Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Catfight?
Is it true that Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are embroiled in a feud? That’s what on-line gossips like Perez Hilton are saying, but the evidence looks flimsy to me. Much has been made of the fact that Taylor released an album called Bad Blood, but what does that prove? ‘Bad blood’ exists between a wide range of antagonists in many complex and varied situations. You can’t infer the existence of a feud between two pop singers because one of them uses it as the title of a songbook.
It reminds me of when Paul McCartney put a picture of one beetle mounting another on the cover of a record he produced shortly after the Beatles spilt up. All the pundits assumed he was referring to what the Fab Four were doing to each other, but maybe he just thought insect sex was funny. I confess that the sight of bugs getting laid always cracks me up – it’s the deadpan expressions on their faces that does it.
In an attempt to gain further insights into the Swift/Perry imbroglio, I asked the manager of the safari camp what he made of the rumours.
“I couldn’t give two hoots,” he said. “Those vixens quarrelling isn’t going to change the price of jelly beans. I’m not taking an interest in the matter unless they agree to settle their differences woman-to-woman in a naked mud-wrestling fight.”
This lack of useful input from the manager prompted me to do my own research. It seems that Katy has a habit of getting pally with Taylor’s ex-boyfriends. First it happened with a fellow called John Mayer, who became the subject of a heartbreak ballad written by Taylor. Then it happened with a disc jockey and impresario called Calvin Harris, who is now one of Katy’s artistic collaborators. You could say it was a coincidence, but we gorillas don’t believe in coincidences. Miss Perry clearly has some weird fixation about bedding Taylor’s cast-offs.
I decided to ask my old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, whether he had ever encountered this syndrome in his long and distinguished career as a playboy and poodlefaker.
“Indeed I have!” he exclaimed. “It’s a competitive thing. The second woman wants you to tell her she’s better in bed than the first woman. I refused to comment until it became clear that she needed to hear it to get turned on. I didn’t want to say it, but a man has to be pragmatic when he trying to get a woman aroused.”
If Smacker’s evidence is correct – and I have a high degree of confidence in his reliability as an expert witness in the sexual habits of humanity – it reflects very poorly on Miss Perry. In spite of all the praise and admiration lavished on her and her impressive boobs, she remains a deeply insecure woman. One hopes she is undergoing therapy to deal with her issues. If that doesn’t work, she should spend a few months in a nunnery to get it out of her system.
Labels: catfight, insect sex, Katy Perry, poodlefaker, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Pleading innocence
Mel B has announced that she is the only Spice Girl who has not slept with the deplorable Robbie Williams:
“Yuck!” she exclaimed. “He had been with my friends – I don’t want sloppy seconds!”
Mr Williams supposedly made an off-the-cuff remark about having bedded 4 out of 5 of the Spice Girls. I would have immediately assumed that Victoria Spice had evaded his evil clutches, but now it seems she has some explaining to do.
Mel B should hang her head in shame for making this information public. What a shocking betrayal of her comrades! The girls had previously been like members of a firing squad where one had a rifle with a blank cartridge. Any of them might not have participated in the terrible deed. But now we know for sure which ones have blood on their hands. This is not to say that Mel B’s hands are clean. She may not have allowed Robbie Williams to despoil her, but she’s certainly had carnal relations with other scoundrels and poodlefakers. Besmirching the names of your buddies is a futile exercise if your own name is already mud.
We must hope and pray that this bombshell has no adverse impact on the marriage of Victoria Spice and Mr Becks. Hitherto they have reacted to rumours of a rift by conceiving another child. Unfortunately, the spicy ovaries may no longer be up to the job. Another way of saving face would be to bribe a lookalike of Victoria to say that she was seduced by Robbie Williams after her mistook her for the genuine article. Stranger things have happened. I once saw a baboon mount a watermelon after confusing it with a female in the poor light. And Mr Williams isn’t the sort of fellow who would ask for photo ID before servicing a compliant woman.
It has to be said that sleeping with 4 out of 5 members of a pop group is nothing out of the ordinary. Countless women must have slept with 5 out of 5 of the Rolling Stones, although Marianne Faithful was the only one who admitted it. Some groups are harder nuts to crack than others, of course. I’m pretty sure that no one has slept with 5 out of 5 of the Jackson Five. Maybe Bubbles the Chimp gave it his best shot. In my view, the shame should be heaped on the individuals that boast about such dubious achievements rather than the band members themselves, who are probably unaware of being knocked over like skittles.
Perhaps this episode highlights one of the advantages of being a solo artist. None of Taylor Swift’s ex-boyfriends could have humiliated her by sleeping with a singing partner. The best they could have hoped for was a roll in the hay with one of her squad, which would have won them as much acclaim as sleeping with her hairdresser. Being a member of a group has its advantages, but it does make you vulnerable to infiltrators.
Labels: poodlefaker, Scary Spice, Spice Girls, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, August 03, 2016
No sex please, I'm British
“Being celibate is the best thing I've ever done,” Ms Marsh proudly declared.
I have to admit being impressed by humans who renounce the carnal pleasures. I tend to believe they’re on a spiritual mission to become an enlightened bramacharya, like Gandhi or Doris Day. Ms Marsh, it has to be said, doesn’t look like a holy woman, but I never judge a book by its cover. Maybe her tartish appearance is an illusion that obscures a serene and contemplative soul, gliding gently on a path to Nirvana.
I’m sorry to say that my favourable opinion of her didn’t last very long. In a subsequent interview she elaborated on her reasons for giving up sex.
"I love being celibate,” she said. “You don't have to shave your legs every day!”
As a hairy ape, I find the idea that you have to shave your legs before having sex quite offensive. And why do women have to shave their legs and not men? If I were a feminist, I’d be thumping my chest in annoyance. The next statement she made gave the game away:
"The thought of sex actually makes me feel sick.”
The whole point of taking a vow of abstinence is to give up something you enjoy doing. If you’re not making a sacrifice, it doesn’t purify your soul. No one ever got enlightened by not doing something they didn’t want to do in the first place. The woman is clearly an airhead who needs to spend some quality time with a vibrator.
On reflection, I don’t believe she finds sex disgusting at all. Why would she expend so much effort in beautifying her body if she didn’t want men to lust after her? Her Wikipedia biography hints at a promiscuous lifestyle, in spite of her protestations to the contrary. I suspect this whole celibacy charade is a ruse to attract men who are thrilled by the idea of bedding an infamous coquette who says she doesn’t want it anymore. She will no doubt take her pick of the adventurers and poodlefakers who cross her path, giving the lucky gallant the ride of his life. And he’ll probably laugh triumphantly when he climaxes, like the despicable bounder that he is.
It all sounds very sordid to me, but maybe she is actually thrilled by the prospect of being ravished and despoiled by a lecherous character. Minor celebrities often acquire peculiar tastes after getting a taste for the high life. I would advise her not to make a video.
Labels: celibacy, hairy legs, Jodie Marsh, poodlefaker
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Beauty tip
Susan Sarandon says that sex is keeping her young-looking, but how can she be sure? It might just as well be eating avocados or rubbing her face with Nivea moisturising cream. I suspect she made this statement because she wants everyone to know that she’s still getting it in spades at the age of 69. We should all be very happy for her, although her achievement is probably far from exceptional. The world is full of gigolos and poodle-fakers, ready to give an old woman a good seeing to for some pocket money and a trip to the circus. Ms Sarandon, no doubt, has her pick of the meatiest studs in the market.
Aware that her youthful appearance might have other causes, she later elaborated on her original suggestion:
“Laugh and have sex,” she advised her attentive fans.
I hope she’s not implying that she laughs during sex, which is a dangerous practice that even baboons try to avoid. I once saw a pair of bonobos guffaw while copulating and it gave them severe muscle spasms. For humans you’ve got the added problem that if one of the mating pair laughs, the other one will wonder what the devil is so funny. Such disruptive habits should not be endorsed by a famous actress.
Laughing at jokes or idiocies is a different matter, of course. It’s clearly a healthy pastime, but I’m not convinced it makes humans look younger than their age. The laughter lines on Mick Jagger’s face suggest the opposite, although there may be other reasons for him looking like a wrinkly old prune. Heaven only knows what evil substances he ingested during his long life of self-indulgence and debauchery. The funny faces he pulls while performing can’t have done him much good either.
But on the matter of sex, we have to recognise that different rules apply to men and women. It’s not something humans like to admit in this age of gender equality and transgender lavatorial rights, but Mother Nature is a harsh mistress who doesn’t give two figs and an apricot for political correctness.
For the male of the species, unlike the female of the species, the climax of the reproductive act involves draining the body of its vital fluids, which saps the entire organism of its vigour and vitality. After the wildebeest rut in the African Savannah, the females are ready to conceive and the males are read to drop dead. Any man who had serviced as many females in so short a time would find himself in a similar condition.
Warren Beatty is one of the few men who has matched the mating exploits of a dominant wildebeest buck, which makes him an interesting case study. Is his face smooth and attractive? Is he as sprightly and youthful as Ms Sarandon? Recent pictures of Mr Beatty are not encouraging on these questions. Perhaps he now wishes he’d followed Gandhi’s example and renounced the carnal pleasures in middle age. There are no prizes for looking like a worn-out old bull.
Labels: looking young, poodlefaker, Susan Sarandon, Warren Beatty
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Britney's dangerous obsession
It’s been a long time since I said anything about Britney Spears, which I feel I should apologise for. Not to my readers, who are probably glad of the hiatus, but to myself. Britney, you see, has been in my thoughts for a long time. She caught my attention many years ago, when she shaved her head and her coochie, allowing the paparazzi to take pictures of both of them. These were clearly the acts of a desperate woman having an emotional breakdown, which aroused my concern for her wellbeing. Somehow she survived that crisis, gradually expunging the gremlins in her head, and re-emerging triumphantly with her career back on track and her head full of hair. The state of her lady garden remains unknown, but I’m confident it’s being tended to with due care and attention.
Now Britney has recently been in the news for making it known that she wants to have a romantic relationship with Leonardo di Caprio:
"Britney has insisted she'll do whatever it takes to catch Leo's attention,” said a well-placed source.
You might think she’s being too forward in her pursuit of di Caprio, but that would be ignoring his previous attempts to seduce her:
“Leo always had a crush on Britney,” said the source. “When they saw each other at a party a few years ago, he made a play for her, but she wasn't single at the time.”
So why has the deal not been sealed? It seems that di Caprio is worried about becoming the de facto stepfather of Britney’s children, aged 9 and 10, sired by the oafish rap singer she was once married to.
“Leo's made it clear he likes Britney but everyone knows he's not interested in settling down or playing stepdad to her kids,” said the source. “She would have to be OK with knowing it would never be anything serious.”
It’s fascinating that these negotiations are being conducted by intermediaries, as if di Caprio were the Holy Roman Emperor trying to make an alliance with the Queen of Bavaria. Call me a sceptical ape, but the stepfather issue looks like an excuse to me. Britney’s children already have a biological father (oaf though he may be), and the rich can afford any number of nannies to ensure their kiddies don’t hinder their love lives. The fact that di Caprio has stated in advance that he doesn’t want “anything serious” suggests to me that his intentions are not honourable. I fear that he wants to use Britney like a sex doll and deposit her in the dumpster after he’s finished.
If I had Britney’s ear, I would tell her straight out that di Caprio is a heel unworthy of her amorous feelings. A mother of 34 years must put aside her girlish infatuations and wise up to the wicked ambitions of the dandy and the poodlefaker. I’d hate to see her go through another episode where her head resembles an ostrich egg and her cha-cha is exposed for public desecration.
Labels: Britney Spears, dandy, Leonardo di Caprio, poodlefaker
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Bieber's vertical hotline
An email correspondent informs me that Justin Bieber has claimed God spoke to him.
“Why haven’t you commented on this?” asks the e-mailer.
The short answer is that I’m a busy ape who doesn’t have time to monitor every crackpot assertion from Master Bieber’s mouth. I don’t pay attention to him unless he’s created some kind of commotion that has ruffled the eyebrows of the human masses. Furthermore, there’s nothing very clever about getting a voicemail from God – humans have been doing that for the past 3,000 years and it’s highly unlikely that Bieber was the chosen recipient for any new divine pronouncements.
Having already wasted time responding to the email, I thought I might as well investigate what kind of balderdash Bieber has been babbling to provoke such a missive. I managed to track down this news report and found its contents remarkably unedifying. At no stage does Bieber reveal what God said to him – he merely implies he got some kind of advice to put his affairs in order:
“I'm not super religious or anything but I just heard a voice and was like: You know what? I'm going to change my life around. I'm going to switch up some things and put some stuff together. I called my manager Scooter and said: We need to fix it.”
So speaketh the Bieb. I think we can safely say that the noise in his brain was not generated by any power higher than static electricity. The experience clearly spooked him sufficiently to consider turning over a new leaf, which will hopefully mean that his private parts are now kept hidden from public view. May the Lord make us truly grateful for that.
My foray into one line of inquiry led me, as often happens, down other avenues. It seems that Britney Spears has been expressing sympathy for Bieber while attempting to resurrect her own career:
“Whoever is in the spotlight, people are quick to judge,” she remarked. “You know, Justin Bieber, he's huge, and he experiences that. It's just the way the world works, unfortunately.”
I hope Bieber is not too much of a spoiled brat to thank Britney for her words of support, and he shouldn’t let her description of him as “huge” go to his head. David Cassidy used to be huge and look at him now: a burned-out poodlefaker of a man who sings sentimental ballads to rich old ladies. The biggest banana can shrink to the size of a cocktail sausage.
Britney is a pretty big banana herself, of course, and the manager of the safari camp recently referred to her as a “milf”. I’m not sure what that means, but I suspect it has something to do with the fleshiness of her thighs. Be that as it many, Bieber should ask her out on a date if he has any sense. A wayward pup like him needs a big sister type who’ll give his nose a tweak if he starts behaving like an ass.
Labels: Britney Spears, David Cassidy, God, Justin Bieber, poodlefaker
