Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Witches and Dwarves
I’m glad to hear that the British police are confiscating wands and broomsticks that visitors are trying to smuggle into the Houses of Parliament. There’s no telling what the honourable members might do after being hexed by a politically active witch. They already behave like utter buffoons in the debating chamber, venting amid a chorus of farmyard noises. If a witch managed to put a pagan spell on them, the midget who sits in the Speaker’s chair might not be safe. Uglier creatures than he have been molested by the goatish mob.
Most of the witches I knew in my circus days were wholly apolitical, which I thought was a very good thing. Politics is a dirty game which would befoul and corrupt the spiritual values of the Spooky Sisterhood. The witches I met were convinced I had supernatural powers, and invited me to their outdoor naked dancing events (as an observer).
“My dear witchy ladies,” I said to them. “Before I accept your gracious invitation, I must disabuse you of the notion that I am a hairy wizard. I regret to say that I have no magical benediction to bestow upon your sacred coven.”
“Come along anyway,” they replied. “You can scare off the peeping toms.”
This was a service I was more than happy to provide. The naked witch is a sublime metaphysical entity that should never be ogled by perverts and degenerates. Her succulent flesh is a sacrament for the forest demigods, not an aid to self-abuse.
My relationship with the circus dwarves was much less cosy. People thought they disliked me for tossing them in my act, but most of them thoroughly enjoyed sailing through the air with their little limbs akimbo. In truth, they resented me for being the star of the show. Dwarves are jealous by nature and would rather forgo the pleasures of unaided flight than see a rival win acclaim.
A recent episode of dwarfish rascality has occurred in Argentina, where the farmers of Catamarca are blaming a marauding leprechaun for ruining their harvests.
“It was short like a dwarf and I’ve seen it and spoken to it,” said Cosimus Behana. “I wasn’t drunk or drugged – we are really cursed.”
This craven peasant needs a kick in the seat of his pants. A farmer who fatalistically allows a dwarf to commit mischiefs on his land is a disgrace to his profession. One has to wonder what he said to the creature when he spoke to it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he offered to trim its beard and polish its hobnailed boots.
If this bothersome imp is really causing their crops to fail, the farmers could easily make him desist with a bit of old-fashioned bribery. In my experience, a dwarf will suspend any vendetta he is pursuing if you offer him beer and prostitutes. With any luck, the hookers will take him away when he’s drunk and sell him on the open market as a brothel mascot. I’ve yet to meet the dwarf who could outfox a call girl.
Labels: Dwarves, Houses of Parliament, leprechaun, prostitutes, witches
Monday, July 12, 2010
Soldier Witches
“They must be working in a catering unit, making soups and potions,” he said. “You can’t put women up against the Taliban.”
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “They would make mincemeat of the Taliban! Witch combat has come a long way since the days of the Roman Empire, when they charged into battle naked with their tits painted blue. I’ve met some of these English witches and they impressed me hugely with their supple-bodied cunning.”
The manager then called me “a silly hairy feminist” and went off to the local market to buy his wife slippers and toiletries – a man clearly chafing under a petticoat administration.
The issue of women serving in the armed forces has been close to my heart ever since I saw the film Private Benjamin. Does anyone remember it? Cute little Goldie Hawn joins the US Army after being widowed on her wedding night. She then proves all her critics wrong by mastering the art of soldiering and making an ass of her dykey commanding officer.
The most fascinating part of the movie occurs when she is posted to Europe and acquires a French lover.
“Now I know what I’ve been faking all these years,” she says after being expertly serviced by Henri de Cockville.
But the relationship is doomed because de Cockville is a philanderer who plays rugby and belongs to the Communist Party. Imagine having your first orgasm with such a rogue! She must have felt quite dirty afterwards.
Anyway, the film convinced me that women were fully capable of serving bravely on the battlefield. If a Jewish American Princess can do it, so can Betty Boop. Witches have the added advantage of being able to hex the enemy before getting into close combat.
I was briefly a member of the Communist Party myself, back in my circus days. They made me take lessons in Marxist theory as part of my induction, which is when I got expelled for “reactionary and bourgeois attitudes”. I then got added to their list of enemies, which made me somewhat uncomfortable.
Fortunately, the revolution never came to England and I breathed a little easier when the Berlin Wall came down in ’89. I still get nervous when anything happens that might presage the fall of Capitalism, which is why I’ve been reading the Wall Street Journal during the recent financial crisis. You may think I’m safe in the Congo, but these buggers are ruthless. Look what they did to Trotsky.
A few months ago, I was worried that a tourist on safari might be a red assassin. He was a shifty looking fellow with greasy hair and a moustache. I walked right up to him and looked him in the eye.
“Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” I asked.
“Are you or have you?” he replied, returning my stare.
Damn sneaky of him to answer a question with a question, particularly as my honest answer would have been “yes”. But it turned out the man was a Scientologist rather than a Communist. Not as dangerous but equally barmy.
Labels: Communism, Goldie Hawn, Scientology, witches
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The Pope in Africa
A reader has asked me to comment on Pope Benny’s recent visit to Africa. I admit I’ve been avoiding the subject for fear of stirring ill-will among my human cousins. Rancour is an emotion that should be kept a safe distance from the bosom. I certainly wasn’t one of those who hooted and heckled the high pontiff when he announced his opposition to condoms. To my way of thinking, a man’s sexual habits are his own private affair. If Benny is happy for his todger to take a dip without a life jacket, who am I to interfere? The nuns who visit him are surely capable of asking to see the results of his latest STD check-up before accepting his blessing.
A pair of American women staying at the safari guesthouse told me they would be joining a feminist protest against the Pope and his reactionary views. They showed me a box of custom-made condoms, each with a picture of Benny’s head on it. After inflating them like balloons at a papal rally, their intention was to burst them shouting “Pop the Pope!”
“My dear ladies!” I exclaimed. “Blowing and popping is not even recognised as an insult in Africa. People would assume you were celebrating someone’s birthday. In this part of the world, humans express strong feelings either by dancing or throwing spears. Since you lack javelin expertise, I suggest you shake your bottoms disdainfully at the Pope during his sermon.”
“What shall we do with the condoms?” they asked.
It was a fair question. Leaving them in the box would have been a waste of good rubber.
“Why not insert peeled bananas inside them before your protest?” I suggested. “You could hold one in either hand and crush them in your fists at a climactic point in the dance. The symbolism would be obvious to everyone. Benny would have to double his dosage of Viagra after seeing that.”
They seemed satisfied with my advice and gave me a book to read called Postmodernism and Gender Relations in Feminist Theory. I promised to study it carefully.
Far more troubling to me was the Pope’s insidious attempt to convert witches to Roman Catholicism. The witch doctor is a friendly neighbourhood apothecary in Africa. Some are nefarious frauds and impostors, but to condemn an entire profession because of a few bad apples isn’t playing fair. How would Benny like it if I said all Catholic priests were pederasts?
I had very good relations with the English witch community back in my circus days. Nowadays they are all good witches, the bad ones having been burned a long time ago. I would describe those I knew as boisterous ladies with an aptitude for handicrafts, herbal medicine and naked outdoor dancing. It would be no exaggeration to say that we got on like a house on fire. Convinced that I was some sort of hairy wizard, they invited me to one of their outdoor dances. I went there purely as an observer, of course. Gorillas do not boogie with naked women.
On returning to the circus, my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, asked me where I had been. I immediately told him of the wondrous spectacle I had witnessed.
“I bet most of them were hairy old lesbians,” he sniffed.
He was obviously jealous.
“They were not, Smacker,” I replied haughtily. “And since you have attempted to demean them, I would point out that: (a) there is nothing wrong with being hairy; (b) the elderly do not participate in such events, which might be injurious to their heath; and (c) you are the last person who should use the word “lesbian” in a derogatory sense given your own taste in erotic entertainment.”
He graciously withdrew his remark and I promised to introduce him to the foxier witches in my acquaintance.
Labels: condoms, Pope Benedict, witches
