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, June 06, 2012
Scurrilous talk
A Brazilian woman has been fined a hefty sum for ridiculing the sexual performance of her husband. It probably serves her right, although one can’t be certain without knowing the sordid details. The ridicule would have been entirely justified if he’d attempted to pleasure her with a cucumber, like that dirty old eunuch in Malaysia. But I doubt that sort of thing goes on in Brazil. Such dastardly deeds tend to happen in countries where wives are too embarrassed to make a fuss about husbands who penetrate them with vegetables.
In all probability, the man just didn’t know what she wanted. I have no sympathy for women who complain to third parties about such frustrations. I remember, back in my circus days, hearing words of discontent from a female acrobat about her boyfriend’s erotic endeavours. You might think it was a strange confidence to share with a gorilla, but it’s often easier for humans to discuss such personal matters with someone from a different species. I’m sure many cats are bored to tears by similar revelations from their mistresses. Anyway, my response to her grievance was devoid of pity:
“There’s no point complaining to me about it!” I declared tartly. “Have you given him precise instructions? Have you drawn helpful diagrams? Have you shown him articles in Cosmopolitan describing what modern women want in bed? You can’t expect a dog to perform tricks without proper training.”
The girl was forced to accept the logic of my argument, and proceeded to give the fellow a crash course in how to satisfy her desires. I was led to believe that he passed with flying colours.
Now, the motives of the Brazilian woman in belittling her husband were clearly much darker. She couldn’t have been lashing out in frustration, because the record indicates that she was fornicating with her driving instructor at the same time. A woman who is receiving expert service from a tradesman has no reason to complain about her husband’s lack of prowess. If you’re getting your oats from Tom, it shouldn’t matter that Dick is unable to provide them. I suspect she was using her husband’s alleged ineptitude as an excuse for her own misdeeds. A cuckold receives no mercy from those who have wronged him.
It’s an ugly habit of humans to cast aspersions on others to divert attention from their own peccadilloes. It reminds me of J. Edgar Hoover investigating the sex lives of the Kennedy clan when he himself was dressing up like a fairy queen and fluttering his eyelids at any square-jawed special agent in the vicinity. If only he’d had the courage to say:
“Yes, I like to wear women’s clothes and consort with men who treat me like a lady. It is my free choice as an American. In admitting this, I immunize myself against blackmail from villains intent on emasculating my determination to bring them to justice!”
A statement like that, from the director of the FBI, would have made America a safer country for its citizens.
Labels: cross-dressing, gossip, J Edgar Hoover, sexual performance
Friday, October 17, 2008
Octopussy
A marine biologist asks me whether gorillas indulge in cross-dressing. I eye him warily. A lot of these underwater boffins are kinky devils, gliding beneath the waves in their rubber suits so they can touch up unsuspecting turtles.
“We gorillas only wear clothes on special occasions,” I reply. “In a few days time we shall celebrate the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar in Royal Navy uniforms. The females will technically be in drag, but don’t even think about getting into that scene. They’d dress you up as a French cabin boy and subject your bottom to the grossest indecencies.”
“Erm…that’s very interesting,” he mumbles. “The reason I ask is because male octopi sometimes disguise themselves as females as a mating strategy.”
“Why would that be of any help?” I ask. “Even if the female octopi were sapphists they’d soon smell a rat. You can only fool all of the females with some of your parts.”
“Well that’s not really the point,” he explains. “The weaker males pretend to be females so they can approach the real females without being attacked by the dominant males.”
“Now I get you! They use camouflage to sneak past the escorting vessels so they can fire their torpedoes at close range! An ingenious tactical manoeuvre, but not feasible in primate society. Female apes don’t mate with transvestites. If Danny La Rue had been a gorilla he would never have got laid.”
The deep-sea detective scratches his chin and nods, referring me to a newspaper article before retiring for the night.
It seems that octopi are much cleverer than I thought, but I still don’t like them: they are mean, sulky creatures, who hide in crevices and squirt you with ink if you accidentally tread on their toes. The villainous Ernst Blofeld should have been stroking a pet octopus rather than a white cat. How odd that the only woman over 40 that James Bond ever bedded called herself ‘Octopussy’ and made the critter the symbol of her all-girl kick-boxing club. If memory serves, one of the bad guys got a face full of sucking octopus when he shattered the indoor aquarium. Sex maniacs, the lot of them.
Yet no amount of enmity would ever persuade me to eat an octopus. Along with serpent and swine, its flesh is forbidden to gorillas. The practice of devouring one’s foes is a nauseating habit invented by chimpanzees and copied by primitive humans. There is a pit somewhere in New Mexico containing the bones of butchered humans. When it was discovered, fossilised human turds were found on top of the remains. “Kill your enemies, eat their flesh and shit on their bones” was apparently the motto of those prehistoric savages. It took many millennia before humans learned to give their fallen foes a decent burial, as we gorillas have always done.
Of course, the use of deadly force is very rare in gorilla society, partly because it conflicts with our pacifist beliefs, but also because of the extensive range of non-lethal techniques we’ve developed. Nothing will ever beat climbing a tree and dropping a coconut on an intruder’s bonce – it’s the most insouciant method of incapacitation ever devised. Humans, meanwhile, are still experimenting with dubious innovations involving sausages-coshes and spice-rubs. It’s the mark of a species driven by malice rather than economy of effort.
Labels: cross-dressing, Ernst Blofeld, Octopus, sausage-cosh
Monday, February 26, 2007
Courtroom drag act
Baffling news from New Zealand: a male barrister has been held in contempt of court after appearing before the judge in ladieswear. I should have thought that cross-dressing was one of the main attractions of the profession. Admittedly, this particular gentleman preferred a Little Bo Peep costume to the traditional black gown and ram’s arse wig, but who are judges to complain when many of them wear nappies as a form of recreation? Give a man a gavel and the power goes to his head.His reason for wearing a girl’s dress was to protest against the overly-male judiciary. Yet there are surely valid legal arguments against female judges. Bear in mind that most criminals are young men, and the worst rogues among them are often blessed with the looks of Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. What is to stop them from flirting with a female judge by mentally undressing her in court and making passionate eye-contact whenever she addresses him? Most lady judges would be of an age when that kind of attention from a younger man is hugely flattering. Would a woman subjected to such fervent ogling really be capable of putting her romantic fantasies to one side when sentencing the fellow? This is much less of a problem for male judges, as very few villains would make lustful eyes at an old buffer in a wig, even in the hope of a lighter sentence.
The justified exclusion of women from the judiciary by no means implies that the men are doing a good job. Besides being too big for their boots, most of them are sorely lacking in imagination. As I see it, a judgement isn’t worth its salt unless it induces awed gasps of disbelief from the public gallery, followed by a hush in which the guilty man gapes like a fish that’s just seen Jimmy Savile in the nude. Occasionally you get a lateral-thinking judge who dreams up a new punishment, but most of them are stuck in the rut of passing the same old sentences for the same old crimes. What are the alternatives to a prison term or a fine? Here are three off the top of my hairy head:
Banishment
Whatever happened to this form of rehabilitation? Roman emperors and medieval kings were banishing people all the time. The vast empty spaces of Greenland cry out for penitent humans to build igloos, pull sleds and feed the hungry polar bears.
Placing in stocks
Another one that was popular in the middle ages but has now fallen into disuse. I wouldn’t allow onlookers to throw tomatoes at the prisoners though, which is a waste of good fruit. If they must indulge their vindictive passions, let them daub the convicts with brightly-coloured dyes.
The dead leg
This would never work on gorillas, but I believe it’s highly effective on juvenile humans, the technique having been perfected in countless school playgrounds. One to be applied with caution and commonsense, I feel.
I have deliberately avoided mention of the death-penalty for fear of stirring up heated emotions. The only time I ever debated the issue was when I was a young circus ape. We performers had been invited to tea at the home of Reginald Bullshot, a retired army colonel who had invested in the circus. I happened to mention that some appalling serial killer ought to be fed to the lions.
“Executing a mass murderer won’t bring his victims back to life,” said Colonel Bullshot gravely. “It’s no good killing these blackguards after they’ve done the deed. You’ve got to kill ‘em before they get the chance.”
I scratched my head in confusion. “How do you tell which people are going to commit murder?” I asked.
“You can see it in their faces, by Jove!” exclaimed the Colonel. “All it takes is a bit of practice.”
Ever since then I have always carefully scrutinised the faces of humans for evidence of criminal intent. It must be admitted that the Colonel has a point. Quite a few humans – particularly young men – have the malevolent countenances one would expect of future hoodlums and assassins. But is it ever right to shoot a man simply because of his treacherous face? Thank goodness I’m a gorilla and don’t have to grapple with these complex moral questions.
Labels: cross-dressing, dead leg, death penalty, Justice
