Wednesday, August 27, 2008

The world's funniest woman

“I’m here for the room service, not the animals,” says Joan Rivers as I carry her luggage into her room at the safari guesthouse. “Are you gorillas really my fans?”

“You are a legend in the jungle,” I reply. “Before we go to sleep we say: ‘A hundred blessings for Mother Joan and fifty more for her plastic surgeon.’”

“Hah!” she exclaims. “If you knew what I know, you’d give two hundred blessings to my plastic surgeon!”

That evening, at the bar, she expands on this theme to a TV producer from England.

“I always tell women ‘if you can afford it get everything done – the face, the boobs, the butt, the whole package’. Get real! Women are judged on their appearance, they always have been and they always will be.”

“How about labia reduction surgery?” asks the TV producer.

“LABIA?! You’re putting me on, right? Why would a woman want to pay for something only her gynaecologist gets to look at. Don’t those guys charge enough already?”

“No seriously Joan, there was
a documentary* about it on British TV. A lot of women are having their flaps trimmed because they can’t bear the sight of their vaginas. It’s becoming like a nose job.”

“BUT WHO LOOKS AT IT!” shrieks Joan. “When I was a young woman, your vagina was neither seen nor heard. Not unless you did pussy farts in a freak show.”

“What about oral sex?” asks the TV producer.

“Hey gimme a break, I’m Jewish! I was brought up to believe that even thinking about such acts was asking for God to strike you dead with a lightning bolt!”

“But suppose a young, good-looking guy walked up to you today and said: ‘Miss Rivers, it has long been my ambition to eat you out.’ Would you let him?”

“Jeez, is that the kind of dialogue you write for British TV shows? I guess if he’s really set his heart on it I wouldn’t stop him. But only when I’m safely under the covers. And no torch! He has to burrow like a mole searching for a hole. Let him use his sense of smell.”

“But Joan, that would spoil half the fun!” complains the TV producer.

“I don’t care! If he wants to look and lick he can go suck a popsicle instead. What is this shit about staring at a woman’s pussy? Hey GB, do you look at your females down there?”

Having listened quietly to the conversation with a bar tender’s discretion, I am caught off guard by this unexpected question.

“Hum ah well yes, let me think,” I grunt, searching my memory. “I don’t make a habit of it, but I did once inspect a female’s vulva before mating with her.”

“So what happened?” asks Joan.

“After I’d stared at it for a bit, she said: ‘Are you going to fuck that thing or take a picture?’”

“Heheheh!” laughs Joan. “Your females sound so GREAT! I wish I could be a female gorilla. Not forever, of course, just for a couple of hours.”

“Why don’t you join them for their tree-dance?” I say. “When female primates shake their rumps together they become sisters under the skin. I’ll introduce you and play the bongo drums. You can keep your pants on.”

“The tree-dance?” inquires Joan. “Is that like humping a piece of wood?”

“Not quite,” I reply chuckling. “It more like pretending to give birth in an upright position.”

That I can do!” declares Joan. “As long as it’s just pretending. My ovaries dried up in ’79.”

Next morning, Joan does her ‘Dot Matrix’ shtick from Spaceballs while I escort her into the jungle. She quietens down after I introduce her to the females – most humans are lost for words after they’ve been patted by female gorillas. Everything proceeds smoothly: Joan discovers her inner ape in the tree-dance and the females get autographed copies of The Life and Hard Times of Heidi Abromowitz. When we return to the safari camp, her mood is serene and contented – hanging out with gorillas does that for you. She tells me a lot of personal stuff, most of which I won’t reveal, and I feel like I’ve become her rabbi. Before I leave she makes a final confession:

“Hey GB, the night before the tree-dance I self-examined myself with a hand-mirror. More Mick Jagger than Lionel Ritchie, know what I’m saying?”

“You’re a lucky woman Joan,” I reply. “The Stones have always been big in the Congo.”

“And they’d be even bigger with my pussy as their lead singer!” she says laughing as I give her a parting embrace.

Joan Rivers always has the last word.

* Charliemingles funny and informative review of The Perfect Vagina can be found here.

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Friday, August 22, 2008

Repeating history

Have you ever met a member of a historical re-enactment society? These peculiar people often staged their events on the same site that our circus performed. I remember a fellow in medieval garb arriving on the scene as we were departing from a venue in
Sussex. The gourds hanging from his belt suggested he was an apothecary of sorts.

“Got any contraceptive potions, mate?” asked one of our female employees facetiously.

He responded to this quip by remaining resolutely in character. “The venerable Longworm has written that a woman who swallows a bee will never again conceive from man or demon,” he declared.

The girl tittered and I walked over to have a chat.

“I see you are a graduate of the Catweazle school of medicine,” I said. “Is it true that a woman who swallows a goldfish will give birth to a mermaid, or possibly a fish-faced goblin?”

“Those are the words of Old Mother Muckton, the Fishwife of Fuckton,” he replied. “Last Michaelmas we put her in stocks and pelted her with parsnips for her false tongue.”

“In that case I am indebted to you for refuting her bogus theories,” I said. “What brings you here, good Sir? Is a battle in the offing?”

“Your premonition is true, O wise and wondrous ape! The Bastard of Normandy has arrived at Hastings with his ignoble thanes to ravage our Saxon kingdom with shafts of iron! As we speak, our Noble King Harold makes haste from the north to confront the devilish intruder with an army of rampaging knights and lanky pikemen! Godspeed to the brave protectors of England’s honour!”

“Godspeed indeed!” I agreed. “Were it not for another pressing engagement, I would gladly assist in England’s defence. Send my regards to King Harold and advise him to put on a pair of extra thick goggles before the battle. Good day, physician – I fear that your services will be much in demand!”

It was actually a pleasant surprise to meet a medieval re-enactor, because Britain’s most popular historical role models are undoubtedly the Romans. I put it down to their soldiers’ gear – the light functional armour, the short stabbing sword, the trouserless tunic that permits air to circulate in the nether regions. It is for good reason that Roman men were famed for having the least sweaty scrotums in the ancient world. Roman re-enactors never seem to worry about their javelins going astray on a windy day. You can tell from their faces that they’re having a ball.

We shouldn’t forget the women, of course. Allowing them to be Roman soldiers would be ahistorical, but they can fight against them if they’re butch enough to be British and don’t mind acting in simulated rape scenes. Playing a Roman woman is more suited to the domestic goddess type who prefers to stay in the villa and recreate authentic dishes. The historical sources indicate that the mainstay of Roman cuisine was a fishy sauce in which they dipped their bread and marinated their meat – salsus vaginus as they called it.

But condiments notwithstanding, the best way to spice-up the Roman scene would be to muster an army of druid impersonators. Those mystical wizards made their last stand on the island on Anglesey, spooking the legionaries with their hideous howling curses. The campaign against them provided valuable lessons to all future conquerors of Britain. In the words of Suetonius Paulinus: “To subdue Britannia one must build roads and temples, encourage commerce and crack down hard on the Welsh.” Wales was and remains the exposed groin of Britain – he who holds it in his grasp has the nation by the vitals.

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Monday, August 18, 2008

Helping the aged

Political correctness has gone mad! A care home has been forced to apologise after a male member of staff granted an elderly resident her lifelong wish. This was to be served fish-and-chips by a man in skimpy underpants. Fearful of the reaction from the impotent middle-aged puritans who send their parents to such establishments, the director of the home admitted to “overstepping the mark” in permitting this act of charity. The moral obligation to grant an old woman her last wish was conveniently ignored. She wasn’t actually dying, as a matter of fact, but at the age of 90 such nuances verge on the technical.

My only criticism of this feisty old biddy is that the meal she ordered did not suit the waiter’s costume. A man in thongs should deliver dessert rather than main course – rhubarb crumble, strawberries and cream, or possibly even spotted dick. Fish-and-chips should be served by a saucy fellow in pirate gear, with a buttonless jacket hanging loosely over his bare torso and a gleaming cutlass dangling beside his britches. Before presenting the plate of deep-fried fare, he would pluck a juicy chip for himself, smearing it with salty sweat from his brow before munching it down in a single gulp.

“Best chips I’ve tasted since young Nellie Buxley greased me pistol in Port Royal!” he might say. “Sink yer choppers into them victuals, granny! It’ll give ye the energy ter chase a nimble cabin boy up the crow’s nest and strip him like an overripe mango!”

“Arrhaarrh, me old beauty!” he might add.

The aged, of course, are entitled to their fun. I once asked a male escort how he went about his work if the client happened to be an old lady.

“The hands and feet of a woman are the parts least affected by age,” he explained. “So I start by taking off my clothes and inviting her to feel the goods like fruit in a market stall.”

“An ingenious prelude,” I remarked. “Do they enjoy these examinations?”

“You bet they do!” he exclaimed. “The older a woman is, the more pleasure she gets from giving pleasure.”

“Female gorillas are just the same,” I said nodding. “And what of the feet?”

“A foot-massage goes down well, if you’ll excuse the pun. But I only suck her toes if she asks me to.”

“A wise precaution,” I observed. “She would surely recoil in horror if you tucked into her tootsies uninvited. No woman wants to be orally ravished by a foot fiend, whatever her age. I assume you consummate the service in the usual manner?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Switching off the lights and thinking of Joan Collins gets me through it.”

“Well quite,” I said. “Who else would one think of in such a situation? You clearly have it down to a fine art, my good man. Perhaps you should consider writing a manual for future practitioners of your worthy occupation.”

“I may just do that when I hang up my boots!” he chuckled.

We parted on amicable terms.

Old age is the fate of the fortunate, a time to discard the burdens of ego before making one’s peace with eternity. It’s a pity the old woman had to wait a lifetime to be served by a man in a thong, but the modest good humour of her ambition suggests a contented, unregretful spirit. To reconcile my readers to the inevitable sands of time, I shall hold another group meditation session this Wednesday at 2200 hours, Eastern Congo Time. I can’t guarantee to bring peace to your soul, but it should be more satisfying than a pot noodle and a wank in the long run.

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Wednesday, August 13, 2008

The Beijing thing

Everyone at the safari camp is following the Olympics on TV, but the whole thing leaves me cold. In the few events I’ve watched I couldn’t recognise a single face. How am I supposed to get excited about a bunch of nobodies competing against each other? It’s a bit like going to see an art-house movie with no big stars – you appreciate the skill of the director, but don’t really care what happens to the characters. Flags and national pride mean nothing to me.

If I were in charge of the Olympics, I‘d invite Mr Becks to participate in a delegation of one. He could represent Toontown so all the kiddies would cheer him on. After the recent ego-massage he got from Eva Mendes, he ought to be on top form in the high jump. The pouting sex kitten admitted in a
newspaper interview that she would fancy Becks if he smelled of “old socks and bad cheese”. I would have thought the aroma would suit him rather better than aftershave or cologne, but apparently many women have delicate olfactory organs. I can’t help wondering what Victoria Spice will make of this brazen attempt to seduce her husband. Gorilla Bananas is no agitator, but even he can sniff a catfight in the air. Perhaps the ladies should go to Beijing and settle their differences in the wrestling competition.

One group of athletes I will be watching closely is the female sprinters. In truth, their bodies fascinate me – tight bottoms, flat bellies and small breasts. Although these features are quite admirable from a certain angle, they’re not the ideal combination for producing children, and therein lies the quandary. Why would such traits have survived in the female stock if they were unsuitable for breeding? On first sight, it’s not something that chimes with the ideas of Charles Darwin, the great father of ape brotherhood.

The first thing I do, when faced with a puzzle like this, is send an e-mail to Professor Dawkins. If you’re wondering why he’d bother to answer my queries, please note that Dicky has been in my debt ever since
I saved his life as he dangled precariously above the rapids of the Congo. He also knows that I visit England from time to time and might accost him in Oxford if he displeased me. I certainly wouldn’t rule out interrupting one of his lectures, if he started getting sniffy, and giving his head a good rub in front of his students.

So I fired off an e-mail and got a long reply from Dicky, which I won’t reproduce in full. The gist of his argument is that women haven’t evolved solely as baby machines – in order to reproduce successfully, they had to live long enough to bear a goodly brood and nurture them to adolescence. In the context of mankind’s ancestors in the African plains, this required skills like running away from predators at high speed, hence the advantage of the sprinter’s build. There’s no point trying to have babies if a lion has chewed your head off.

Had Dicky stopped there, I would have accepted the logic of his point and held my peace. But he then went on to create a second line of defence, arguing that even if having a small arse makes no sense in biological terms, humans can brainwash themselves with “memes”. These things are like computer viruses, he asserted, infecting the human brain and making people disobey their selfish genes. Thus a woman might come to believe that having a tight little tush was desirable for its own sake.

I don’t know about you, but this sounds suspiciously like a “get-out-of-gaol” card to me. He seems to be saying that even if natural selection doesn’t work, it’s all the fault of those wretched “memes” rather than the theory itself. I’m in two minds whether to send him a scornful e-mail or give his head a good rubbing the next time I’m in England. What do you think?

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Monday, August 04, 2008

Saluting the flag

I’m feeling rather sorry for the Peruvian model who is being prosecuted for “offending patriotic symbols”. All she did was use her country’s flag as a saddle while riding a horse in the nude. I’m sure she meant no disrespect – indeed, her purpose may have been to honour the flag in an unusual and imaginative way. I believe she’s going to auction the hallowed cloth on eBay to raise money for her legal defence. I won’t be making a bid myself, but will endeavour to contribute to her fund by other means. The State must never be allowed to curtail the artist’s freedom of expression, nor suppress the flow of her creative juices.

My only reservation about her conduct is the involvement of the horse. The conceited posturing of these stripeless zebra is something I witnessed in the circus. I remember watching one of our female stunt riders practising feats of gymnastic agility on a particularly cocky colt. All of a sudden, a dog scampered into the ring, causing the horse to halt abruptly. Luckily, the woman didn’t fall off because she was tightly straddling her mount – but her momentum caused her to slide jerkily along his back up to the nape of his neck. She then groaned and grabbed his mane, remaining motionless for half a minute, before dismounting breathlessly with a face as pink as smoked salmon. In the days that followed, the obnoxious animal couldn’t stop chortling and whinnying about the incident, as if he'd intentionally given her the mother of all gusset massages.

Now a lot of you are probably thinking that a gorilla could never understand the emotional significance of a national flag. Well I’ve got news for you: we gorillas have our own emblem. Before I describe it, I’m going to tell you a story that will make you ashamed to be human. The setting is again the circus, and the instigator of the drama was a clown who planted a flag above his trailer to celebrate a gay pride event. I later discovered that the ensign he raised was called “the jolly todger” (apparently the official banner of the “Bayswater Fairy Godfathers”) which is a fairly accurate description of its appearance. It had scarcely been fluttering for five minutes, however, when an irate posse converged at the clown’s door to demand that he take it down. It is fortunate I was there to intervene when I saw them haranguing the fellow.

“You are a mob of ignorant oppressors!” I cried. “Our fruity friend has every right to express his allegiance on this special day for his people! Disperse forthwith and repent of your bigotry!”

The persecutors silently and shamefacedly withdrew under my stern gaze. I immediately raised the standard of the gorilla nation over my own trailer, and I’m pleased to recall that several other performers joined me in this gesture of solidarity. Two flags that were proudly erected were the Red Dragon of Wales and the Blue Smurf of Phrygia, which immediately lightened the prevailing mood. A Smurf is always guaranteed to bring smiles to faces, whilst Welsh nationalism was invented largely for its comic potential (see the writings of
Mr Boyo).

So what is the emblem of the gorilla nation? It is the magnificent rump of a silverback in his prime, garnished with a pair of palm leaves. Anyone tempted to call it “the arse and wipes” in my presence should be aware that being sat on by a 500-pound gorilla can leave you with a permanent limp.

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