Wednesday, October 21, 2015
She said she said
Yoko Ono has revealed that John Lennon wanted to sleep with men but was too inhibited to explore his queer side:
“John and I had a big talk about it, saying, basically, all of us must be bisexual,” she recalled. “And we were sort of in a situation of thinking that we’re not doing it because of society.”
In evaluating Yoko’s claim, let us note that she is 82 years of age and no less batty than she was in the sixties, when she was organising “bottomfests” in Germany. Her “big talk” with John might have occurred in a hallucination fuelled by Siberian ginseng. It’s well known, of course, that the Beatles’ manager was gay and probably wanted to sleep with all four of them. But Brian Epstein was a private man who was terrified of getting caught with his pants down in an era when “gross indecency” could land you in prison. His intimate encounters were conducted anonymously with rent boys and Mediterranean gigolos.
If John Lennon really wanted to sleep with a man he would surely have made a pass at his song-writing buddy Paul, who was pretty enough to be a gay beauty queen. Maybe he secretly wanted to. The only sure way of getting to the bottom of this mystery would be to ask our local voodoo witchdoctor to convene a séance where he would allow Lennon’s spirit to take possession of his body. Before you snort in incredulity, please note that he has successfully channelled a number of dead singers, including Elvis Presley and Perry Como. I can reassure Elvis fans that their idol had no desire to sleep with a man, although it’s quite likely he wanted to sleep with his mother. I’d say that was pretty normal for a white boy from Mississippi.
But enough of tittle-tattle. As a gorilla who prides himself on fair-dealing, especially in jungle fruit, I disapprove of telling tales about the dead. If you want to know something about show business performers, have the good manners to ask them directly, preferably when they’re still alive. In some cases, of course, the performers will answer the question before it’s been asked. Did Miley Cyrus wait for people to inquire whether she and Stella Maxwell were munching their mutual macadamias? Not a bit of it! The couple staged a bean-flicking show so the media could obtain the photographic evidence. There’s nothing like pre-emptive disclosure to kill all the malicious gossip.
To prove that she’s still fond of men, Miley is planning to give a concert with an all-male band that I’ve never heard of called The Flaming Lips. The gimmick will be that both she and the band will perform in the nude while being sprayed with a milky liquid that may, in fact, be milk. Obviously they are many questions one could raise about this event, but why should we ask them now? Miley will tell us everything we need to know before milk is dry on her shapely little boobies.
Labels: bean-flicking, gossip, lesbian, Miley Cyrus, The Beatles, Yoko Ono
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
Exposing Hillary
A cry-baby movie director is complaining that no one will help him make a biopic about Hillary Clinton:
"When I approached people for interviews, I discovered that nobody, and I mean nobody, was interested in helping me make this film,” whined Charles Ferguson.
He sounds like a frustrated village gossip who’s annoyed because all the local snitches are shunning him. In his opinion, this refusal to spill the beans is a betrayal of American democracy:
“I don't think it's a victory for the media, or for the American people," he declared pompously.
The man is an ass and I’m glad his insidious project has been scuppered. You can bet your bottom’s last dollar that the film would have shown Hilldog in compromising positions with other women, which would have brought aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States, who are the last humans on Earth who deserve to be aided and comforted.
Speaking as a gorilla, it wouldn’t worry me at all if Mrs Clinton were a Velcro vixen. If any woman has earned the right to be a lesbian, it’s her. When you’ve been publicly cuckolded by a succession of empty-headed floozies, you’re fully entitled to a few private dalliances of your own, be they Sapphic or otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a Nosey Parker film maker should pry into your personal affairs and tell lurid tales to the world and his wife.
In any case, these Hollywood directors can’t be trusted to give an accurate depiction of the facts. The accursed Oliver Stoned served up a giant barrel of buffalo piss about the Kennedy assassination, which the ignoramuses of our time lapped up like cream from the she-elephant’s udders. The human masses have had their fill of fictionalised political codswallop and don’t need a film about Hilldog to shave further points off their waning IQs.
Oddly enough, the Republicans are also against the film, because they think it would give the former first lady unfair publicity for her next presidential bid. Now I’d like to see a woman in the White House as much as the next ape, but surely Hillary has missed the boat. She’s beginning to look like a crotchety old spinster whose finger shouldn’t be on anyone’s nuclear button. And don’t forget about Bill, who would insist on moving back with her so he could scent-mark his former territory. It would be like a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with the same cast as the original.
Of course, you’ve got to give Hillary credit for inspiring women to get into politics. Even a girl like Miley Cyrus, who is a novice in political affairs, is talking about her plans for world domination. One has to wonder what office of state she plans to hold, given that she’s telling everyone what a bad bitch she is. If I were president I’d appoint her Chief Dominatrix to make sure all the whips and nipple clamps were being used correctly. She could start by giving lessons to the Senators’ wives.
Labels: gossip, Hillary Clinton, Hilldog, lesbian, Miley Cyrus
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
