Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Russian passions
I’m pondering the words of a Russian model called Irina Shayk (pictured above). When asked if she would consider having intimate relations with a woman, she replied:
“No way, I’m Russian: I’m into men, caviar and diamonds.”
Are Russian women really so similar in their hobbies and pastimes? Although I’d be the last ape to deny that humans do have shared national traits, the only similarity I’ve observed in Russian women is the possession of somewhat sulkier faces than normal. Maybe it’s the cold winters that makes them irritable. Or maybe they only make sulky faces when people are looking at them. For all I know, they could be grinning like vixens when they’re alone in the shower. Nevertheless, it seems obvious that the fancies of these mysterious females can’t be summed up in a single sentence.
Being “into men” is a strangely general type of preference in any case. Although there are many fine specimens within the population of human males, perhaps of a quality that few Russian women would rebuff, it cannot be denied that plenty of cross-eyed vagabonds exist within the group. While Ms Shayk has every right to give them a blanket endorsement, she does the women of her country no favours by implying they share her lack of discrimination.
Liking caviar sounds like a more respectable preference, but it’s not without its moral objections. You could argue that no one who eats birds’ eggs should condemn those who eat fish eggs, but that would be ignoring the method of procurement. Obtaining caviar requires pregnant fish to be captured and de-ovarised, whereas birds’ eggs are harvested after they have been laid. Admittedly, no bird enjoys having its eggs pilfered, and some species, like the ostrich, will travel several furlongs to inflict dire revenge on the thief. Yet there’s a big difference between stealing unaccompanied eggs and sucking them out of a living creature. Female fish should have the right to lay their eggs in peace, like the birds of the world.
The last item on her list was diamonds. A woman might have good reasons for loving diamonds, but being Russian isn’t one of them. The honest Russian matron may be sentimentally attached to the stone in her wedding ring, but she does not wish to be covered in glistening gems, like an overpriced harlot. Ms Shayk sounds like one of those shallow women who want to be the trophy wife of a big shot. Maybe she should have a few counselling sessions with Martin Scorsese and Brian de Palma, who could convince her that being a gangster’s moll isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I can’t quite remember what happened to Michelle Pfeiffer at the end of Scarface, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t fly off to Tahiti with a suitcase full of cash.
The bottom line is that being Russian is no excuse for having poor taste. I’m sure Olga Korbut had perfectly sound opinions on men, caviar and diamonds – as well as supple limbs and a face like a cute little pixie.
Labels: Olga Korbut, Russian women, Scarface, Trophy wife
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Trumpy pumpy
Donald Trump! Donald Trump! He’s the only person the tourists on safari want to talk about. Scarcely a week passes before another fresh-faced actress has a nightmare about him. These starlets need to toughen up. “Better a nightmare than a wet dream” is what I say.
Although I’ve commented on Trump’s antics before, I resolved to hold my peace when he became a presidential candidate. A gorilla should remain aloof from human politics unless the politician in question is trying to imitate a gorilla. Trump looks a bit like an orang-utan, but I don’t think he’s trying to mimic one. A real orang-utan is more deadpan and laconic.
“So why are you breaking your vow now?” I hear you ask. Well, it came to pass that someone referred me to an article about Trump’s wife Melania. It’s a very long article which you shouldn’t bother reading unless you’re planning to spend time on the lavatory. You’d have to be pretty constipated too. However, it takes no time at all to observe the pictures of Mrs Trump, which indicate she’s an exceptionally attractive woman. Trump may have been a boorish oaf to say he had a prettier wife than his rival, but he certainly wasn’t lying.
Beautiful though Melania is, the article suggests she’s not the smartest cookie in the biscuit tin. Yet I would hesitate to describe her as a bimbo who married Trump for his money. Although it must have been part of the attraction, the article suggests she wanted an older man who was fatherly and (by her standards) wise. Some women need to be looked after by Daddy.
This led me to a thought about the likely aftermath of the upcoming election in November. When Trump’s Republican rivals dropped out of the race, I saw fear in his eyes. It was the fear of getting his buttocks caned by a woman. If Hillary wins (as she surely will), Trump would be a broken and humiliated man. After such a debacle, he would be in no condition to protect his wife, let alone keep her satisfied in bed.
Call me a fanciful ape, but wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity for Hillary to steal Melania’s heart and make her the second lady in the White House? It would be a moral fable worthy of Aesop to see a mighty braggart like Trump have salt rubbed into his wounds. And no woman could feel safer than when lying beside the president, with the secret service outside the door, peeping through the keyhole.
Some might say that such a sensational development would make America a laughing stock in the world. I dare say a lot of hostile pundits in the Eurasian landmass would be sniggering and making satirical remarks. But behind their smirking faces, they would be stunned and amazed by this act of audacity. The closeted lesbians in their own communities would be thrilled and energised, eager for the taste of liberation on their own tongues. For the first time since Neil and Buzz hopped about on the lunar surface, America would be speaking for humanity.
Labels: American politics, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, lesbian, Trophy wife
Friday, October 12, 2007
The matrimonial market
Is $250,000 per annum a meagre income? I ask because a 25-year-old nymph residing in New York deems it an insufficient salary for the man fit to wed her. This delectable damsel (“spectacularly beautiful” in her own modest words) posed the following query on a popular message board:
I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year… Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who made an average of around 200 - 250K. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock.
On reading this, I felt very relieved not to be acquainted with the young lady. Frankly, I would be ashamed of my inability to give her useful advice. It’s bad enough being asked directions by confused tourists when I’m taking a vacation in London. They have no right to expect a gorilla to know where the Spearmint Rhino club is, but I still feel obliged to say something helpful.
I suppose the first thing to ascertain is whether she is indeed worthy of a husband earning $500,000 per annum. She certainly seems to think so, but her judgement may lack impartiality. To snare a half-million-dollar man, a woman needs more than a pretty face and an attractive figure. She’s got to look good naked as well. Perhaps she ought to have her body examined from head to toe by one of those characters who look for the mark of the Devil on witches. The thing to be especially wary of is an unsightly birthmark on the posterior. It may seem like a trivial point, but a wealthy businessman doesn’t want to see something resembling Papua New Guinea when he’s preparing to mount his wife from behind.
Then there’s the question of how much of the half million she requires for personal expenses. Suppose she negotiates $100,000, which would be generous with free board and lodging. What can her husband expect in return? Sex on demand would be out of the question – a wife is not a whore and deserves the same entitlement to sick leave as other employees. For that amount of money, however, he ought to have the right to see her naked whenever he wants, possibly as an aid to self-stimulation. There must be safeguards, of course. Exhibiting her naked in front of his bodyguards, as the Emperor Caligula did to his own wife, would be unacceptable. He’d have to earn at least a million to do that.
I wish her the best of luck in her quest, but I have to wonder whether she knows what she’s doing. Making deals of this nature requires careful negotiation and a watertight contract. If you want to milk the assets of a prosperous business man, you can’t wait for the divorce to get legal advice. Only by driving a hard bargain from day one will you be adequately compensated for being ogled, pawed and paraded like a trophy. Perhaps she should get an MBA before attempting to pull off such a complex transaction.
Speaking as a gorilla, I have to be honest and say that females who market themselves on the basis of physical beauty do not have a high status in our hairy community. We have a saying:
She who is not fertile learns how to pick coconuts; she who cannot climb trees learns how to forage for berries; and she who is allergic to berries puts on mascara and flutters her eyelids.
Labels: Mark of the Devil, Papua New Guinea, Trophy wife
