Monday, October 22, 2012
Superbug
Scientists have discovered the fossil remains of a hyperintelligent woodlouse.
“No one would have expected such an advanced brain would have evolved so early in the history of multicellular organisms,” said an awestruck professor from Arizona.
The big unanswered question in why this brainy bug became extinct, whereas really stupid ones like the daddy-long-legs have survived to the present, entering buildings of their own free will and then crashing into walls like utter cretins as if someone had imprisoned them there. Could the woodlouse have been too intellectual for life in primeval earth, wasting its time playing chess and solving crossword puzzles instead of working out in the gym? Its brilliant brain wouldn’t have helped it escape from a big hairy spider – instead of running like hell it would have overanalysed the situation, making it an easy target. It reminds me of the nerdy doctors and lawyers who play paintball with regular Joes and get splattered from head to toe.
It’s probably just as well the woodlouse isn’t around today. The complex world of homo sapiens would be an ideal environment for it to thrive as a master criminal. A clever little bug could make its first billion by crawling into a mainframe computer and diverting funds to its offshore account. After that, it could run its criminal empire from a secret headquarters underneath a rock, sending out hit squads of killer cockroaches to eliminate its rivals and blackmail politicians. Pretty soon, all the aspiring hoodlums and gangsters would be paying homage to “The Woodfather”, pledging their loyalty by kissing the ring on its antenna.
Someone in dire need of a woodlouse brain is the man who made a scene at a restaurant because Richard Gere was flirting with his wife. The woman, a stunning blonde with melon-shaped breasts, was apparently “confused” when Gere started whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I don’t blame her. She must have been wondering whether he’d mistaken her for a man.
The husband reacted to the situation by growling at Gere like a cave man and chasing him out of the restaurant. He should have realised that film stars of Gere’s age are impotent – quite incapable of getting it up unless they’re primed with a cocktail of aphrodisiacs and strangled with a leather belt. Gere looks especially burned out to me. My considered assessment is that his libido matches that of an ageing slug. He may still have enough slime to flatter a woman with his well-trained tongue, but a man who has nothing but tongue can only go so far.
If The Woodfather were alive today, it would probably appoint Gere as its palace eunuch. It’s a job that perfectly matches his skill set. He could reprise his role in Pretty Woman by flirting with any prostitutes the woodlouse had hired for its own pleasure. That’s not something the hookers would mind too much. Being sweet-talked by Gere would put them in the perfect frame of mind to have a bug crawl under their skirts.
Labels: flirting, intelligent woodlouse, palace eunuch, Richard Gere
Monday, November 22, 2010
The art of flirting
A professor from the University of Kansas has published a paper about flirting. He identifies five main methods, ranging from “traditional” (man makes first move and behaves with impeccable manners) to “physical” (woman brushes buttocks against man’s thigh, causing him to gnash teeth and grab her jahoobies).
The learned professor appears not to be aware of the latest on-line techniques. According to my friend Ms Tiny Temper, who is vainly searching for her Prince Charming on dating sites, a good many men have sent her photos of their todger. Fed up with being a magnet for flashers, she has taken measures to dissuade stray cocks from entering her hen house. I believe that most women share her distaste for men who expose themselves. It’s the sort of thing that might give a lady the vapours.
Every rule has an exception, however. A woman in a position of power is generally perfectly at ease in the company of naked men, confident that no male organ would dare raise its head in the presence of an alpha female. Consider the example of Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, who had no qualms about entering the changing room of the German football team after another blitzkrieg performance. Most of the towelling players cheerfully accepted her congratulations, although a few bashful types placed their hands over their nipples.
Frau Merkel’s political opponents have accused her of flirting for political gain. They claim she was soliciting the votes of Germany’s sportsmen by pretending to be the kind of woman who would jump into a communal bath with them and sing bawdy songs. The obvious question for her accusers is this: How do you know she was pretending? There is nothing wrong with a female politician joining the nation’s finest in their celebrations. I believe Mrs Thatcher did something very similar after the Iranian embassy siege.
As a gorilla who is instinctively chivalrous to the human female, I have often wrongly been accused of flirting. I recall an incident from my circus days, when we hired a “glamour model” called Tracey to help us with our promotions. The female acrobats were given the job of looking after her, and seemed less than impressed with her airs and poses. Things came to a head when Tracey strutted before me in a pair of shiny hot-pants.
“Does my bum look big in this, GB?” she asked coyly.
“Not big enough for a gorilla,” I replied wistfully, “but it does look agreeably firm. A manual examination would allow me to give a more definitive opinion.”
She giggled delightedly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. The acrobats had witnessed this exchange with stony faces.
“You great big hairy flirt!” snorted one of them when Tracey was out of earshot.
“Flirt?” I replied in a quizzical tone of voice. “That’s a strange epithet for one who honestly appraises a woman’s hindquarters.”
My relations with the acrobats were strained for a while, but I eventually managed to sweeten them up with a dollop of jungle honey.
Labels: Angela Merkel, flirting, hot-pants, jungle honey
