Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Wet nurse offer

My females want to breastfeed the royal baby.

“Invite them to the Congo!” they demanded. “You’re always telling us how well-connected you are to the English upper classes and how you once refused a knighthood. Get the little princeling over here so we can give him a proper mouthful!”

Obviously, I had to quash this crazy talk.

“No, ladies, no!” I exclaimed. “Gorilla milk is far too rich for human babies. Your creamy boob juice would turn the little tyke into a miniature version of Tarzan. He’d start climbing trees, swinging on vines and emitting silly yodels. Not good preparation for a life of waving to crowds and cutting ribbons and listening to common folk with an interested look on his face.

They grunted in sceptical disappointment. It’s not easy to fob off maternal gorillas with lame excuses.

Before you get the wrong idea, my females are not in thrall to human royalty. We gorillas have zero reverence for puffed-up humans with silly titles. Their yearning to suckle baby George arose entirely from seeing a photo of him in the arms of his slender mother:

“She hasn’t got enough milk in her to feed a baby meerkat!” they jeered.

Cruel words, but they may have a point. If Kate cannot produce sufficient nourishment from her udders, she ought to find a donor rather than using baby formula. Maybe her namesake Kate Winslet would be willing to help out. She’s expecting a baby herself, and must have reached the stage in her marriage where she’s longing for a break from her half-witted husband. Keeping both her boobs occupied with two hungry babies might be just what she needs to take her mind off things.

Another option for the royal parents would be to buy fresh breast milk on the open market. I hear that Chinese women have been selling theirs, mostly to decrepit old men who think it will prolong their lives. How much nicer to be flown to London in a private jet and take turns letting baby George suck their titties dry. There is no reason to suppose that Chinese breast milk is less nourishing than that from Caucasian women. Maybe their diet gives it a sweet and sour flavour, but that shouldn’t bother a blue-blooded baby.

Prince Harry, meanwhile, has been telling everyone how keen he is to fulfil his duties as an uncle:

“I’ll make sure he has fun,” he declared.

I suppose that means he wants to introduce his nephew to as many bimbos he can find who will cavort with him in the nude. What Harry seems to have forgotten is that he’ll be a middle-aged man when George reaches cavorting age. It is by no means certain that the young prince will want to accompany his crinkly-arsed uncle on naked bimbo excursions. Nor can we be sure that naked bimbos will have the same appeal to the next generation of princely gallants, accustomed to virtual reality games and holographic simulations. Programmable bimbos are so much safer than ones who’ll take your picture and sell it to a gossip site.

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Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Liquid gold

Faithful readers of this blog will know that I’ve always been generous in my praise of humans whose discoveries have illuminated the dark corridors of ignorance and superstition, often paving the way for exciting new gadgets available on Fulsome and frequent are the eulogies I’ve penned for scientific wizards such as Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking and Uri Geller. Look in the archives if you don’t believe me.

That’s why I’m devoting this post to a stunning breakthrough in the field of power generation. If the news media aren’t lying (and why would they be?), scientists from the Bristol Robotics Laboratory have found a way of charging up smartphones with urine. The go-to man is Dr Loannis Leropoulos, although it’s not entirely clear whether he invented the procedure or is merely jumping on the bandwagon:

“We are very excited as this is a world first,” he said. “One product that we can be sure of an unending supply is our own urine,” he added thoughtfully.

It just goes to show what lateral thinking can achieve. I bet no one even imagined they were wasting a valuable energy resource whenever they took a leak. If it’s true, multiple Nobel prizes are in order. Piss power has been the Holy Grail of energy research for many decades. In 1973, President Idi Amin of Uganda claimed to have invented a car which could run on urine:

“Dis car designed to run on anything,” he announced. “Conk out in de middle of nowhere, jus' piss in de tank, you is good for another fifty mile.”

Unfortunately, this boast turned out to be as empty as the petrol tank – nothing but a money-making scam to sell the vehicle for an inflated price. President Amin was later deposed from high office, shortly after attempting to revive cannibalism as a form of gourmet cuisine.

Given this chequered history, perhaps we should exercise a little caution before accepting the technology as proven. It’s a little strange, don’t you think, that it only works for smartphones. I won’t be convinced until they extend it to more humdrum electrical appliances. If I could use my piss to charge up an electric nose-hair trimmer, it would save me a lot of trips to the safari camp.

Sadly, not all scientists are worthy of grovelling adulation. Some are dangerous madmen intent on hideous experiments that defy Nature. One such fiend is Professor George Church of the Harvard Medical School, who is looking for an “adventurous woman” who will agree to be impregnated with Neanderthal jism. Not real jism, mind you, but artificial sperm manufactured from Neanderthal DNA, presumably recovered from an ancient cadaver.

I hope you’ll agree that this insidious scheme is far more repugnant than anything Dr Frankenstein did. His monster was big enough to defend himself, unlike the poor little half-breed who won’t know what to do when people call him names. Perhaps Professor Church should be made up like a Neanderthal and forced to experience it himself for a month. I bet he’d get more wisecracks than he could handle.

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Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Bieber spanking threats

I’ve noticed a couple of people saying they’d like to spank Master Bieber, presumably on his bottom. The first one is Mary Schlegel, a mother from Iowa, infuriated at Bieber’s late arrival for a concert.

“It's ridiculous,” she huffed. “I have a four hour drive to get home and if I could I'd take him over my knee and give him a good one!”

I wish it were in my power to grant her request. It would do Bieber the world of good to have his boyish butt-cheeks crisply smacked by a maternal hand. What’s more, it’s the sort of event that might attract a healthy audience. I, for one, would be eager to witness a righteous matron deliver a painful chastisement on Bieber’s young buttocks. To maximise the theatrical impact, I would provide Mrs Schlegel with the following props:
• red nail varnish
• a solid oak bench to sit on while holding Bieber facedown
• a ball gag to insert in Bieber’s mouth
• a nappy and some talcum power to finish up afterwards.

The other person who wants to slap Bieber’s behind is Peter Mench, a bald-headed music producer with bushy eyebrows and a double-chin:

“I’d take Bieber to the woodshed and spank him,” he declared.

Frankly, the suggestion is obscene. No one wants to see a man who looks like an ogre drag a whimpering adolescent off to his cabin. I shudder at the thought of his rough callusy hands pummelling Bieber’s tender tush. Who does Mench think he is? A Turkish sultan? If he ever shows his face around my neighbourhood, I’ll tell my females to massage coconut oil into his bare scalp and coat it with hairy insects. It’s the jungle equivalent of tarring-and-feathering.

In truth, I’ve always been suspicious of music producers. They make a lot of money by playing with knobs in a recording studio and then act like big shots. Look at Phil Spectre – he was a big shot who actually shot someone and expected to get away with it. Note also the bald head beneath those ridiculous wigs he wears. These things are never a coincidence.

Bieber, meanwhile, has been doing his best to avoid getting a smacked botty by pretending to be some sort of hoodlum. After a night out with his buddies, he was filmed pissing in a bucket and saying rude things about President Clinton. Silly boy! Real thugs don’t piss in buckets – they piss on their enemies after setting fire to them (as an act of mercy). And you don’t prove anything by insulting Bill Clinton these days. The man is a shadow of his former self and completely overshadowed by his wife.

If Bieber really wants to prove what a tough guy he is, he should walk up to some badass rappers, like Ice Cube and 50 Cent, and tell them their mother is a hoochie who let him suck her nipples. If he did that, I would buy his latest CD and listen to all the songs in front of the chimpanzees.

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Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Ginger's confession

Ginger Spice has admitted trying to seduce George Michael when she was an aspiring starlet and he was a pretty boy singer.

“I’d made plans to marry him,” she explained. “I used to practice kissing his poster. Then we met and I started being all flirty-eyed, licking my lips and doing the sexy poses.”

Her wet lips did not win a kiss from her idol, which was probably just as well. It couldn’t possibly have matched the thrill she got from kissing his poster. It seems that George simply ignored her advances and blathered on about his latest hairdo. How good-natured of Ginger to bear no grudges and blame her faulty gaydar. It warms the cockles of my heart that she and George are now bosom buddies:

“He's the only celebrity friend I have, aside from the Spice Girls, that I tell all my secrets to,” said Ginger.

Let’s hope he keeps them.

It takes a big woman to admit falling in love with a gay man and trying, unsuccessfully, to make his pants bulge. I’m sure many single women have made the same mistake. It must be incredibly difficult for them to detect which of the dapper young men they meet is only good for fashion tips and shopping excursions.

We jungle apes use smell to sniff out the gay primates. That doesn’t work for humans, because of the widespread use of scented toiletries. Nearly all men smell gay nowadays. That’s why women have to rely on subtle cues, like the curl of the eyebrow or the stiffness of the gait. Unfortunately, it’s easy to ignore such signals when the hormones are raging.

Personally, I think it’s bad manners for a gay man to spurn the sexual favours of a nubile young woman. Whatever happened to closing your eyes and thinking of Johnny Weissmuller? No man ever died from letting an attractive woman jump all over him. Worse things have happened at sea. Nor can anyone be sure that they’re same-sex orientated until they’ve tried it with someone of the opposite gender. All the best gay men have slept with women, including Oscar Wilde and Pee-wee Herman.

Someone once told me that human sexuality was a continuum, ranging from ultra-straight at one end to utterly queer at the other, with most people somewhere in-between. I can well believe it. Even macho movie stars like Sly Stallone must be slightly gay to masquerade in front of a camera wearing make-up. John Wayne looked camper than a row of tents when he was stroking his horse.

Should there be an award for the straightest leading man? My main worry is that undeserving actors like George Clooney or Russell Crowe would win it. The strongest candidate I can think of is Gerard Depardieu. It is inconceivable that anyone with the slightest hint of gayness would allow his body to take on the shape of a potato. He was also recently fined for riding a scooter while intoxicated. That doesn’t seem like something a gay man would do. 

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Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Brain anomaly

An English anthropologist has explained why the human masses are obsessed with celebrities. It seems that their brains are hard-wired that way because of a unique arse-licking gene (a.k.a. “butt-kissing gene”) possessed by homo sapiens. This causes them to squeal with excitement when a famous person comes into view and behave like a fawning toady.

It’s all about prestige, you see. Unlike other animals, humans can acquire status simply by sucking up to superstars and show-offs. Furthermore, the habits of these performers are studied obsessively by aspiring young fame-hunters hoping to further their own paths to glory. Lady Gaga was just a star-struck teenager when she saw Madonna and Britney French-kissing. Look at her now.

In the rest of the animal kingdom, behaviour is driven by fear rather than hero-worship. The hyena respects the pride male to avoid getting its head chewed off; the baboon respects the silverback to avoid getting its lights punched out; the zebra respects the rhino to avoid getting the horn. There’s no need to lick anyone’s butt in the African bush unless you’re trying to make friends.

A celebrity who is wowing the world with his zany antics is Russell Brand, the chirpy English comedian. It is alleged that he recently propositioned a middle-aged lesbian TV personality, although he might well have been joking. Middle-aged lesbians find it hard to judge whether a man is being ironic or genuinely wants to straighten them out. When questioned about his indiscretion, Brand promptly confessed that he couldn’t resist infiltrating lesbian liaisons:

“I won’t rest until every lesbian relationship in Britain has been disrupted by an unwelcome boorish Essex boy," he announced.

Will frisky young bucks now follow in Brand’s footsteps? I hope so. The best way of honing one’s skills is by taking on a nigh impossible challenge. As for the lesbians, there’s surely no harm in reminding them they’re still attractive to men. It would also give them a list of potential sperm donors should they ever wish to reproduce.

Of course, a celebrity is only worthy of emulation if he sticks to his forte and doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. I was sorry to hear that Justin Bieber has started aiming kung fu kicks at the paparazzi. Someone should tell Bieber that it takes years of training to carry out such stunts without looking like a jackrabbit or injuring your buttocks. It also requires spiritual instruction to acquire the demeanour of an inscrutable Chinaman.

A more outrageous case of celebrity overstretch is Victoria Spice’s suggestion that her husband should play James Bond. It goes without saying that Mr Becks is not remotely up to the task – he cannot act and his voice sounds like a cockney version of Mickey Mouse. I doubt he could get through the love scenes without grinning like a chimp. The good news is that he seems content in his current role of being eye-candy for a certain type of woman – (the type that isn’t interested in the quantity of grey matter in a man’s skull).

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