Monday, November 07, 2011
Deceptive behaviour
Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I serve a drink to a young American man who resembles the actor Robert Downey Junior. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he confides that he is a compulsive womaniser. We gorillas are used to hearing such confessions from humans, who often confuse us with their shrinks.
“I pretend to be gay,” he says. “Women love having gay boyfriends who’ll go shopping with them and tell them their ass looks great. The gayness puts them off their guard and they soon start hugging and kissing me. After that happens, I just pick the right moment to stick my nose between their hooters.”
“What if they object to being caressed in that fashion?” I ask.
“They never do,” he replies. “Women are vain and can’t resist the idea of turning a gay guy straight. It makes them feel special.”
“What a sly fellow you are!” I exclaim. “Don’t try it in the Congo, though. Pretty boys who pretend to be gay over here end up in the tent of a tribal chief.”
I later reflect on the women deceived by this wily seducer. What went through their minds when the man-friend who said he was gay started nuzzling their jahoobies? Clearly, emotion and wishful-thinking must have clouded their judgement. The lesson for nubile women everywhere is clear: the man who talks gay but pets straight is not to be trusted. He is probably a devious bounder with dishonourable intentions.
Having said all that, it is noteworthy that there are men in America who can feign gayness without feeling shame. This is a social advance to be applauded. Obviously, they must drop the act when they’re in a redneck bar or riding with the Hell’s Angels, but that’s just a matter of common sense. You don’t go for a swim in a pool full of sharks.
Not so long ago, it was gay men who pretended to be straight. Some, like the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, even married women to camouflage their true nature. Apparently, women who perform this function are called “beards”. I learnt of this terminology when Chris Martin (the pop musician) referred to Gwyneth Paltrow (his wife) as a great beard. He was obviously joking, but it was still an ugly slur. No A-list actress should be given an epithet which befits the bush sprouting from Brian Blessed’s chin.
Do beards still exist in the modern world? Some people have jumped to the conclusion that George Clooney’s latest girlfriend is a beard, merely because she used to be a professional wrestler. That doesn’t follow at all. Being attracted to a female who can put you in a headlock has nothing to do with being gay, as any male gorilla will tell you.
I do have a suspicion that Britney Spears is an unwitting beard, though. Her current boyfriend is a narcissistic fellow called Jason Trawick, who co-starred with Britney in her latest pop video. Their simulated sex scenes were so unconvincing that Britney had to grope a couple of pillows to portray her ecstasy. A man who allows pillows to steal his love-scene obviously isn’t performing with his first choice.
Labels: beards, Britney Spears, gays, George Clooney, nuzzling boobies
Friday, April 29, 2011
Snubbing the wedding
A girl in a gaudy dress and high-heeled shoes hands me a flyer outside Moorgate tube station - it is an invitation to attend a punk rock festival on the day of the royal wedding. The words “Don’t stand on ceremony!” are printed on the card in bold letters, along with a promise that the only mention of the Queen at this event will be “when we play the Sex Pistols”.
“What is the dress code for this jamboree?” I ask the girl.
“Bare midriffs are preferable but body piercing is optional,” she replies with a smirk.
“In that case I will have to excuse myself,” I say, “for I am both overdressed and under-perforated.”
I nevertheless keep the invitation as a souvenir, as it reflects well on the independent spirit of Londoners. I wholly approve of their refusal to pay homage to the princely nuptials, destined to be one of the most boring spectacles since Dick Whittington put a gold-plated collar on his pussy.
My lack of interest in the proceedings is not because I harbour a grudge against the House of Windsor. Although I have never met the Queen, we once exchanged meaningful glances in heavy traffic along the A243. In truth, I would turn my hairy back on any ceremony in which one might encounter weeping matrons, befrocked clergymen or overdressed horses. Putting on such a pageant to celebrate a marriage which hasn't even begun is like gift-wrapping an onion.
Prince William, of all people, should know that making solemn oaths in public is tempting fate. Look what happened to his parents. After a few years of unholy wedded angst with Diana, Charles was fantasizing about being a tampon in Lady Camilla’s birth canal. You may say that the prospects for the current pair are more auspicious, given that the bridegroom is not an emotionally-repressed fogey who was bullied into the marriage by his father. Yet who is to say that Kate will wear the glass slippers without getting corns? One person who has his doubts about her is Bernie Anus, my old circus chum.
“Her face is pretty,” he conceded over a tankard of ale. “But if I were Prince William I would have married a girl with a bigger bosom. It won’t be long before he’s wondering what it feels like to get his face buffed by a decent pair of jugs.”
“Isn’t that a job for the royal nanny?” I asked. “His cheeks look shiny enough, so maybe he’s already got it out of his system.”
“No man ever grows out of boob-to-face action,” asserted Bernie. “And there’s also Kate’s image to consider. A future Queen of England doesn’t want pitying looks from well-stacked women.”
“Have you considered the possibility that Kate’s accession will make small breasts fashionable?” I asked.
“Not until you just mentioned it,” said Bernie glumly. “I prefer not to dwell on doomsday scenarios.”
I didn’t pursue the topic further, as bust size is a trivial issue for us gorillas. Kate is undoubtedly a comely lass, but I wouldn’t watch her wedding if her breasts were bigger than Chesty Morgan’s.
Labels: Kate Middleton, nuzzling boobies, Prince William, punk rock festival, royal wedding
Friday, February 04, 2011
An inside job
The British police are embroiled in yet another scandal. The aggrieved party, on this occasion, consists of women who have been seduced by undercover police officers. Apparently, it is standard operating procedure for detectives who have infiltrated radical protest groups to boink the female activists. It’s seen as the most effective method of proving loyalty to the cause, given that a man who's genuinely feeling righteous passion can never stop it seeping to the loins.
The scandal erupted when the victims of this undercover hanky-panky realised they’d been duped into sleeping with the enemy. A woman who believes she is treading in the footsteps of Joan of Arc doesn’t appreciate being made to look like a stupid trollop. Being ravished by a reactionary foot soldier of the system is bound to make her feel dirty, no matter how good his deodorant was.
Having been so fiendishly despoiled, the women are refusing to take it lying down. They’ve formed a new protest group which has picketed Scotland Yard, displaying banners with hard-hitting messages such as “Keep your truncheon in your trousers!” and “You told me the handcuffs were kinky!”. The aim of this agitation is to persuade a high court judge to review the insidious tactics of the police and give them a firm dressing down.
It would be all too easy to dismiss these women as silly floozies who would drop their knickers for any cross-eyed fellow who mouthed a few appealing political slogans. In reality, the officers selected for this work were hand-picked for their pretty-boy looks and smooth-talking charm. There’s only so much cake and honey a woman can eat before she allows her benefactor to raid her larder.
Back in my circus days, I comforted several female performers who had been tricked into bed by men who pretended to share their hobbies.
“Oh, GB!” cried a tearful trainee acrobat. “The troll collection he showed me didn’t even belong to him! He borrowed it from one of the clowns!”
“There, there,” I replied sympathetically. “I’m sure many girls before you have been deceived by men who masqueraded as collectors of trolls or other cuddly trinkets. Just remember not to be so trusting in future. Any man who claims to own miniature dolls must be interrogated thoroughly until he can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”
As for the undercover officers, they could make amends for their caddish behaviour by leaving the police force and offering to help the groups they spied on. I believe one of these men has already contacted the women he hoodwinked to express contrition and profess a sincere change of heart.
“I used to be a tool of the establishment,” he wrote to one of his victims, “but after nuzzling your delicious boobies I saw the error of my ways. I am now ready to fight for the cause and bear upon your boobies like a comrade honest and true.”
If that doesn’t earn him forgiveness, nothing will.
Labels: female activists, nuzzling boobies, undercover police
