Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Another internet scam
Have you ever taken Hatha Jodi? It’s a magical Indian root that will give you mellow thoughts and a tingling sensation in the toes. The Hatha Jodi plant is very rare, grown only in a handful of holy sites, but many online retailers are now offering the root at very reasonable prices. Suspecting a counterfeiting operation, the Indian police acquired samples of the merchandise to send to a laboratory for analysis. It was then discovered that the roots being sold online were actually dried lizard penises.
Before discussing the implications of this disturbing discovery, let’s pause to pay tribute to the scientists who determined what the fake roots really were. To identity a few scraps of dried flesh as lizard penises must have involved some fiendish detective work with microscopes and test tubes. Sceptics might wonder whether they could really tell the difference between a lizard penis and a crocodile clitoris, but the reliability of biological tests is not to be questioned. You can’t argue with science.
Now let’s get back to the substance of the matter. This fraud is clearly a serious crime on several different levels. We must face the appalling fact that millions of people have eaten dried lizard dicks on false pretences. This probably did them no physical harm, and might have even helped their digestion, but the psychological consequences should not be pooh-poohed. No one likes to be tricked into eating a penis – for a vegetarian, indeed, it could be a life-scarring event.
The most pitiable victims, of course, are the lizards. There’s something particularly horrible about being hunted for your todger. Even a reptile would have been driven insane with fear when contemplating such an ignoble fate. It’s also incredibly sexist that only male lizards were targeted. Removing so many of them from the ecosystem would have ruined the gender balance, resulting in an oversupply of females. The surviving males might have enjoyed this for a while, but the novelty would have worn off pretty quickly. Being surrounded by sex-starved females will sap the loins of the horniest stud.
Justice demands that the retailers who sold these lizard organs should pay damages to the victims. As well as giving full refunds to those who bought the goods, there should be compensation for every lizard penis eaten in ignorance. It’s difficult to assess what sum would be appropriate – I would start the bidding at ten US dollars per appendage consumed. As for the lizards, it’s sadly too late to help those that have perished, but fines could be paid into a fund to protect the survivors from poachers and give them the counselling they need.
The deeper question, however, is whether scams like this are inevitable when people think some species of plant has magical properties. I’ve eaten hundreds of roots in my time, and all they gave me was calories and wind. This Hatha Jodi sounds like a quack remedy cultivated by devious Indian Swamis to trick gullible Westerners into parting with their cash. Feed it to the baboons.
Labels: counterfeit, Hatha Jodi, lizards, scam, todger
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Non-lethal weapon
Call me an innocent ape, but I had no idea that women who subscribe to on-line dating sites receive a never-ending barrage of penis pictures. Apparently, there are men who believe that photos of their sexual organs serve as an adequate substitute for a formal introduction. If any women have found these dick pics helpful or intriguing, they are keeping very quiet about it. The ones who have spoken out publicly are divided broadly into two camps – those who are sick to their stomachs and those who are angrier than hornets.
In truth, it’s difficult to guess what men who send these pictures are hoping to achieve. You can’t measure the size of a todger from a picture, and what would it prove if you could? If having a huge appendage meant you were good in bed, women would be sleeping with horses and elephants. As one who has watched elephants mate from time to time, I can testify that it’s a clumsy, slapstick affair. The females look as if they can’t wait for the whole thing to be over.
Some women have found these penile portraits so aggravating that they have dreamt up ingenious methods of revenge. I was intrigued to read a news item about a 26-year-old woman in England who subscribes to a service called ‘Snapchat’. Fed up of being electronically flashed by men seeking to make her acquaintance, she offered one of the offenders a rendezvous:
“I pretended I was going to let him come to my house and I thought to myself, ‘where should I send this man?’” explained Miss Tara Natasha.
In a flash of inspiration, she gave him the postcode of Buckingham Palace, which he duly entered into his satellite navigation device.
“It was so funny I couldn’t cope,” said Tara. ‘When he was approaching Buckingham Palace, he still didn’t click. I then sent him a photo of the Queen smiling.”
The man did not take the joke in good part. In fact, his behaviour reminded me of a male baboon whose face was urinated on by a female in season. Fortunately, he was unable to carry out his dire threats.
Clever prank though this was, I can’t say I approve of sending the fellow to Buckingham Palace. What if he had flashed at the Queen? A woman in her 90s doesn’t need that kind of surprise when she’s watering the plants. It would have been better to send him the postcode of a Turkish kebab house instead. Any fool who acts fresh in such a place is likely to end up with a skewer in his groin.
There may, however, be better methods of redress than sending such scoundrels on a wild goose chase. Why not just publish the indecent pictures on-line, in a rogues’ gallery of wicked willies? A panel of judges could then append their own comments, dripping with sarcasm and contempt. We gorillas believe that humiliation is often the most effective punishment. A good dose of shame will make the miscreant run away and look for a rock to crawl under.
Labels: cyber flashing, The Queen, todger
Wednesday, June 01, 2016
Penile poetry
A man in Burma has been sentenced to six months in prison for having an insulting poem about the country’s president tattooed on his penis. It’s a form of political dissent that might have been invented by the Marquis de Sade. Or possibly a baboon. Had I been the defence counsel, I would have argued that the words inscribed on a man’s todger are his own private affair. A malcontent who genuinely wanted to insult the president would have penned a letter rather than expressing his disapproval in a place that few would venture for light reading. I doubt even the man’s wife would have paused to admire her husband’s verse while attending to other duties. It’s the kind of service that only a call girl would provide, and expect to be generously tipped for.
Given the inaccessible location of the incriminating evidence, I’d like to know how the Burmese police found out about it. The most likely snitch would have been the tattooist, who might have given the police an anonymous tip-off to avoid getting nabbed as an accessory. I pity the policeman who had the job of checking that the words were defamatory. It’s not a form of investigation that falls within the normal definition of police work, and I hope the judge allowed him to testify from behind a screen. No one wants to be known as the official cock inspector.
It seems that free speech is under attack all over the world. A German comedian recently got into hot water for suggesting that the Turkish president was romantically involved with a goat. Would you believe he is now being prosecuted under an ancient German law that prohibits insulting a foreign head of state?
A British journalist has responded to this outrage by holding a competition to compose the most obscene limerick about the Turkish president. It’s a bold act of defiance, but I’m not convinced that human poets are savvy enough to imagine anything more lurid than goat-love. They should first spend a few months in Africa observing the hyenas and baboons to get their creating juices working.
If you’re thinking of entering the competition, I regret to inform you that the prize of one thousand pounds sterling has already been won. As if to prove my point, the winning entry elaborated on the goat theme. I reproduce it below in its full and uncensored version:
There was a young fellow from Ankara
Who was a terrific wankerer.
Till he sowed his wild oats
With the help of a goat
But he didn’t even stop to thankera.
The most amazing thing about this limerick is that the man who composed it might well be the next prime minister of the United Kingdom. I wonder what will happen if, at some future date, he has to host the Turkish president on an official state visit. Fortunately the British don’t serve goat at their state banquets, although many of their senior politicians are good at making bleating noises, which may test the limits of the Turkish president’s patience.
Labels: Burma, goat-love, tattoo, todger
Wednesday, April 06, 2016
Legal wrangling
An email correspondent asks me whether I’m going to comment on the sexual harassment lawsuit against Elton John. To be honest, I was hoping to avoid the subject. Sexual harassment is one of those vices that humans feel obliged to denounce in very strong terms lest anyone doubt the sincerity of their disapproval. Yet there are obviously wide variations in the degree of aggravation caused by deeds of a different nature. I know from experience that no one has much sympathy for a 500-pound gorilla who is the victim of an unsolicited butt massage from an infatuated human female. In such a situation, the gorilla is expected to shake the woman off gently and provide her with counselling and a souvenir.
Now, Elton John is a man I have grown to admire. I strongly approve of his commitment to family life, which includes marriage to a trouser-wearing husband and two beloved boys produced by a surrogate mother. He is also a musician of note. Some may argue that my high regard for Elton makes me biased in evaluating the allegations against him, but I shall strive to be impartial. As a former circus ape, I have plenty of experience in mediating between feuding humans.
The name of Elton’s accuser is Jeffrey Wenninger, a former police officer in the LAPD. The alleged incidents occurred while he was working for Elton as a security guard. According to Wenninger, Elton committed the following misdeeds:
1) Telling Wenninger to “get your todger out and say hello to Uncle Elton”;
2) Attempting to grope the said todger with his hand;
3) Twisting Wenninger’s nipple while saying “you gorgeous thing, you”.
Elton’s lawyer has issued a strong denial, but I’d be lying if I said I found it convincing. I remember seeing Elton talk about his sexual preferences in a chat show. It clearly irritated him that heterosexuals were unable to appreciate the attractions of their own sex, while he had found sleeping with women perfectly tolerable. He didn’t seem like the type who would wait for subtle cues before trying it on with a man who took his fancy.
In spite of this, I just can’t find it in me to sympathise with Wenninger. To put it bluntly, a former LAPD officer shouldn’t have allowed a silly old queen like Elton to harass him. How can a man who has apprehended hardened criminals be cowed so easily? Elton may have been hardened, but he certainly wasn’t a criminal. One firm tweak of his nose would have put him in his place.
All of these considerations make this a very difficult case to judge. Wenninger has probably exaggerated what happened to bolster his claim for damages, but there’s no smoke without fire. Elton clearly did something to him, but it was most likely nothing worse than behaving like a silly old tart. I hope it is settled out of court for a nominal sum of money and a souvenir dildo from Elton’s private collection.
Labels: Elton John, lawsuit, lawsuits, sexual harassment, todger
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Pro bono work
No words of praise are high enough for Ms Charlotte Rose, the English call girl who gave a man with a prosthetic penis his first sexual experience. The beneficiary of her magnanimous gesture was Mr Mo Abad, a 44-year-old security guard who tragically lost his appendage in a childhood accident. After years of frustration and a failed marriage, he finally received an 8-inch replacement made from skin grafts and inflatable tubes. Ms Rose generously waived her hourly fee of 160 pounds sterling for the honour of hosting its inaugural launch.
As well as providing her services gratis, she spent a few days counselling Mr Abad before getting down to business. Far from making him impatient, he greatly appreciated her advice:
"I’m a learner – I’ve got L-plates,” he explained. “I didn’t want to go in all guns blazing and make an idiot of myself.”
When the big moment arrived, the mission got off to a tentative start:
“When Charlotte saw it for the first time, she was silent and I was a bit worried,” recalled Mr Abad.
Yet these early doubts proved to be unfounded, and the mission ended with the flag firmly planted in the lunar surface:
“After it was over, I lay there with a big smile on my face,” said Mr Abad.
Now, the bionic penis is powered by compressed air. The surgeons inserted an ingenious “boner button” in Mr Abad’s nut-sack, which activates a pump that makes the organ expand to its full length. What isn’t clear is how is how it returns to its flaccid condition after use. Allowing it to deflate like a punctured tyre would be one possibility, but then it would make a noise like a hissing snake, which many women would find unnerving in a post-coital situation.
In an ideal world, one would interview Ms Rose and cajole her to spill the beans. However, a video of a recent lecture she gave shows her to be a social reformer and political activist. This is not the kind of woman who would allow herself to be interrogated without due process.
When I related this story to the manager of the safari camp, Ms Rose’s benevolence made little impression on him:
“What’s the point having a superdick if you can’t feel a thing?” he asked. “He should have charged her for the pleasure it gave her and the publicity she got. She must be the first woman in history who won fame for getting fucked by a dildo.”
“Clearly, there are men for whom the blessings of sexual congress are not limited to the sensations they feel in their todgers,” I replied. “And you should show more respect for Ms Rose, who had no way of predicting how her body would react to that pumped-up phallus. Why don’t you watch her video to get a more rounded picture of the woman?”
“Pshaw!” scoffed the manager. “I’d rather watch a hippo fart.”
“Yes, I can see why you’d find that more illuminating,” I replied.
Labels: call girls, prosthetic penis, snakes, todger
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Asiatic delicacy
Have you heard of a country called Kyrgyzstan? When I asked the manager of the safari camp, he said it was the fairy-tale kingdom where Aladdin and Ali Baba fought a duel for the hand of Princess Pashmima Sugerbuns. Apparently it was air-to-air combat on flying carpets, but he can’t remember who won. After borrowing his Bazooka Joe Pocket Atlas, however, I discovered it was a real country caught in a sandwich between China and Uzbekistan.
The cause of my Kyrgizzy curiosity is a news story about a British man who got deported from the country for likening its national dish to a horse’s penis. The word “penis” is rarely spoken by British men, so he probably used some other colloquial term. Whatever the nomenclature, the Kyrgyzians were scandalised and outraged by his remark. A strike was called at his place of work and the country’s leading chef denounced the impertinent Englishman as an upstart and a calumniator. After toying with the idea of prosecuting him for “insulting national dignity”, the government decided to expel him. It is rumoured that British diplomats in Kyrgyzstan have started wearing kaftans to make their nationality less conspicuous. Some are expected to grow wispy beards.
Now, the picture above shows the Kyrgyzstani national dish, which appears to be some kind of sausage. Whether it resembles a horse’s appendage I cannot say, but it seems to have roughly the same dimensions as that of a zebra. Were the Kyrgyzians justified in feeling so slighted? If you ask me, it depends on what a horse’s dick actually tastes like (after being cooked and seasoned in the appropriate manner). If it’s as unappetising as it sounds, they would be entitled to take umbrage at anyone comparing it to their native hot dog. But for all we know, it may be a gourmet dish that tastes better than the finest Bratwurst. They should have done some basic research before getting in a tizzy about the first offhand description of their national cuisine.
Maybe Zac Efron could teach the Kyrgyzians how to take a joke. The 28-year-old actor has been telling everyone that his mother gave him a packet of penis-shaped pasta for Christmas:
“You know your mom's on point when she puts this in your stocking!” exclaimed Zac, greatly amused.
Personally I’m not convinced it’s as funny as Zac makes out, and it makes you wonder about the kind of relationship he has with his mother. Did she laugh at little Zac’s todger when he was a boy? He must have forgiven her if she did, and maybe it helped him shrug off the giggles of his girlfriends in later life.
The only remaining question is whether Zac will eat the pasta. It’s quite difficult to get the cooking time right if the size and shape are unusual. He should also carefully consider what kind of sauce would be suitable. I would favour a tomato-based sauce rather than a creamy one on this occasion. And mince would be preferable to meatballs.
Labels: horses, todger, Zac Efron, zebra
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Cyber flashing
A British woman has explained how she became a victim of an insidious new practice called “cyber-flashing”. It is painful to listen to her describe her dread and disgust when unrequested pictures of the male sexual organ were sent to her i-phone. How the villain who committed the outrage obtained her number was not explained. Maybe there is a secret i-phone directory used by such wretches to identify suitable targets for their wicked deeds.
It remains to be seen how much social agitation this new vice causes. If it replaces old-style flashing it might be a blessing in disguise. I’m sure even the woman who got cyber-flashed would agree that a picture of a penis is less menacing than a real one attached to a grinning, pot-bellied pervert. If men who habitually expose themselves send pictures of their todgers instead, they would be regressing to a milder pathology. Notice the analogy with heroin addicts who start taking methadone to escape the more deadly compulsion.
This woman’s story has made me aware that I, myself, was a victim of this abomination. I didn’t realise it at the time, because it happened several years ago, before cyber-flashing was an officially recognised offence. The pictures were not sent to my i-phone because I’ve never owned such a device. I do, however, have a public e-mail address, which is intended for fan mail or serious enquiries about the habits of the lowland gorilla.
Rather than pictures of the penis, I was sent images of the human anus in various states of dilation. I regret to say that a rectal probe was involved in some of them. The email address these horrors were dispatched from was obviously a makeshift one, but that didn’t stop me responding with sharply-worded replies which assailed the scoundrel with epithets such as “poltroon”, “guttersnipe” and “dung-sniffer”. As I should have realised, this only encouraged him to send me further repulsive pictures. Then I noticed the facility to designate email correspondence as spam, and further garbage was consigned to the trash bin.
Now the British woman who got cyber-flashed reported the incident to the police, who immediately launched an investigation to apprehend the culprit. I had no one to report it to but my females, who asked to see the pictures. When I showed them one of the grosser ones, they cackled like geese and asked to see more. Annoyed by their lack of gravity, I gave them a stern lecture about the horrors of indecent exposure in human society, which they listened to with puzzled faces. When I had finished my homily, they put the following question to me:
“If men like showing off their cocks, why did you stop us pulling down the pants of that wildlife photographer?”
(You will excuse me for quoting their vulgar language, which is essential to the anecdote.)
“Because not even the most reckless and depraved man would want to expose his cock to the likes of you,” I replied.
They stalked off grumpily, muttering something about “discrimination”.
Labels: anus, cyber flashing, female gorillas, i-phone, todger
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Nuns on the up
The number of women becoming nuns in England and Wales has trebled over the past five years. Before you get too excited about this news, the numerical increase was from 15 to 45. Of course, these figures don’t include women who secretly become nuns without telling the church. There must be many thousands who wear the wimple at private events in hotels and taverns.
Ignorant people who think that women become nuns because they are too unattractive to have sex should study the case of Theodora Hawksley (pictured above). This 29-year-old postdoctoral researcher mystified her friends by giving up her academic career to join a nunnery in North London.
“In one sense it is a bit like trying to explain to somebody why you are marrying the person you are,” explained Theodora. “You can list their qualities, but in the end it is a relationship of love.”
When I showed her picture to the manager of the safari camp, his breathing quickened.
“What would I have to do to kiss this woman on the lips?” he asked.
“You could start by changing your name to Jesus Christ,” I replied. “Then perform a few miracles, rise from the dead, and her tongue will be wrestling with your tonsils in no time.”
“Bah!” grunted the manager. “I was hoping taking her up The Shard might do the trick.”
Theodora is joining an order of nuns called ‘The Congregation of Jesus’, which encourages its daughters to discard the traditional habit in favour of a t-shirt and jeans. This makes it easier for them to mingle with the ungodly, but harder for the men they meet in discotheques and bars to know they are unavailable. The only solution I can think of is printing “Girlfriend of God” or “Wholly Virgin” on their t-shirts. Being upfront about your situation is better than planting booby-traps on your body, like Catherine de Medici.
Now Theodora, at the age of 29, might not be wholly or even partially a virgin. This possibility we must bravely face. But I don’t agree it would make her less effective in the business of nunning. There is much to be said for tasting the forbidden fruit before giving yourself to Jesus, rather than going through life having masochistic fantasies like Teresa of Avila. The modern nun should be knowledgeable about sex so she can give advice to teenage girls like Maisie Williams, who is currently finding it difficult to understand her own sexual feelings.
Maisie doesn’t tell us what her problem is, but at the age of eighteen I would guess she has apprehensions about the male sexual organ. This would be perfectly normal. As a girl blossoms into womanhood, a man’s todger goes from being an evil snake to a useful (if rather comical) sex aid. There can’t be a woman on Earth who hasn’t, at some moments in her life, had mixed feelings about the beast. There’s no need for Maisie to worry if thinking about it gives her the shudders.
Labels: Maisie Williams, Nuns, The Shard, todger, virginity, virgins
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Teddy Bear
The British TV adventurer, Bear Grylls, has said he would order his son to eat him if they were stranded in the jungle without food. For this statement alone, he should be banished from the rainforests of the world and forced to live on milk and cookies for the rest of his life. A self-described “survival expert” who cannot find food in the jungle is a worthless humbug. We gorillas think of our habitat as a giant salad with plenty of protein snacks available if you don’t mind putting wriggly things in your mouth.
One has to pity his son, of course. I don’t know how old he is, but the thought that he might one day have to chomp on his daddy’s carcass must be giving him nightmares. I dare say it’s also ruined his appetite. A big-headed TV personality like Grylls no doubt believes that his flesh is tasty, but its flavour is probably no better than porcupine or wart hog. If he’s really serious about the whole thing, he ought to cut a piece of meat from his rump and try it himself. Don’t ask your child to eat something you wouldn’t touch yourself.
Now cannibalism is a dark dietary practice from man’s primeval past, so far removed from the experience of modern humans that one rarely finds it discussed. My friend Harry Hutton, the roving English teacher, explored the topic in one of his early blog posts by posing the following question:
You are trapped on a desert island with the Spice Girls. Food and rum have run out. You are weak from hunger and there is no hope of rescue. Which Spice Girl would you eat first? (Scroll down to vote).
As a vegetarian gorilla I abstained from the vote on principle. My favourite Spice Girl is Ginger, and she’s certainly the one I’d prefer to nibble if someone put a gun to my head. But eating her flesh would be out of the question. The problem with polls of this sort is that they involve a moral paradox. The Spice Girl you’d most like to bite should the last one you’d actually want to devour if you’re not utterly devoid of sentiment in confronting such dilemmas.
Scenes involving cannibalism are mercifully rare in the movies. The only example I can think of is the ending of a film called The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Helen Mirren’s lover has been murdered by the gangster who owns her, so she takes revenge by forcing him to eat her lover’s body, expertly cooked by a gourmet chef. As the gangster feels the vomit rising in his throat, she encourages him to sample the dish by saying:
“Try the cock – it’s a delicacy. And you know where it’s been.”
There should have been a warning before the closing credits that this remark was facetious and not based on culinary research. A man’s todger contains no muscle tissue and doesn’t even qualify as offal. You’d be a fool to try it.
Labels: Bear Grylls, cannibals, Ginger Spice, Helen Mirren, Spice Girls, todger
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Pride and cowardice
So Colin Farrell is saying that Ewan McGregor should be proud of his prodigious todger without specifying what Ewan should say or do. He’s already displayed the impressive organ in three highly acclaimed movies, although I have to admit I have no recollection of seeing it. Is it possible for a masculine appendage to be enormous and self-effacing at the same time? It sounds unlikely, but we who live in the jungle know that unlikely things are possible. I once heard a parrot squawk the Hare Krishna mantra.
Be that as it may, I hope Ewan McGregor does not heed the advice of his fellow thespian. The last public figure who boasted about the size of his penis was Clarence Thomas, the US Supreme Court justice. He quickly became a laughing stock, and few Americans can now hear his name without smirking or rolling their eyes. An actor would fare no better: Nick the Dick’s career nosedived after the infamous hot dog prank. In light of such events, Ewan has been wise not to blow his own trumpet.
There are more important issues regarding the male genitalia in any case. A team of Brazilian doctors recently published a report on dangerous sex positions and arrived at this startling conclusion:
“Our study supports the fact that sexual intercourse with ‘woman on top’ is the potentially riskiest sexual position related to penile fracture.”
When I mentioned these findings to the manager of the safari camp, he reflexively lowered his hands to shield his private parts.
“No more cowgirl positions for my wife,” he said grimly. “How the hell can a penis get fractured anyway?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, manager,” I replied. “The article says it’s only the foreskin that gets ruptured in such cases. You’ve got nothing to worry about if you’re circumcised.”
“Well I’m not!” snapped the manager. “And it’s every bit as bad as it sounds!”
I shook my head wearily and ambled to the gift shop to inspect the voodoo artefacts. There’s no point trying to reassure someone who thinks every cloud has a clap of thunder in it.
It goes without saying that sex is far more dangerous for women than for men. As well as the risks involved in getting pounded by the Ewan McGregors of the world, they have to endure the ordeal of childbirth. I have only once seen a woman give birth and it is not an event I would like to witness for a second time. The exertions involved made me think of a hen trying to lay an ostrich egg.
I hope the manager of the safari camp will come to realise that his foreskin is an insignificant scrap of flesh in the greater scheme of things. Its petty injuries are mere flesh wounds in the great writhing body of human suffering and self-sacrifice. Maybe his wife will help him to put things in perspective. I should imagine she’ll have something to say when he refuses to lie on his back.
Labels: Clarence Thomas, cowgirl position, Ewan McGregor, Nick the Dick, penile fracture, todger
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
A ghostly experience
A married woman who claims she had sex with a ghost has appeared on British TV:
“I couldn't see anybody but I could feel the pressure, the energy, the warmth pushing in different directions,” said Natasha Blasick, a lissom young brunette. “The first time I was very confused by all of that but then I just decided to relax and it was really, really pleasurable.”
This confession was received with the utmost sympathy by the folks in TV-land, who never thought to inquire whether Natasha had felt any guilt over her adulterous liaison. Everyone seemed to assume that being with a ghost was an exceptional situation that entitled her to behave like a hoochie.
One has to pity her husband, of course. It’s unlikely that being cuckolded by a ghost is grounds for divorce, and he’s probably afraid of being haunted if he makes a fuss. He’s in a similar position to Uriah the Hittite after King David had his way with Bathsheba. May the Lord protect him in his tribulation and woe.
On the other hand, it’s quite possible that Natasha imagined the whole thing. I’ve heard stories about women getting sexually aroused by electromagnetic fields or fungal spores. In my view, her husband would be well within his rights to jump on top of her the next time she has one of her ghostly episodes. If a man can’t give his wife a good seeing to while she’s fantasising about being ravished by a spectre, he may as well shave his head and become a Buddhist monk.
Perhaps we should all be thankful that this ghost, if it exists, is just a horny rascal with a taste for hot brunettes. One that modelled itself on Jack the Ripper doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ll never forget how disturbed I was by the opening scene of Unforgiven, the Oscar-winning western starring Clint Eastwood (“He who befriended the orang-utan”, as he is known in the jungle). Those who have seen the movie will recall that a cowboy slashes a prostitute with a knife for giggling at his tiny todger. After watching the film, I immediately phoned my friend Smacker Ramrod to ask whether the cowboy’s grievance had any legitimacy.
“None whatsoever!” he declared emphatically. “Loads of women have chortled at my John-Thomas and it never bothered me in the slightest. When a woman laughs at something, she’s a hair’s breadth away from petting it like a poodle. I would often make self-deprecatory remarks about my dick to encourage a few titters. It’s when they react with horror or disgust that you’ve really got problems.”
“Oh Smacker!” I exclaimed. “You were the wisest of swingers and the noblest of rakes! When I hear you opine on the issues of the day, my affection for humanity grows bigger than a hippo’s arse!”
Perhaps Natasha Blasick should consider what would happen if she giggled at the appendage of the lecherous phantom that enjoyed her sexual favours. I wouldn’t be surprised if it blew her out of the window.
Labels: ghost, ghost sex, laughter, todger, Uriah the Hittite
Wednesday, April 09, 2014
Bone apart
I do hope Napoleon’s penis is returned to his descendants so they can dispose of it in a dignified manner. The unfortunate organ was detached from its deceased owner during an autopsy carried out by a resentful doctor. I have no idea what the doctor’s grudge was – the list of possible grievances that might be blamed on Napoleon is endless. Be that as it may, robbing a corpse of its masculine appendage is hardly ever justified. Maybe a transvestite who was too scared to have the operation while he was alive would have wanted to be buried in a dickless condition, but there is no reason to suspect that Napoleon was such a person.
The eminent todger was sold to an eccentric American in 1977 and currently resides in New Jersey. I know this because a “TV scientist” has tracked it down to get some publicity for his show:
"I've seen a lot of penises, from a Chihuahua to a Sperm Whale,” declared Mark Evans, presenter of Dead Famous DNA. “This is so withered.”
Stupid twerp. I’d like to see what his knob looks like after 200 years of aimless wandering inside a cigar box. And what a charlatan he is for pretending that a withered penis is an object of scientific interest. It is a sad commentary on the TV industry that this bumptious oaf has access to the airwaves and can pass himself off as a scientist.
I should make it clear that I have no admiration for Bonaparte, who was and remains an enemy of the gorilla nation. When he led his garlic-munching hordes into the Mother Continent, we gorillas immediately took up arms and offered our services to the Royal Navy. My ancestor, Bo’sun Bananas, was mentioned in dispatches by Lord Nelson after the Battle of the Nile. That noble ape despised the Corsican upstart, and I’m sure he would have wanted his remains to rest in obscurity. Making an artefact of his penis gives him undeserved publicity.
I wonder if Cameron Diaz is aware of this story. She has recently been hinting at same-sex dalliances, and hearing about a decaying penis might have pushed her along this path.
“I think women are beautiful – absolutely beautiful,” she enthused. “And I think that all women have been sexually attracted to another woman at some point.”
My advice to Cameron is to give it a go, but be careful about her choice of paramour. No one likes to see a lesbian couple where one of the women is a mannish type who wears trousers. Ideally, her lover would be as pretty and feminine as she is, making it impossible to guess who wears the strap-on. Leaving room for the imagination is never a bad thing if you’re in show business.
I wonder if Napoleon’s mistress Josephine ever had Sapphic yearnings. I wouldn’t have blamed her. No man who spends his life planning military campaigns is going to be a skilful lover. Lightning thrusts or surprise attacks never won a man glory in the sack.
Labels: Cameron Diaz, lesbian, Napoleon, todger
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Stunt man
Does this look like a dangerous stunt to you? I put the question because the actor pictured above is boasting about his skill and daring in pulling it off:
“I always take pride in the fact I do my own stunts,” said Zac Efron, a presentable boy from the Disney stable.
The scene was enacted in a film called ‘That Awkward Moment’, which I haven’t seen. I do not question its artistic merit or relevance to the plot. A naked man does not attempt to impregnate a toilet bowl without good reason. What I find impossible to believe is that Master Efron was risking life, limb or lingam by configuring himself in that position. Even if someone had pulled the flush, his todger would have survived to tell the tale. If he wants us to believe it would have been sucked into the vortex he’s even more boastful than I thought. Homo sapiens is not hung like a horse in this part of the Milky Way.
Zac Efron is a lad who seems to have a penchant for bold and unequivocal statements. In an interview for a ladies’ magazine, he was asked whether he would sleep with a woman on a first date.
“I don’t object,” he replied. “Sex is a beautiful thing.”
On this occasion, I believe he said the right thing. It would have been all too easy to give a politically correct answer to avoid appearing wanton and louche. The problem with such a reply is that no one would have believed it. It is better to be thought of as an honest man-whore that a smooth-taking deceiver.
The last fellow I remember saying that he never had sex on first dates was a movie character called ‘Jimmy the Saint’, played by the saturnine Andy Garcia. In the film he appears in, he meets a beautiful girl in a bar and charms her with many words of an extravagantly complimentary nature. After escorting her back to her apartment, she invites him in for milk and cookies or something. He then informs her politely of his first-date rule, and she gives him a look of wistful admiration tinged with aching disappointment. The door shuts and he walks away, only to return twenty seconds later for a coffee and a shag. Rules are made to be broken, even for Jimmy the Saint.
If you haven’t seen the movie, it has the informative (if overlong) title of ‘Things to do in Denver when you’re dead’. I found it immensely fascinating, although I should warn you that it contains many scenes of horrendous violence: a vicious crackpot punches corpses hanging from meat hooks in a cellar; a taciturn assassin called ‘Mr Shush’ goes around shooting people in the anus; Jimmy himself beats up several hoodlums before getting beaten up himself. And the ending is not particularly feel-good either. It’s the kind of film we show to tourists on safari when they return to camp disappointed because they haven’t seen a lion kill.
Labels: Jimmy the Saint, sexual boasting, stuntman, todger, Zac Efron
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Mars dick doodle
So the Mars Rover has drawn a penis on the surface of the red planet. The folks at NASA are stressing it was an accident:
“The image created was the unintended outcome of its exploratory manoeuvres,” announced a spokesman gravely.
Or in other words, one small cock-up by a machine, one giant cock on a planet.
I hope they don’t make the Rover scratch out its doodle. The Martian willy could be a major attraction for future space tourists, comparable in appeal to the horny chalk-man in Dorset. Perhaps the Rover should draw a giant vulva alongside it, to give equal emphasis to the male and female genitalia. Otherwise visitors might think 21st century humans were dick-obsessed maniacs like the ancient Romans, who considered the vagina a mere receptacle for the all-conquering cock.
It wasn’t just the Romans who were fond of phallic artefacts. The stiffy was venerated by most pagan civilisations until Christianity came along and told them it was embarrassing. The time has surely come for modern-day Christians to admit their forefathers made a mistake and reclaim this ancient custom. Obviously, there’s no point asking the Pope to rehabilitate the phallus – he would immediately suspect it was a trick to make him incriminate himself. It would have to be a leading Protestant, pure of body and spirit.
Do I have anyone in mind? Indeed I do. I nominate Sir Cliff Richard, one of the few world-famous Christians with no skeletons in his trousers. It wouldn’t be difficult to get him on board. I’d remind him of the psalm which says “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”, which is as phallic as it comes in Holy Scripture. I’m pretty confident this would spur Cliff into action – he’s the kind of guy who would glue his arse cheeks together if the Bible told him to.
Now I’m aware that Cliff has his fair share of detractors who think he’s the uncoolest person on the planet (Earth, not Mars). Some horticultural students recently jumped on the bandwagon by claiming that his music killed off the plants when they played it in a greenhouse. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought of this dubious experiment, he predictably expressed confidence in its results:
“Of course his music makes plants shrivel and die!” he declared. “It’s had the same effect on my erections on more than one occasion. You’re a mad hairy fool if you think he’s a suitable patron for the phallus!”
I dismissed his remarks as the ravings of a Satanist. It doesn’t really matter what Cliff’s music does to organic matter anyway. No one’s going to play it during the Festival of the Sacred Cucumber. The important thing is that he’s incredibly popular with Christians, who would follow his lead on the role of the todger in spiritual life. Imagine those pious, earnest faces offering prayers to a mighty dong made of marble and granite. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, nothing will.
Labels: Cliff Richard, Holy Scripture, phallic symbol, todger
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Language lessons
I’m glad to hear that Brazilian prostitutes are preparing for next year’s football World Cup by learning English. The manager of the safari camp laughed like an idiot when he heard about this:
“Why are they bothering when there are well-known hand signals for their services?” he guffawed.
“Not all whores are as cheap as the ones you’d be willing to pay for,” I retorted. “Some men appreciate a little conversation before getting down to the nitty-gritty. And possibly during it as well.”
“Oo-hoo, a gorilla pimp!” chirped the manager sarcastically. “Can I meet your bottom bitch?”
“My bottom bitch is a female gorilla,” I replied. “She’d give you her hand signals whether or not you asked for them.”
That shut him up.
I’m proud to say that I’ve always had a good rapport with women who work in the sex industry. Once they realise I’m not a potential client, they stop all their phony posturing and unburden their souls to me. (Yes, prostitutes do have souls: the religious fundamentalists are wrong about that.) After listening patiently to their confessions, I do what I can to soothe their anxieties and encourage their cultural leanings. Some of them are quite intelligent. I’ve had interesting discussions with prostitutes about wind turbines, vegetarian cuisine and the latest douche technology.
Not everyone who visits Brazil during the World Cup will consort with call girls, of course. Some men are so fanatical about football that they’d rather watch their team score a goal than score themselves with a woman. There’s been an on-going debate within the footballing fraternity about whether certain memorable goals were better than orgasms. It’s not a question I feel competent to address, other than to note that the answer depends on the quality of the orgasm as well as the quality of the goal. Clearly, some humans have better ones than others, even before resorting to strangulation and apples in the mouth.
One man who won’t be visiting any hookers for a long time is the West Indian security guard who shot himself in the penis. This unsavoury incident occurred when he was loitering suspiciously inside a parked car. What surprises me is that the police are now holding him under guard in hospital. Even if shooting one’s penis is a crime in Trinidad, it is surely its own punishment. There’s no need for a judge and jury to rub salt in the wound.
Let’s hope the doctors can arrange a dick transplant for the fellow. There must be a suitable donor from all the hundreds of young men who die in motorcycle accidents. Although Freudian theory suggests that bikers are under-endowed in the todger department, this is probably a good thing for transplant surgery. Men should not be given an incentive to replace their private parts for cosmetic reasons.
This brings us neatly to the question of what should be done with Ron Jeremy’s penis if he suffers an untimely demise. My preferred solution would be turning it into a party horn that children could blow-up when they visit the Smithsonian. On second thoughts, that’s vile, but do you have a better suggestion?
Labels: dick-shooting, football, goals, learning English, orgasms, penis transplant, prostitutes, Ron Jeremy, todger
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
Electric butt plug
It’s the perfect book to write about in your blog. The main character is a woman who enjoys having an electric plug stuck up her bottom!
I don’t know whether to believe this. Electric plugs come in many shapes in sizes, but none, as far as I know, is suitable for pleasuring a woman’s dorsal orifice. I often get emails from practical jokers trying to bamboozle me with outlandish hoaxes. Another possibility is that my emailer is woefully ignorant about anal devices and confused an electric plug with a butt plug. Here is the substance of my reply:
Thanks for the suggestion, but it doesn’t sound like something I’d want to read. I’m not a fan of inserting plugs into sockets which haven’t been electrically tested. What you describe would be futile unless the woman could generate an alternating current in her rectum.
So much for Fifty Shades of Grey, now for a book I might actually read. I discovered it by accident during my anthropological studies and its title is God’s Doodle: The Life and Times of the Penis. As a work of non-fiction, it should be full of hard facts rather than descriptions of deeds which stretch credulity. All its Amazon reviews have 5 stars and the female reviewers found the book funny. One assumes they laughed at the pictures as much as the words. Here is what a couple of enthralled ladies wrote:
“I was laughing out loud and that was just at the introduction! Appeals to both men and women, my husband loved it too. I'll be buying more copies to give as Xmas gifts. Excellent!” – JessieSmurf
“A great book, really funny, I would recommend for yourself or as a present. Well written, this could be the next big thing.” – Jacqui
It’s a pity more people didn’t buy it for Christmas: it sounds like a great stocking stuffer.
A lot of men get annoyed when women laugh at their willies. They shouldn’t. Laughter is often a mask for other emotions, such as apprehension, surprise and discomfort caused by moisture in the panties. Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, once told me that a woman he’d slept with had giggled at his dick.
“Don’t worry about it, Smacker,” I said. “Far better that she giggled than screamed or called the police.”
Unlike being sodomised by an electric plug, laughter is a normal, healthy thing for a woman to do. It relieves stress and exercises vital muscles, including those in the vicinity of the coochie. That’s why women who laugh frequently are more relaxed and easier to get into bed. If I were a man, I would happily garnish my todger with pretzel rings and icing sugar to make a woman laugh. As Martin Luther King said, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.
Labels: butt plug, electric plug, Fifty Shades of Grey, laughter, Martin Luther King, todger
Monday, July 23, 2012
Keyhole art
On balance, I think that the new peeping tom exhibit at London’s National Gallery will be a force for good. For those of you who aren’t avid followers of high culture, this work of art consists of a bathroom in which naked women are viewed through carefully positioned peep holes. The women are models, I should hasten to add, and fully aware that visitors are spying on them. One hopes their skin retains its natural oils and juices after being washed and dried on a continuous loop.
Why do I approve of this exhibit? Because I believe that giving peeping toms a lawful outlet for their perversion is better than letting them run amok in respectable society. As well as causing their victims much anguish and annoyance, these fiends have to be hunted down at considerable cost in time and labour. I speak as a gorilla who was dragooned into anti-voyeur duties during his circus career. The female acrobats expected me to guard their changing and showering facilities, as well as apprehending any rascally swine who dared to spy on them.
Although I was happy to protect the girls from intruding eyes, and dealt with offenders as mercifully as the dictates of justice allowed, I would much rather have been reading comics or harvesting root vegetables or competing in toe-wrestling tournaments. No gorilla on his deathbed has ever said “I wish I’d spent more time chasing peeping toms”. Even the biggest dullards of our species have better things to do with their leisure.
I have often wondered why humans, of all the animals, feel shame on exposing their private parts. I think there are two reasons. First, there is considerably more variety in their size and shape than in other species. Imagine a world in which all humans had standard-issue genitalia. Would a man be ashamed of displaying his todger if it were identical to every other human todger? I think not.
The second reason is that humans have less control over their sexual arousal than other species. This is obviously true of men, who dread being discovered with an involuntary stiffy, even when they are fully clothed. Yet there are also women, so I’ve heard, who can be tricked into unwanted nipple-hardening and dilation of the vulva. This is a major biological weakness, because the animal in heat is an easy target for predators. Hence clothes are an essential cloaking mechanism for humans.
The models in the National Gallery have clearly learnt to master their shame, but I’m not particularly keen to watch them in action. Looking at naked humans through peep holes is not the gorilla way. I would much rather view the exciting banana exhibition being held in a museum in Somerset.
The banana is a noble fruit which feels no shame when you peel it. Yet curiously enough, the man whose artefacts are being displayed at the museum was inspired to start his collection by the sight of a woman furtively eating a banana. Why in the name of all that’s white and tasty would a woman be embarrassed about eating a banana in a public place? I admit to mystification.
Labels: Art, banana-peeling, peeping tom, shame, todger
Monday, February 20, 2012
Northern exposure
I had thought that nude hiking was an exclusively German pastime, but apparently it goes on in England too. A man called Nigel Keer has been arrested by an off-duty policeman during a naked ramble through the Yorkshire countryside. The policeman, who was fully clothed, made the cop after noticing the “disgusted face” of a woman walking her dog.
The policeman’s behaviour looks fishy to me. Why would an officer of the law apprehend a naked man because he saw a woman’s disgusted face? Wouldn’t the sight of his wobbly buttocks be sufficient grounds to take him in for questioning? I suspect this so-called policeman is either a nudist sympathiser or a closet nudist himself. He obviously has no objection to people running around naked unless they happen to upset women walking their dogs. The suspicion of police collusion dangles from this case like a limp piece of flesh. I hope the judge gets to the bottom of it.
The hiker has attempted to justify his unclothed caper by saying that he was unemployed and had nothing better to do:
“It was just something I did to pass the time,” he explained.
I have a certain amount of sympathy for his line of argument. If you’re out of work, going for a naked stroll is far better for body and spirit than watching daytime TV or playing marbles. And as Mr Keer pointed out, there’s a huge difference between honest, bare-arsed nudity and flashing. There was no reason at all for the dog-walking woman to frown disgustedly at him. If that’s how she reacts to a naked man minding his own business, what would she do if some foul wretch pulled down his pants and leered at her? Have a nervous breakdown?
Of course, it’s possible she was disgusted by the man’s body because she found it unsightly. I suspect there are many women who never look at naked men unless they are gazing at statues of Graeco-Roman gods, which exhibit a perfection of form that few real men can attain. It is also evident that these statues are quite modest in the todger department, which in the classical world was viewed as a sign of refinement. Artefacts retrieved from Pompeii indicate that the Romans thought big willies were ludicrous, befitting donkeys rather than men. I dare say there are still many English spinsters who have no idea how grotesque and droopy a man’s genitalia can be.
In view of these mitigating factors, I think Mr Keer is fully justified in appealing against the fine of 315 pounds sterling imposed on him. It’s all very well to sympathise with the woman he offended, but what about his feelings? It can’t be very nice to have someone frown at your private parts as if they were horrible deformed things. Perhaps the best solution would be for Mr Keer to meet the woman fully-clothed and assure her that he meant no affront. The court could then provide her with some photos to convince her that what she saw was nothing out of the ordinary.
Labels: nudity, phallic symbol, public nudity, todger, unemployment
