Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Bum rap
Miley Cyrus is starting to impress me. I won’t say I’m her fan, because fans are silly toadies, but she’s beginning to earn my admiration. Note that I say “earn” and not “excite”. We gorillas don’t get excited by things we can’t smell.
Miley’s latest exploit was to let some fellow play the bongo drums on her butt cheeks. I don’t think he was anyone special – just an aspiring percussionist proficient in patting the posterior. The rich, meaty sounds he extracted from her behind were a revelation. The buttocks don’t make noises like that unless they’re prime quality rump-steak.
The other thing to admire was the way Miley reacted to the tapping of her tush. It was pure nonchalance – the attitude of a seasoned campaigner who rents out her arse to a rumba band. Not even baboons are that casual when they’re being spanked.
I wonder if Miley is interested in becoming a movie star. I hope she acts in French films, because she’s too unconventional for Hollywood. The French are kinky devils and would fully exploit her lack of inhibition and general lewdness. Whatever they came up with, I would expect to be surprised. It might be a scary surprise, like being hissed at by a snake, but I’m willing to take my chances.
Don’t be misled by my praise of Miley. I don’t think she’s a great human – not yet anyway. She’s got a long way to go to match Shirley Bassey, and I doubt she’ll ever attain the greatness of Bill Gates. We Africans can vouch for the good being done by Bill’s billions. Never has the mosquito met a more determined enemy. As a native of the Mother Continent, I look forward to the day when those pesky little insects have been annihilated by the Gates foundation. When that happens, I’ll hire a chimpanzee to carve a wooden statue of Bill in the jungle. All the gorillas will pass water on it as a sign of respect.
Another worthy cause that Bill is throwing his cash at is the promotion of safe sex. A lot of men are reluctant to wear condoms because they say it’s like paddling in Wellington boots and their dick gets frustrated. Consequently, a few randy reprobates are spreading their deadly jism with reckless disregard for the consequences. Rather than telling people to resist their urges (like the silly old Pope) Bill has given $100,000 to scientists trying to develop a wonder condom made of graphene. This is a substance so strong that you can make a sheet one atom thick without being able to punch a hole in it.
A graphene condom would hug the contours of a man’s appendage like a second foreskin (or a first one for the circumcised). It would be like paddling with a coat of watercolour paint on your feet. I just hope it gets developed in time for Bill to try out on the lovely Melinda. They don’t need to use condoms, of course, because they would never cheat on each other. But Bill would test it anyway just to make sure his money had been well spent. He’s that kind of guy.
Labels: arse, Bill Gates, bongo, butt cheeks, butt pat, condoms, Miley Cyrus, philanthropy, safe sex
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Nanny goose
I have tremendous sympathy for Gavin Rossdale, the rock musician who was photographed patting a woman’s behind. He was following the young lady as she carried his son through the brush, a task which she performed in her capacity as the nanny. Perhaps he should have carried the child himself, in his capacity as the father, but the nanny seemed quite happy to do the job. If you hire a tall, blond Nordic woman to look after your children, you may as well get your money’s worth.
Nasty internet gossips have been sniggering at him for getting caught in the act, and gleefully speculating about his wife’s reaction to the incident. I sincerely hope she takes it in her stride. Having studied the picture carefully, it’s obvious to me that he was nudging the nanny along rather than caressing her shapely posterior. No husband should be sent to the doghouse for doing something equivalent to saying “giddy up, horsey!” – not even if the horse is an attractive filly with a first-class rump.
I’m not ashamed to admit having a soft spot for nannies. (This soft spot, I should stress, is not located in an erogenous zone. We silverbacks do not hanker for human females.) What I like about nannies is the job they do. I have nothing but admiration for a woman who nurtures someone else’s children – it projects an image that is warm, maternal and potentially bosomy. I don’t know whether this is true of the Nordic nanny, but her relaxed attitude to butt-patting suggests she’s a tactile woman who’s comfortable with physical contact. I am optimistic about her career prospects.
On the subject of tactile women, I was fascinated to hear about a 29-year-old single mother who cuddles men for a living. It makes her $260 a day, which she is using to put herself through college. Her clients are permitted to snuggle up in bed with her, provided that they put aside any thoughts of hanky panky. A lot of men are capable of doing this, particularly when they reach the age of 100.
What this shows is that the human male still yearns for a nanny when he is supposedly an adult. One might conjecture, with great plausibility, that a lot of wives are effectively their husbands’ nannies. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, is married to a woman who cooks for him, cleans for him, and gives him a bath when he’s good. It’s a wonderful arrangement, providing all the comforts of childhood with the conjugal perks thrown in.
Happy is the man whose wife is his nanny.
I hope you like this proverb, which belongs in a book of wise sayings. Does it imply that men who don’t have nanny-wives must be miserable? Not at all. I would never make such a categorical assertion. A man can surely attain the heights of bliss by marrying his housekeeper, chiropodist or masseuse. There are many worthy occupations a woman can follow to bring succour to her husband.
Labels: butt pat, cuddling, Gavin Rossdale, nanny
