Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Catfight?
Is it true that Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are embroiled in a feud? That’s what on-line gossips like Perez Hilton are saying, but the evidence looks flimsy to me. Much has been made of the fact that Taylor released an album called Bad Blood, but what does that prove? ‘Bad blood’ exists between a wide range of antagonists in many complex and varied situations. You can’t infer the existence of a feud between two pop singers because one of them uses it as the title of a songbook.
It reminds me of when Paul McCartney put a picture of one beetle mounting another on the cover of a record he produced shortly after the Beatles spilt up. All the pundits assumed he was referring to what the Fab Four were doing to each other, but maybe he just thought insect sex was funny. I confess that the sight of bugs getting laid always cracks me up – it’s the deadpan expressions on their faces that does it.
In an attempt to gain further insights into the Swift/Perry imbroglio, I asked the manager of the safari camp what he made of the rumours.
“I couldn’t give two hoots,” he said. “Those vixens quarrelling isn’t going to change the price of jelly beans. I’m not taking an interest in the matter unless they agree to settle their differences woman-to-woman in a naked mud-wrestling fight.”
This lack of useful input from the manager prompted me to do my own research. It seems that Katy has a habit of getting pally with Taylor’s ex-boyfriends. First it happened with a fellow called John Mayer, who became the subject of a heartbreak ballad written by Taylor. Then it happened with a disc jockey and impresario called Calvin Harris, who is now one of Katy’s artistic collaborators. You could say it was a coincidence, but we gorillas don’t believe in coincidences. Miss Perry clearly has some weird fixation about bedding Taylor’s cast-offs.
I decided to ask my old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, whether he had ever encountered this syndrome in his long and distinguished career as a playboy and poodlefaker.
“Indeed I have!” he exclaimed. “It’s a competitive thing. The second woman wants you to tell her she’s better in bed than the first woman. I refused to comment until it became clear that she needed to hear it to get turned on. I didn’t want to say it, but a man has to be pragmatic when he trying to get a woman aroused.”
If Smacker’s evidence is correct – and I have a high degree of confidence in his reliability as an expert witness in the sexual habits of humanity – it reflects very poorly on Miss Perry. In spite of all the praise and admiration lavished on her and her impressive boobs, she remains a deeply insecure woman. One hopes she is undergoing therapy to deal with her issues. If that doesn’t work, she should spend a few months in a nunnery to get it out of her system.
Labels: catfight, insect sex, Katy Perry, poodlefaker, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Pleading innocence
Mel B has announced that she is the only Spice Girl who has not slept with the deplorable Robbie Williams:
“Yuck!” she exclaimed. “He had been with my friends – I don’t want sloppy seconds!”
Mr Williams supposedly made an off-the-cuff remark about having bedded 4 out of 5 of the Spice Girls. I would have immediately assumed that Victoria Spice had evaded his evil clutches, but now it seems she has some explaining to do.
Mel B should hang her head in shame for making this information public. What a shocking betrayal of her comrades! The girls had previously been like members of a firing squad where one had a rifle with a blank cartridge. Any of them might not have participated in the terrible deed. But now we know for sure which ones have blood on their hands. This is not to say that Mel B’s hands are clean. She may not have allowed Robbie Williams to despoil her, but she’s certainly had carnal relations with other scoundrels and poodlefakers. Besmirching the names of your buddies is a futile exercise if your own name is already mud.
We must hope and pray that this bombshell has no adverse impact on the marriage of Victoria Spice and Mr Becks. Hitherto they have reacted to rumours of a rift by conceiving another child. Unfortunately, the spicy ovaries may no longer be up to the job. Another way of saving face would be to bribe a lookalike of Victoria to say that she was seduced by Robbie Williams after her mistook her for the genuine article. Stranger things have happened. I once saw a baboon mount a watermelon after confusing it with a female in the poor light. And Mr Williams isn’t the sort of fellow who would ask for photo ID before servicing a compliant woman.
It has to be said that sleeping with 4 out of 5 members of a pop group is nothing out of the ordinary. Countless women must have slept with 5 out of 5 of the Rolling Stones, although Marianne Faithful was the only one who admitted it. Some groups are harder nuts to crack than others, of course. I’m pretty sure that no one has slept with 5 out of 5 of the Jackson Five. Maybe Bubbles the Chimp gave it his best shot. In my view, the shame should be heaped on the individuals that boast about such dubious achievements rather than the band members themselves, who are probably unaware of being knocked over like skittles.
Perhaps this episode highlights one of the advantages of being a solo artist. None of Taylor Swift’s ex-boyfriends could have humiliated her by sleeping with a singing partner. The best they could have hoped for was a roll in the hay with one of her squad, which would have won them as much acclaim as sleeping with her hairdresser. Being a member of a group has its advantages, but it does make you vulnerable to infiltrators.
Labels: poodlefaker, Scary Spice, Spice Girls, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
Quo fartis?
Taylor Swift has denied breaking wind during a live performance on MTV, even though the sound that tooted out as she bent over on stage was suspiciously fart-like. The TV station has supported her claim that a microphone malfunction was to blame, so I suppose that settles the issue. What reason would they have to invent an alibi for a megastar who earns them millions in advertising revenue?
As a jungle-dwelling ape, I know all too well how the ears can be fooled by deceptive sound effects. I remember once laughing at a squatting baboon who seemed to be passing gas like a punctured tyre, only to realise that the noise was being made by a serpent hissing in the nearby bushes. I felt like an utter ass on realising my error, as snakes are no laughing matter in the jungle.
Whether or not Taylor broke wind, I’m disappointed that she went to the trouble of denying it. The idea that pretty girls shouldn’t fart is one of the great humbugs of human society. Not only is farting a normal bodily function, it’s essential for good health. As well as releasing excess pressure, it removes pungent gases that would do no good if left to bubble and froth inside the intestines. Miss Swift could have made it socially acceptable for young ladies to discharge their flatulence openly and politely, instead of clenching their butt cheeks until an opportunity to sneak it out slyly arises.
Now some of you are probably thinking that I’ve overlooked a crucial question on the subject of farting. What about those in the vicinity of the perpetrator who must endure the obnoxious smell? This is hardly an issue in the animal kingdom because the odours are speedily dissipated in the open air. Not even a herd of flatulent wildebeest can stink up the entire savannah in all its vastness. It’s only the human fad for living in confined spaces that has made the innocent bystander a potential victim of malodorous emissions.
I’m not suggesting that modern humans should return to outdoor living, of course. Even a macho poseur like Bear Grylls, who conned President Obama into smooching his overrated arse, would find it impossible to endure in the long run. The solution, it seems to me, is good ventilation combined with a clear warning from the emitter of the gas to those within sniffing range. Nothing is achieved by the current practice of non-disclosure and denial. It only makes the problem worse.
What can never be tolerated is deliberately using the fart as a weapon. Fans of South Park will remember an episode in which Eric Cartman repeatedly farts on some innocent Muslims to make them confess to terrorist activities. There are also shocking You Tube videos of college boys farting in the faces of their sleeping room mates. It goes without saying that such abuses must be stamped out, but how will that be possible while farting and farting etiquette remain taboo subjects?
Labels: Bear Grylls, fart noises, farting, Farts, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Navel blockade
Fifty years from now, grizzled old men will tell their grandchildren that Taylor Swift’s belly button made its first public appearance this year. If you don’t believe me, try googling the phrase “Taylor Swift’s belly button” and behold the number of articles about this momentous event.
The abdominal aperture’s exposure is all the more surprising given Miss Swift’s earlier announcement on the subject:
“I don’t like showing my belly button… I don’t want people to know if I have one or not.”
We should thank her for resolving the ambiguity. There are baboons in the Congo who might have worshipped Miss Swift because they believed she was a magical being with a smooth, un-punctured belly. Such harmful superstitions inevitably lead to baby wart-hogs being sacrificed on altars.
If we examine Taylor’s tummy-cranny, it’s clearly an “inny” rather than an “outy”. Indeed, it has the suggestion of an unusually cavernous “inny”. If a tribe of chimpanzees ever got hold of Taylor, they would poke their fingers into her navel to gauge its depth. I should imagine many humans would do the same if they weren’t inhibited by cultural taboos against the poking of celebrity belly buttons.
Miss Swift would be well advised to avoid such outrages by wearing a navel plug. A skilled craftsman could make a custom-made device with a carbon-fibre shaft and a dazzling sapphire head. Those who dared to stare at Taylor’s midriff would be awed and stunned by a flash of blue light.
Of course, there are some men who wouldn’t be able to probe a woman’s belly button because their fingers are too thick. Liberace comes to mind, although he may have lacked the curiosity in any case. David Hasselhoff is another fellow who might be digitally incapable, although one can’t be certain about this. Being tall and tanned doesn’t necessarily mean the fingers are beefy and butch.
The Hoff has recently been in the news for claiming that he doesn’t need Viagra. Acutely aware that people must be wondering how a 62-year-old man keeps his 35-year-old girlfriend satisfied, he has taken to boasting about his prodigious carnal appetite:
“That’s one problem I don’t have,” he assured an on-line magazine. “If anything, I am trying to find an anti-Viagra pill because my girlfriend keeps saying, ‘Why is it that you want it every day?’ And I'm like, ‘Because I find it takes the edge off things’.”
I don’t doubt for one second that the Hoff has the libido of a stallion on a stud farm, but why does he need sex to take the edge off things? A man in the Hoff’s happy situation shouldn’t be feeling edgy and tense. If you ask me, his girlfriend isn’t the great catch everyone assumes her to be. For one thing, she’s supposedly turned down five marriage proposals from the Hoff, which must have damaged his ego. And what kind of woman complains about having sex every day? Not a woman whose belly button you’d want to poke, that’s for sure.
Labels: baboons, belly button, sexual boasting, Taylor Swift, The Hoff, Viagra
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Swiftian satire
The exciting news from America is that Taylor Swift is being pursued by two men. They aren’t literally chasing her, of course. The human male is not a horse, even though some can snort and whinny with the best of them. The rivals for Taylor’s fair hand are a sportsman called Sean St Leger and a record producer called Calvin Harris. The sportsman looks as if his head was carved from a block of wood, which may be part of his appeal. There is much to be said for a mate who can crack walnuts with his chin.
Will Taylor’s gallants fight for her favour in the time-honoured way? I’d like to see them square up like a pair of feuding silverbacks, fisting each other’s concavities, (but not biting each other’s testicles, which is what chimpanzees would do). Sadly, I suspect they will settle their differences in the modern metrosexual way by allowing Taylor to choose between them. It won’t be an easy decision. Those in the know say she hasn’t slept with either man, so she may as well toss a coin.
But maybe there’s another way. If Taylor is truly as chaste as they say, she could ask each contestant to demonstrate his skills by making love to a sex doll. She wouldn’t watch them herself, of course. The blush that would bring to her maidenly cheeks would be worse than sunburn. A panel of judges would evaluate their performance from behind a one-way mirror, giving points for agility, inventiveness and staying power. The doll herself would have no vote, but would receive a thorough douching after her ordeal. The judges I would appoint are Lady Gaga, Ellen Degeneres and Barry Manilow. It’s what we call a balanced hen coup in the jungle.
To those of you who think that Barry Manilow is a worthless old has-been, I have some stunning news to announce. The great man has recently married his long-time manager and partner, a gentleman by the name of Garry Kief. What, you never knew that Barry was gay? You should have asked. Why should he volunteer information if you don’t take an interest in his life? Fittingly enough, his “best man” was the actress Suzanne Somers, a close lady friend. It all goes to show that the old dog has plenty of waggle-power in his tail.
A more radical solution to Taylor’s dilemma would be to marry both her suitors. Before you dismiss the idea as flagitious and impractical, cast your mind back to a classic film called Paint Your Wagon. In that epic musical western, a pioneer lady was unable to choose between a pair of prospectors played by Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, so she married both of them. They soon came to an amicable arrangement where the husbands would visit their wife on alternate days or something like that. No different, in principle, from two buddies sharing a mountain bike. This was precisely the kind of pragmatic adaptability that enabled homo sapiens to thrive in the Badlands.
Labels: Barry Manilow, gay marriage, polyandry, sex dolls, Taylor Swift
