Wednesday, March 02, 2016
Stroke of luck
A 16-year-old Russian boy has won a prize to live with a porn actress for a month. Ruslan Schedrin earned this unusual – and some would say extravagant – reward for being visitor number 100,000 on a video games website. As one would expect, he is elated about his good fortune:
“I was so happy," he said. "I saw her and I liked everything. She has got good sizes... I am looking forward to our meeting so much. Everything is boiling inside me.”
Let’s hope his boiling innards don’t evaporate before she lays hands on him. His enthusiasm for this exhilarating prospect is not shared by his mother:
“I am shocked!” she declared. “I have not seen the girl, but my son must study.”
Perhaps Ruslin should promise his mother to study very hard when he is being taught how to unhook a bra strap. She’d be amazed by how much a boy can learn from a one-month apprenticeship.
Now the porn actress, whose name is Ekaterina Makarova, will be shacking up with her eager pupil in a Moscow hotel. The good news for Ruslan is that she seems to have taken a shine to him. Nevertheless, she is curiously coy about whether they will be engaging in deeds of a steamy and sticky nature:
“It’s not supposed, but life is life,” she remarked mysteriously. “It is a usual thing when inexperienced boys are looking for more experienced girlfriends. I don't know. At least we'll be friends – I liked him in the photographs.”
Reading between the lines, I think she realises how hugely disappointed Ruslan would be if she denied him the goodies in her candy box. Perhaps she is trying to keep the itinerary ambiguous to protect the boy’s reputation when he finally emerges from her lair. Her own reputation, of course, has no need of protection.
My main concern for the boy is that the dish may taste better in the anticipation than in the eating. The job of a porn actress is to give pleasure to the voyeur, not the witless buffoon who explores her orifices. Even if he does initially get a kick out of having his juices milked, the novelty is bound to wear off after a month. It may turn out to be the kind of unfulfilling experience that propels him towards self-stimulation with a noose around his neck.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he didn’t try to hide his resentment:
“No 16-year-old boy deserves to be that lucky,” he said. “When I was 16, I had to beg fat college girls to let me feel them up.”
“And I’m sure you are a better man for it!” I exclaimed. “Is it not more praiseworthy to toil honestly for the right to squeeze the boobies of a deliciously plump college girl than be presented with a jaded porn star because of a lucky click on your computer?”
He rubbed his face and sighed, but I believe my words brought him comfort.
Labels: disapproving mothers, fat college girls, porn actresses, Russia
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Russian news
A town is Russia is holding a mosquito festival for people who like itchy red marks all over their body. The coveted title of ‘Miss Delicious’ will go to the woman who attracts the most bites during a 20-minute feeding frenzy.
“An expert panel of judges, including a doctor, will examine their bodies and the winner will be the one with the most bites,” explained Natalya Paramonova, the event organiser.
I never knew diagnosing mosquito bites required a medical qualification. I suppose lay people can easily be tricked by pimples, pinch marks and spider hickeys. If I were the referee I would disqualify bites found in the groin and armpits. A woman isn’t tasty just because she gets bitten by an exasperated insect that’s stuck in her crannies.
Does getting bitten by mosquitoes make Russian women feel sexy? The idea sounds preposterous, but the title of ‘Miss Delicious’ is an appealing one, and the Russians are no strangers to masochism. What the participants might not realise is that only female mosquitoes drink blood, so the love bites they are getting are actually lesbian love bites. This must be the only gay event in Russia that the police haven’t tried to break up.
I wonder how the contestants would feel about getting a bite from Count Dracula or one of his disciples. Vampires can certainly suck harder than mosquitoes, although they are arguably less adventurous about where they pierce the flesh. They are also famously choosy about their victims, preferring the blood of virgins. It’s a good thing mosquitoes aren’t such fussy eaters, because they might not have found many palatable candidates at the festival. If they all tucked into Svetlana the Frump, she would have turned into a giant red itch that no one wanted to scratch.
While some Russians are gluttons for punishment, others are just gluttons. I am referring, of course, to Gerard Depardieu, who recently announced he was ready to die for his new homeland:
“I am ready to die for Russia because the people there are strong,” he declared. “I absolutely do not want to die a fool in modern-day France,"
The foolish death he was keen to avoid in France would no doubt have involved gorging on horsemeat and truffles until he exploded, followed by a sky burial at the top of the Eiffel Tower to repay his tax debts by feeding the vultures of Paris. You can’t blame him for becoming a tax exile to escape that ignoble fate.
The honourable death he is ready to face in Russia is less easy to discern. He would obviously be a lethal weapon if dropped on the enemies of the Motherland from a height of greater than twenty metres, but what would happen if he survived the fall? There is no esteem in Russia for crippled human bombs. The only other heroic death I can think of would be using him as a torpedo for the Russian submarine fleet. I certainly wouldn’t want to be cruising on the high seas with Depardieu flapping around under my hull.
Labels: Gerard Depardieu, hickey, mosquitoes, Russia, vampires
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Bare cheek
Does anyone know what happened to the Russian performance artist who nailed his scrotum to Red Square? I only became interested in his fate when the Russian authorities charged him with “hooliganism”. The injury to his nutsack is of no interest to me. When a man self-harms his genitalia, one has to assume that he’s weighed up the pros and cons. He’s no different, in principle, from Captain Dan, the circus dwarf who attached household appliances to his appendage.
I don’t know why the Russian government keeps over-reacting to these publicity stunts. I can’t think of a protest that would be easier to laugh off. Nor can I think of a crime that’s more obviously its own punishment. They should have hired a workman to extract the nail and sent the fellow a bill for labour and materials. No further action was required.
Some protests are no laughing matter, of course. I would never snigger at a woman who registered a complaint by taking off her clothes. Women are sensitive about their bodies and often have issues about being the wrong shape or size. If they choose to disrobe, for whatever reason, they should be ogled in respectful, sombre-faced silence. It is the height of bad manners to smirk at a naked woman.
An Egyptian maiden has caused a stir in her native land by baring her body in support of women’s rights. Alia al-Mahdi has mocked religious rituals by parodying them in the nude. The local turbans aren’t used to that sort of cheek and have reacted to her lampoons with outrage:
“This is pure heresy!” exclaimed Sheikh Nasser Radwan. “She should be tried for defaming religion and insulting the Divine Being!” he added.
Alia has wisely decamped to Stockholm, where she will be safe from the Divine Being and his vengeful minions. The colder climate has not discouraged her from further activism with her fellow feminudists in FEMEN. According to actress Amanda Banoub, she displays "genuine purity and modesty without a single layer of clothing". Having watched the video, I can almost see what she means.
The problem with stripping off, however, is that people might confuse your philosophy with exhibitionism. It’s an easy mistake for the unsophisticated to make. This explains why many humans prefer to blow a raspberry as a gesture of defiance. The aim is to imitate the noise of a fart, which can be highly unsettling if it catches you unawares. Oddly enough, a genuine fart is not considered to be an insult. However much it annoys the bystander, the farter is usually ashamed of the deed.
The good news for the flatulent is that a new type of underwear has been invented which filters out the pungent fart gases, so the discharge is completely odourless. It ought to be standard kit for humans of all races and creeds. I suppose a few sleazy types might miss smelling their own farts, but to hell with them. “Let them sniff cake,” as the Queen of France might have said.
Labels: fart deodorising underpants, fart noises, FEMEN, nudity, protest, raspberries, Russia
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Russian refuge
Very clever of Mr Putin to grant Russian citizenship to Gerard Depardieu. If nothing else, it will help alleviate the chronic shortage of fat men in the country. The governor of Mordovia, a region famous for its prison camps, has invited the potato-shaped actor to settle there. As the only nightlife in that part of Russia involves climbing up watch towers and pissing on stray cats, it’s not an offer that’s likely to be accepted.
Let’s hope Depardieu does something to revive the moribund Russian film industry. I once saw a Russian movie in an art-house cinema: it was incredibly grim and depressing – nothing but revolting masses and angry men with beards. I can’t understand why the Russians, who were the first humans in space, don’t make more science fiction pictures. How about a Russian version of Star Wars in which Depardieu plays Jabba the Hut? Or a spin-off from Star Trek in which Chekov is the captain of the Enterprise and Depardieu is the Grossovian ambassador from Fattus-5? The great thing about a galaxy class star ship is its replicating machines made it impossible to run out of food.
The real reason for Depardieu’s departure to Mother Russia is his wish to avoid new taxes imposed by the French government. The president of France has described him as “shabby and unpatriotic” for refusing to dig deep into his pockets. My sympathies are with Depardieu here. If governments are short of money, they ought to earn it themselves instead of grabbing the assets of hard-pressed entertainers. I remember getting a visit from a tax inspector when I was a highly paid circus performer.
“Leave me alone, you accursed leech!” I barked. “I give my spare cash to worthy causes, not to upstarts who harass me with impudent demands! We will resolve this matter in a court of law!”
This led to the famous test case of Regina v Bananas. The high court ruled that philanthropic primates should be exempt from human taxes on the grounds that their natural generosity would impel them to devote a fair proportion of their wealth to the public good. It was a Magna Carta moment for the gorilla nation.
I’m glad to say that not all Europeans are as bereft of money-making ideas as the French government. A Czech woman has come up with the ingenious venture of selling advertising space on her breasts. This is her sales pitch:
I am a beautiful young girl and I offer my breasts for greeting cards and adverts. Send me your message and I’ll send you a pic with it written on my breasts.
Her charges are very reasonable and the demand for her services is soaring.
“It’s good value for money,” said one satisfied customer. “But I’d pay double if I could write the advert myself.”
Maybe Depardieu could make up with the French government by offering them free advertising space on his arse. There’s enough room there for the Marseillais and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.
Labels: France, Gerard Depardieu, high taxes, messages on breasts, Russia
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, July 04, 2012
Back in the USSR
Paul McCartney phoned me the other day to moan about the injustices of the world. Apparently, some Russian bureaucrat has blamed the Beatles for the boom in recreational drug use.
“It was 45 ruddy years ago when we admitted taking stuff!” snorted Paul. “Why can’t they blame Amy Winehouse or someone? I wish I hadn’t given that concert in Red Square now, the ungrateful cunts!”
“Don’t let it bother you, Paul,” I replied. “He probably would have blamed Amy Winehouse if she were still alive. The Russians are superstitious buggers and wary of provoking the spirits of the departed. In any case, you ought to be glad that the Beatles are still considered so influential. You wouldn’t get a Russian official complaining about Cliff Richard’s effect on the younger generation.”
“Not unless the younger generation had taken a vow of celibacy after dating a butch tennis player!” quipped Paul.
“He-he-hoo!” I hooted. “What cheeky Liverpudlian waggery!”
In truth, I can’t assess the validity of this Russian fellow’s argument. He seems to be saying that the Beatles’ brief sojourn in the Maharishi’s ashram convinced many young Russians that psychedelic drugs were the answer. It seems idiotic to me, but who am I to say what Russians would believe? They believed in Communism a few years ago.
Whatever their issues with narcotics, the Beatles did set a good example in other aspects of their conduct. Unlike many other millionaire pop stars, they were never obsessed with busty women, which is something they deserve credit for. I can’t think of a single Beatle girlfriend or wife who possessed an enormous pair of hooters. The better known ones were medium at most.
I think this explains why silicone implants didn’t take off until the Fab Four split up. The modern generation of nymphettes simply has no idea that the Beatles were nuzzling small bosoms in the heyday of their fame and fortune. Nowadays, it takes something akin to a Damascene conversion to persuade a woman desirous of a bigger bust to be satisfied with what she’s got.
Such miracles do occur, though. I was heartened hear of Olivia Landin, a waifish English girl who was persuaded to enter a beauty contest before a planned boob job. She won the first prize a mere 48 hours before her appointment with the cosmetic surgeon.
“I never expected to win; it was unbelievable,” said Olivia, aged 20. “As soon as I got off stage I had second thoughts about changing anything about me.”
I’ve never had much regard for beauty contests, but the cancellation of Olivia’s breast enlargement operation proves they can be a force for good. Before drawing any firm conclusions, I would like to know how the judges came to their decision. If they noticed Olivia’s pert little jahoobies and gave them high marks, she is a worthy champion. But if they disregarded her bosom in a politically correct way, her victory would be a hollow one. A beauty pageant in which the boobs are ignored is not an authentic competition.
Labels: beauty content, breast implants, jahoobies, Russia, The Beatles
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
Monday, March 14, 2011
The best medicine
A Russian doctor has opened a clinic specialising in laughter therapy. His theory is that regular chortling is an effective treatment for a multitude of maladies ranging from high blood pressure to cancer. I can verify from personal experience that it works for constipation.
Although my current jungle diet makes my shit flow like a mudslide, I wasn’t able to follow it back in my circus days. I once got a concrete feeling in my colon after eating too many cream crackers, so I went to the bog and tried to empty my bowels by reading The Henry Root Letters. Believe me, there is nothing on Earth that feels like laughing out a turd – a mixture of agony, hilarity and relief in one big dump. My hooting and hollering caused people outside to wonder whether sadomasochist practices were going on. Fortunately they were too scared to intervene, which would have definitely resulted in an ugly incident.
Of course this doesn’t mean the clinic is bound to be a success, because there’s a big difference between gorillas and Russians. Laughter is a habit we have acquired from a carefree jungle lifestyle involving dancing, swinging and the spanking of baboons. The Russians, by contrast, have had very few opportunities for mirth in their grim and tragic history, bedevilled with notorious despots such as Ivan the Terrible and Igor the Horrible. I seriously doubt whether many of them even enjoy laughing.
When Solzenitsyn came to the West, the first thing he noticed was people smiling in the streets, which he found irksome.
“Their gossip, nonsense and vain talk belie an emptiness of the soul,” he pompously declared.
Silly old fart. Little did he realise, in his profound ignorance, that gossip, nonsense and vain talk have underpinned the greatest achievements of Western civilisation, including parliamentary democracy, the moon landings and talk radio. That’s what happens to a writer who shoots to fame as a chronicler of misery and oppression – he loses the ability to see past his nose.
Maybe the new Russia is different, though. Communism has been dead for 20 years and Boris Yeltsin could certainly act like a buffoon, albeit not a particularly funny one. Vladimir Putin still has the old KGB poker face, but the younger generation have invented some clever practical jokes, such as the mail-order bride who steals money from desperate fat men.
A very promising attempt at humour was recently made in St Petersburg by some up-and-coming artists, who drew a giant phallus on one of the city’s bridges. They called their creation “A Penis in KGB Captivity” to draw attention to heavy-handed police tactics during an international conference. There was talk of short-listing the graffiti for an art prize, but the authorities ordered the fire brigade to obliterate it with their hoses. They wouldn’t even let it stand proudly for the duration of the conference.
My question for the Russians is this: If you can’t laugh at a big willy, what can you laugh at?
Labels: laughter, penis, Russia, Solzenitsyn
Monday, December 29, 2008
Reach for the sky
Dr Whipsnade’s chauffeur once tried to tease me about the final scene of that abominable movie King Kong.
“A gorilla climbing up the Empire State Building!” he jeered. “Very Freudian! Do you think it was penis envy, GB?”
“My dear fellow,” I replied, “the author of the screenplay was a man, not a gorilla. I suggest you delve into your own subconscious for the symbolism of that peculiar event.”
“Are you saying we have an unconscious desire for a gorilla to climb up our cocks?”
“Probably not as a rule, although most things are possible in human sexual fantasies. You are forgetting, however, that the building was quickly surrounded by warplanes, which the ape did his best to swat away. They were obviously the dreaded agents of a powerful castration complex.”
“But I don’t see how the gorilla fits into it.”
“It’s quite simple. The human male is terrified of mating in the open air, fearing that his penis will be bitten by mosquitoes or other flying insects. He imagines, therefore, that a benevolent gorilla (possibly a father figure) will defend his organ from their attacks.”
“You mean King Kong took all those bullets to save our dicks from harm? He’s even more noble than I thought!”
“Indeed, although this would never happen in real life. We gorillas have better things to do than protect a man’s penis. If you ever tried to satisfy your lust in the jungle, either with a willing partner or more probably through self abuse, there’s not a gorilla in Africa that would guard your groin. Your todger would have to fend for itself.”
“I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m having sex in the jungle!”
I smiled at the man and pointed at Dr Whipsnade’s niece, who was waiting in the hallway to be driven to a social function. I might have added that an insect in search of a quick snack would have no particular reason to home in on a man’s private parts – there are plenty of other appetising targets on his body. But it wasn’t my job to deal with a chauffeur’s irrational psychosexual fears. The shrink must eat, just like the mosquito, and should not be deprived of an honest living.
I thought of the above conversation on learning that the Russians are planning to build the tallest skyscraper in Europe, news which prompted me to scratch my chin in puzzlement. Isn’t the point of tall buildings to make the best use of scarce land in cramped conditions? Mother Russia is surely the one country on Earth where floor space is not an issue. One suspects this tower is intended to be a defiant virility symbol, signalling to the world that the Russian nation can still get it up.
It all seems rather vulgar and nouveau riche in a country famed for its suffering masses. Perhaps a more fitting monument would be a giant sphere made of candy for children and pensioners to lick. They could call it “Hitler’s Missing Ball” as an ironic reference to the Nazi dictator, whose remains are scattered in laboratories throughout Russia.
The problem with all these skyscrapers is that they’ve gotten too tall. I appreciate a good vantage point as much as the next ape, but if everyone at ground level looks like an ant you can’t see what the devil is going on. That’s why I have always been an ardent admirer of the blimp. These great gas-filled tits are wonders of the modern world, and it amazes me that everyone is so blasé about them. People go to football matches and say “Oh, there’s a blimp” as if they’re looking at a camel having a shit.
Maybe I should acquire my own Bananas Blimp. As well as using it for sight-seeing, I would hire it out for mid-air parties and orgies. For an extra fee, I would let the revellers fly over golf courses to jeer and moon at the players below in their silly checked trousers. There’s no point towering above people unless you can make them feel small.
Labels: blimp, Penis envy, Russia, skyscrapers
