Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Pants down incident
Whenever I hear of a human having a clothing mishap it makes me glad to be a gorilla. Ivan Zvonimir Cicak, pictured above, is a Croatian human rights activist whose trousers fell down at the precise moment he accepted an award from the president of his country. The last time I saw something like that happen was back in my circus days, when the clowns dropped their baggy pants as a joke. Not all jokes are funny, of course. I certainly wouldn’t have laughed at Mr Cicak’s involuntary debagiture, although I might well have applauded. It isn’t everyday that a man in boxer shorts is honoured by the president of his country.
Mr Cicak is probably too old to let an incident like this get him down. With any luck, his wife will tell him what a sexy pair of legs he has and slip a Viagra pill into his bedtime drink. If I were his publicist, I would put out a statement saying that the mishap occurred because he had burned off his belly fat after cycling through the hills of Krapina. Far better to let your pants fall down than be a fat slob who slouches in front of the TV eating Big Macs and McNuggets.
A very different type of sartorial malfunction has bedevilled Ms Rita Ora, who is strangely blasé about the fact that her breasts have frequently popped out at public events.
“It's fun,” she insists. “It has happened to me lots so I am not paranoid about it any more. You end up losing track of them.”
Reading between the lines, I detect a woman who is exceedingly proud of her puppies and wants the world to admire them as much as she does. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I don’t personally like it when they bounce out unexpectedly. The sudden exposure of external organs can easily be mistaken for threatening behaviour in the jungle. A snake would certainly hiss at a woman’s jahoobies if confronted by them at close quarters.
You are probably wondering whether a free-living, laid-back ape like me ever wears clothes. Well I did perform in a pair of scarlet pantaloons in the circus, but I never really felt comfortable in them. A gorilla likes the air to circulate around his nether regions. Since then I have been pantless, although I do sometimes wear a waistcoat to reassure the tourists at the safari guesthouse that I’m not the sort of beast who would punch their lights out if they expressed themselves too freely. The manager of the safari camp uses such occasions to make what he considers to be amusing quips:
“I say, m’lud, will you be taking tea in the conservatory?” he once asked me in a poor attempt to mimic an English butler.
“I shall be taking my tea in your mistress’s bedchamber,“ I replied. “She has complained of a lumpy mattress and would like me to install a hammock.”
“My arse you will!” exclaimed the manager heatedly.
Labels: Breasts, jahoobies, pantaloons, pants down, waistcoat
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Intimate souvenirs
Are you fond of a mystery? I’m puzzling over the identity of the pervert who paid $5,300 for Scarlett Johansson’s used tissue. After blowing her nose on the Jay Leno show, she put the item in a sealed bag which was auctioned on e-Bay. In this commercial age, the snot of a beautiful actress is a highly marketable commodity in the deviant ghoul community. My prime suspect is that filthy devil El Barbudo, who once confessed to having erotic fantasies about women with runny noses. I should imagine the bearded degenerate would immerse the tissue in a slimy gel to create a poultice for his private parts. It might go some way to abating the savagery of his sexual urge.
Another possibility is that that a mad scientist has acquired the tissue to extract Miss Johannson’s DNA and create an unspecified number of Scarlett clones. He would indoctrinate them from birth to conform to his evil plans, no doubt involving wanton promiscuity and the exposure of copious milky-white flesh (unlike the real Miss Johannson). Horse-whipping is too good for these modern-day Frankensteins.
Not everyone is obsessed with mucus, of course. I know from experience that the intimate possessions of a performing artist are like gold dust to his (or her) fans. In my circus days, a young woman once offered me a tidy sum for the pantaloons I wore during my act. As I had several spares, I could have borne the loss with equanimity. However my suspicions were aroused by her large breasts, which she seemed to be flaunting at me.
“What do you want them for?” I asked, referring to the pantaloons.
“They’re for my boyfriend,” she answered.
“Are you sure his bottom is big enough?”
“Oh yes, he’s got a huge arse. And he’s really big and hairy, like a…um…bear.”
“Won’t he be worried that people will laugh at him? They’re not really the latest thing in men’s fashion.”
“He’ll only put them on when we’re alone. I’ll cut a slit in the crotch so he can shag me while he’s wearing them.”
As you can imagine, I wasn’t too impressed by her readiness to rip apart the groin of one of my nattiest garments.
“Is that so?” I said sternly. “And what will you be thinking of when he ravishes you in the trouser-wear you have so casually desecrated?”
Her only response to this question was to giggle hysterically and punch me repeatedly in the arm. This caused me little pain, but I felt it lacked the reverence due from a true devotee. When she had calmed down, I asked an errand boy to fetch me a notebook and pencil.
“Here is the name of a theatrical supplier who sells the pantaloons,” I said, handing her a chit. “I trust this will be adequate for your purpose. I cannot involve myself in human mating practices, however indirectly.”
“But they won’t smell the same!” she protested.
“Smells are for flowers, baby!” I declared in the voice of a Harlem gangster, waving my hand to dismiss her from my presence.
Smells are very important, of course, but one shouldn’t hand them out to fans like autographs. It will be a cold day in the Congo before anyone bottles my essences.
Labels: pantaloons, Scarlett Johansson, snot
