Saturday, May 14, 2011
Literature appreciation
A correspondent draws my attention to a new stage production in which passages from great works of literature are read to the audience. To ensure customers get full value for the 20-dollar admission price, the reading is done by naked women who wouldn’t look out of place in the Playboy mansion. Those who can’t get hold of a ticket can buy a video recording for 19 dollars or an audio recording for 99 cents.
On watching a trailer for the event, I was shocked to discover that the girls aren’t actually very good at reading. Some of them can barely pant out the words without tripping over their tongues. Heaven knows how they get away with fobbing off the audience with such amateurish performances. I certainly wouldn’t let them read me a bedtime story until they’d been properly trained in oral exposition.
Perhaps the featured works are too advanced for their reading skills. Had I been directing the show, I would have made them read excerpts from children’s classics such as Puss in Boots, James and the Giant Peach and The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse. These innocent fables would also avoid straining the brains of the audience, which are presumably more accustomed to processing visual data. The unlettered masses should feel their way into literature rather than jumping off at the deep end.
The show wouldn’t be my cup of cocoa whatever the nature of the reading material. When I pay 20 dollars for a seat at the theatre, I like to see action as well as dialogue. The only kinetic activity in ‘Naked Girls Reading’ is the flapping of lips, the wagging of tongues and the fingering of pages. The girls should be utilising the rest of their bodies to justify the admission price.
‘Naked Girls Singing’ would be an improvement, assuming it produced more activity in the chest region. ‘Naked Girls Playing Ping Pong’ would be better still, involving plenty of agitation in all areas of the anatomy. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he’d like to see, he unfocused his eyes and went into a trance for a minute:
“Naked girls sucking ice lollies and removing the sticky juices that dribble onto their bodies by licking each other,” he said eventually.
I told him that a title of that length would never work and I had reservations about the content as well. Women are not cats, and making them lick each other would merely replace one kind of sticky fluid with another. Using moisturising wipes would be a more hygienic option under theatre lights.
On the subject of health and safety, I have deliberately not opined on whether it’s appropriate for women to perform in the nude. The naturists believe it tones the skin and allows the pores to breathe, but they are not an impartial source. All I will say is that I wouldn’t let them do it in jungle. Not without first rubbing them from head to toe with insect-repellent, anyway.
Labels: Literature, nudity, ping pong, reading
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Bitter lemon
I’m a pretty phlegmatic ape, but every now and then someone manages to get on my tits. The latest character to accomplish this dubious feat was a fellow called Coley Laffoon. From the minute he entered the safari guesthouse he was full of peevish asides about his former wife, the actress Ann Heche. Initially I felt sorry for the blighter, and when he sat at the bar one evening I listened patiently to his griping.
“Well cheer up,” I said at length. “It’s not many men who get a lesbian to change sides. No one can remove that feather from your cap.”
“Lesbian, my ass!” he snapped as he gazed into his drink. “The whole thing with Ellen Degeneres was a sham for publicity. After we got hitched I said she could bring home any girl she liked for a threesome. Or just for me to watch. But she never did, not even once.”
“Maybe you completely cured her of the Sapphic urge,” I suggested with little conviction. He didn’t seem like the Sapphic-curing type.
His only response was to make a noise like a punctured tyre.
After a while he resumed his carping, declaring that his ex-wife had “fucked him over good” by consorting with various actors, one of whom had impregnated her. I began to tire of his bellyaching and made plans to move out of earshot. But before I could do so, he initiated a new line of complaint about the insufficient alimony she was paying him. This was too much to bear silently. A man who advertises his financial dependence on a woman who has shunned his bed is utterly devoid of dignity.
“Stop whining, you ungrateful cuckold!” I barked. “The settlement you obtained is evidently a generous one given that you are now on a de luxe safari!”
I strode away to let him stew in his sour juices. After my shift, I entered the manager’s office to do a little research on the computer. It seems that this Laffoon poltroon was deeply complicit in the dissolution of his marriage, having spent a good portion of his leisure time playing ping-pong and watching porn. Imagine how frustrating that must have been for Ms Heche. You are playing table tennis with your spouse, hoping to improve your game, and he’s continually making you wait between points while he watches some big-titted blonde perform the reverse cowgirl (or whatever it’s called). In Ms Heche’s place, I would have downed my bat until he had finished the movie.
Come to think of it, I don’t see why a man with an attractive wife should watch pornography at all. Using a mixture of flattery and lewd cajolery, he should be capable of persuading her to engage in 90% of the acts one finds in tasteful erotic entertainment. The fact that Laffoon was apparently unable to do so testifies to his mediocrity and general unworthiness.
Now I’m not saying Ms Heche is blameless in this affair. She is clearly at fault for (a) marrying a dullard and (b) behaving like a hoochie rather promptly rectifying her error. But the balance of culpability always lies with the party who complains the most, particularly when I have to hear it. May Laffoon be afflicted with a boil on his backside. And may the nurse who lances it be a poor but enthusiastic darts player.
Labels: Anne Heche, Coley Laffoon, ping pong, reverse cowgirl
