecture Mr Putin on the subject of gay rights, he got a phone call from a Russian wag who announced that the president wanted to parley with him. Naturally Elton fell for the hoax, believing that the caller was the president’s interpreter. The prankster subsequently produced a recording of Elton nattering away like a ninny. He must be feeling like a fairy queen who got goosed by a wicked goblin.
Now, it’s widely believed that President Putin isn’t too keen on gays and I’m fairly certain the feeling is mutual. The Kremlin often publishes bare-chested pictures of their steely-eyed supremo engaging in macho pastimes to impress his female fans. Apparently, the women of Russia drool over such images. I dare say many of them fantasize about rubbing hot oil into his torso as he stares moodily into the distance.
Gay men, however, are a lot more finicky about the hunks they adore. A leisurely perusal of Mistress Maddie’s blog suggests one has to be a virtual Adonis to be a stud on the gay scene. The members of this community could not be fooled into idolising a middle-aged politician with sagging moobs, even if he talks tough and has his finger on the nuclear button. You’ve got to be packing weapons closer to home to impress the gay boys.
I remember reading a blog post written by a high-class lady escort, who asserted that all the best male escorts were gay. She admitted to treating herself to one of these gigolos when she got tired of servicing pot-bellied men. She also claimed that he achieved an intense climax with her, emitting a high-pitched scream. Should we believe this boast? I suppose he might have closed his eyes and thought of Channing Tatum.
Much as I hope that the Russians will lose their queer-bashing habit, I doubt their country will ever be a suitable place for the gay fraternity. The climate is simply too extreme for men who like to show off their bodies. The ideal homosexual homeland would be a tropical island with sandy beaches, coconut trees and plenty of ripe bananas. The main industry would be tourism, with guests of all persuasions staying in five star hotels serviced by firm-bottomed bellboys. The cabaret and theatre would rival Las Vegas and Broadway.
Could Elton John be the gay republic’s first president? It’s not out of the question, but he’ll have to be more wary of prank phone calls. It’s amazing how people keep on falling for the same old gag. Back in my circus days, I remember getting a call from someone who wanted to know if my refrigerator was running.
“It is no concern of yours, my inquisitive non-entity,” I replied. “My refrigerator’s condition is a private matter, only to be discussed with a qualified technician from General Electric.”
The caller uttered a few expletives before hanging up in frustration.
Labels: Elton John, gay republic, gays, hoaxes, prank phone call, Putin
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Circus act
If you’d mentioned the name “Miley Cyrus” to me 10 days ago I would have scratched my head. When I hear it today, I scratch my armpits (a gesture of amusement in gorilla society). I am pleased to report that her recent twerking exhibition brought whoops of delight from the jungle primate community, apart from a few envious baboons who thought she was stealing their thunder. The girl is funnier than Fabio Fucini, the legendary circus clown who could fart in his own face.
Her human critics have predictably focused on minor aspects of her routine, such as the booty-wiggling and the hand-to-crotch activity. These are simple manoeuvres that most apes master before puberty. I was spellbound by her face. Her eyes reminded me of a she-hyena in heat, and her tongue might have been attached to a hungry lizard looking for insects to feed on. If I owned a restaurant, I would invite her to lick all the plates clean before putting them in the dishwasher.
The most intriguing part of her act involved the glove with the big pointing finger, which she poked and prodded the man in the striped suit with, before thrusting between her thighs like an imitation phallus. My females thought she was pretending to be a man, but I was quick to correct them:
“She is pretending to be a woman with penis envy,” I said. “The glove is actually a condom, because the human finger is an infamous cootie-magnet that goes every place it can. Singers must be mindful of the safe sex message in front of their impressionable fans.”
All-in-all, it was an inspired performance. If I were Miley’s manager, I would encourage her to develop a comedy pole-dancing act that would upstage all the boring displays you see in titty bars.
I shouldn’t give the impression that I’ll encourage anything for a laugh. Jokes can backfire, as the artist who painted a picture of President Putin in ladies’ underwear found out. The painting was immediately confiscated and the artist had to flee to France to avoid arrest. There’s no sense in mocking a humourless tyrant if he has the power to pulverise your paintbrushes and stick the splinters into your tender parts.
I’m the last one to defend President Putin, but it has to be admitted that the picture does not flatter him. He makes a very unattractive woman, and is a salutary lesson for men who think that slipping into a sexy negligee will make them gorgeous. If you don’t want to look like a hideous old transvestite, you’ve got to go the whole hog with hormone therapy and cosmetic surgery.
This isn’t to say that everything looks good on a real woman. I certainly don’t approve of the enormous rose-bush tattoo that a woman called Cheryl Cole put on her backside. Rose petals may be fragrant, but they don’t belong on the human rump. There is something very suspect about a woman who tries that hard to make people sniff her bottom.
Labels: Cheryl Cole, cross-dressing, Miley Cyrus, Putin, twerking
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
End of the bra?
A French scientist is claiming that bras are useless:
"Medically, physiologically, anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity,” declared Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon. “Instead, it languishes with a bra.”
So he says, but can a Frenchman be trusted on this delicate question? Devising compelling arguments for a woman to take off her bra is a celebrated diversion of French intellectual life. I believe Jean-Paul Satre devoted a chapter to it in his PhD thesis.
The Americans, by contrast, remain as resolutely pro-bra as ever:
“The first lady will not be changing her pectoral apparel in light of this development,” said a White House spokesman.
As a gorilla whose own experience on this subject is lacking, I have little data with which to assess these competing claims. On the one hand, the tribal women of Africa have never worn bras. On the other hand, many of these women have exceptionally droopy titties. Yet wearing bras may have made them even droopier.
If I were to study humans in the same way that Dian Fossey studied gorillas, I would go around the world with an inch tape asking women to let me take their measurements. I have no plans to do so, because subjecting women’s breasts to meticulous scrutiny would be undignified for a gorilla. Such tasks should be left to men, whose reputation on this issue is already in tatters.
One band of intrepid women who should welcome Professor Rouillon’s findings is FEMEN, the Ukrainian feminist group that specialises in bare-bosomed protests. Their latest exploit was to ambush President Putin at the Hanover Trade Fair while Frau Merkel was showing him the latest German equipment. Alexandra Shevchenko is the name of the FEMEN activist who managed to invade Mr Putin’s personal space and scream the slogan “Fuck dictator!” at him (which was inscribed on her breasts for good measure). Putin responded to this affront by puffing out his own chest and raising his eyebrows in an ironic grimace.
“It was a very intimate moment,” said Miss Shevchenko afterwards.
Undoubtedly this protest would have been less effective had Alexandra been wearing a bra, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly effective without one. President Putin seemed too intrigued by the messenger to notice the message, and no doubt laughed the whole thing off as a futile attempt to arouse him sexually. You can’t humiliate an ex-KGB man by showing him your jahoobies. Such displays are dismissed as decadent frippery in the official spy manual.
Sadly, the one dictator who might be cowed by naked breast-power is unlikely ever to face that ordeal. I refer to Kim Jong Un, whose baby cheeks would surely burn with shame if they were smothered between a pair of voluptuous boobies. This explains why the only females allowed in his presence are pubescent pom-pom girls and flat-chested army secretaries. I wonder if anyone could persuade Pamela Anderson to parachute behind enemy lines, so she could tit-slap some sense into the abominable little upstart?
Labels: Bras, Breasts, FEMEN, Frenchmen, Kim Jong Un, Pamela Anderson, Putin
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
Monday, August 01, 2011
Strip for Putin
It seems the Russians still have a long way to go before they understand how the free market works. A bevy of the nation’s most beautiful women are supporting Mr Putin’s bid to regain the presidency in 2012 by taking off their clothes. I dare say ogling their naked bodies is as good a reason as any to vote for Pootikins, but you don’t bribe the voters by giving them the goodies in advance. They should have offered to strip off after their hero got elected Czar again.
Putin has been an explosive sex symbol for Russian women ever since he promised to wipe out terrorists when they were sitting on the toilet. It takes a special kind of ruthlessness to blow a man away when he’s taking a dump. Most assassins wait until their victim has emptied his bowels and scoured with paper or douche. We gorillas would never attack an adversary who was answering a call of nature. Shitting animals are civilians in the jungle, and confronting them runs the risk of stepping in their poop.
Now, Putin has been keeping very quiet about his stripper fan club and I don’t blame him. If he publicly disowns them he’ll look like an ungrateful KGB apparachnik, but if he thanks them too warmly people might think he put them up to it. In the heyday of my circus career, I attracted a large following of nubile young women, who sometimes deigned to show their devotion by disrobing. I never encouraged them. A busty young lady once told me she was going to dance topless through the streets of her home town with “GORILLA” printed on one breast and “BANANAS” printed on the other. Believe me, they were big enough for the words to fit.
“Your adulation touches me greatly,” I said, “but I cannot publicly acknowledge your gesture or thank you for it.”
“Don’t you want me to do it?” she asked.
“It is not for me to forbid you,” I replied. “Do what you must do, but don’t expect me to attend the event or cheer you on. A family entertainer must maintain a discreet silence when a woman jiggles her jahoobies in his honour.”
As you can see, my answer occupied the narrow middle ground between incitement and disapproval. She nevertheless interpreted it as a green light to proceed. When my circus colleagues rushed excitedly to tell me that she’d exhibited her assets to great hoopla, I maintained a poker face.
“She was courteous enough to inform me of her plans in advance,” I remarked dryly. “I am glad she found an appreciative audience.”
Her performance attracted the interest of various media outlets, and the graffiti on her bosom did not go unnoticed. This resulted in excellent publicity for my act, and our shows were sold out for the rest of the summer. As a token of my gratitude, I sent her a gift from the lingerie department of Selfridges, signing the card “Your hairy idol”. There’s no point displaying false modesty to a fan.
Labels: jahoobies, Putin, Russia, stripping
