Monday, May 28, 2012
Jurassic gases
British scientists are claiming that the dinosaurs polluted the atmosphere with their digestive gases. I have no reason to doubt this, but it seems like an insensitive thing to say about creatures that suffered a mass extinction through no fault of their own. Suppose I visited the graves of the scientists’ ancestors and inscribed the following words into each headstone:
The evidence suggests that this human was a colossal farter who stunk up the neighbourhood.
I bet they would feel insulted and humiliated. However flatulent your ancestors were, you don’t want it advertised to the world.
I’ve never understood the point of this kind of science anyway. The dinosaurs are gone, so let them rest in peace. What purpose is served by raking over the ashes and speculating about their bodily emissions? However copiously they broke wind, it is of no concern to the Earthlings of today. The looming perils of our Age were not caused by someone guffing 70 million years ago.
An infinitely more beneficial scientific breakthrough has occurred in the field of medical research, where biochemists have discovered that the saliva of a lizard can protect diabetics from the deadly diseases they are vulnerable to. These scientists deserve a hearty pat on the back, courtesy of my hairy paw.
One has to wonder, nevertheless, how the lizard spit could be safely harvested. Are they planning to kidnap lots of lizards and trick them into salivating by dangling fresh centipedes in front of their noses? If so, they ought to have more respect for the dignity of a proud reptile. There are surely more ethical methods. I once made a wild lizard spit by sneaking up on it shouting “Stand to, you ugly devil!”. But that still leaves the problem of collecting the saliva in a suitable receptacle. A lizard won’t spit into a test tube just because you hold it under its chin.
If we lived in a perfect world, diabetics would cohabit with lizards and French kiss them from time to time. I don’t know whether lizards enjoy that sort of thing, but I should imagine they could be persuaded by taking them out on a date and treating them to a mouse dinner. The best person to consult on such matters is my friend Stella Deleuze, the blond bombshell from Bremen, who owns a pet lizard called Zorro. Their relationship is affectionate.
These scientific remedies are not infallible, of course. Many moons ago, it was postulated that mare’s urine was a palliative for menopausal women. Consequently, ladies of the hot-flashing persuasion started drinking horse-piss to put the juice back into their lemons. Then it was found out that ingesting horsey hormones carries worrying health risks, which caused the treatment to go out of fashion.
My advice to menopausal women is to eat plenty of fresh vegetables and partake in activities which exercise the muscles of the posterior, such as cycling and climbing trees. If the tush is in good health, the rest of the body will follow.
Labels: dinosaurs, farting, lizards, menopause
Monday, August 16, 2010
Fringe benefits
Back home from Scotland, a place I normally avoid for fear of being nipped by icy breezes and accosted by intoxicated natives. It was only the lure of a cultural festival featuring artists such as Miss Behave, Mrs Bang and Ms American Cougar that tempted me to venture into Haggis Territory.
I don’t want to say too much about Behave and Bang. The former was more bossy than naughty and the latter rewarded the audience for laughing at her jokes by exposing a portion of her milky-white flesh. I would have laughed like a hyena if I hadn’t been falling asleep, her act being well past my normal bedtime.
It was Sandra Risser, the American Cougar, whose hot flashes of brilliance illuminated the dingy tavern in which she performed, leaving me with a tingling sensation in my toes. Her act broke new ground by being mainly interactive, and as a keen interactor, I was the first to raise my hand and catch her eye. I began, as one should on such occasions, with a compliment:
“Ms Risser, may I say how positively radiant you are this evening? Your skin glows like the waters of the River Congo at sunset.”
“It’s the menopause!” cried a cheeky Caledonian voice from the audience.
I silenced the guffaws with a loud grunt. A gorilla does not appreciate having his compliments mutilated by a heckler.
“I’ll hang you upside down by your ankles so you know what the menopause feels like!” I shouted menacingly.
It was at this point that Ms Risser intervened.
“Jeez, Mr Gorilla, you’re so gallant on my behalf! Are you married? Don’t answer that, I’ll settle for being your mistress. Living in a tree would make my butt sore. Actually I have a recurring menopause. My first one started when I was 35 and it comes back every 5 years with a brighter glow. If I walk into my garden at night moths fly around my head. Did you have a question?”
“Yes indeed, Ms Risser,” I replied. “My question is this: Are there rules which if broken by a cougar would result in her expulsion from the ranks of cougardom? For example, is a cougar allowed to have sex with an older man?”
“Sure, why not?” she replied. “Doing it once doesn't count anyway. You’re still a virgin after a one night stand. I lost my virginity to 23 different men.”
She continued in this vein, improvising effortlessly in response to the jocular (and often impertinent) questions thrown in her direction. At the end of her act, she invited me to join her for a drink. As we sat at our table, she assured me that her offer to be my mistress had been a joke.
“Of course it was, Sandra!” I exclaimed. “Your slender haunches could never bear the pressure!”
“You used to perform in a circus, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“How did you manage to fill the void in your life after you gave it up? I’m 69 and the thought of retiring terrifies me.”
“Well, Sandra, living in the wild helps. Your life is never empty when spiders and snakes are crawling nearby.”
“You could be right,” she said with a smirk. “But I may have to get a pet snake at my age.”
I nodded silently, judging that further serpentine matters could be left safely in her hands. She obviously knew more about pet snakes than I did.
Labels: Cougars, Edinburgh Fringe, menopause, retirement, snakes
