Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Only 10 scents
Scientists are claiming that the human nose is only capable of distinguishing 10 different smells. If you look at their list, you will find that “sweaty armpit” and “farty poo-poo” are curiously absent.
My gorilla nose grew finely attuned to human odours in my circus days. I remember inhaling the aromas of the all-girl acrobat team, hot and sweaty after a training session. They were eager to hit the showers, but I asked them to hang around for a minute so I could sniff them discreetly.
“You smell like female gorillas who’ve returned to camp after a hard day of baboon-wrestling,” I remarked. On seeing their disgruntled faces, I added: “which is a fragrance that brings rapture to my grateful nose.”
Pheromones were not much discussed in those days, so few women knew they gave off chemical signals that could make a man friskier than a billy goat. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, was always keen to sniff the secretions of the women he romanced:
“I take them out dancing and we boogie until the witching hour,” he explained. “If a woman shakes her bottom for long enough, her natural scent will overwhelm any perfume she’s wearing.”
I had no reason to doubt his word on this matter.
Maybe a knowledge of pheromones would be useful to prostitutes in Switzerland who are offering their services in sex boxes along the highway. It seems their venture has had a “modest start”, which is business-speak for “Where are the ruddy customers?” Punters might be shunning them for reasons other than a lack of olfactory stimulation, of course. The boxes look very short of cover to me, and a prankster could easily stick his face into one at a critical moment, shouting an exhortation such as “Bravo Sir! Give it to her amidships!” I suspect this would dampen the biological urges of the most incorrigible whoremonger.
A man who ought to know something about biological urges is my friend Dicky Dawkins, the evolutionary theorist. I was delighted to discover that a new book of his has recently been published. This one is an autobiography of his early life, rather than the usual guff about selfish genes and the selection of the naturally fit. It is undoubtedly a literary masterpiece and I shall order a copy forthwith.
My only qualm is that the title of the book is “An Appetite for Wonder, The Makings of a Scientist”, which is ridiculously affected. People browsing in a bookshop might conclude, incorrectly, that the author is a pompous old fart. I blame the publisher. They should have insisted that the book was called “Young Dicky”, which I’m sure you’ll agree is a far catchier title than the one selected. This lack of marketing nous might reduce sales by half a million, which is not what Dicky needs with retirement looming. I think I’ll send him an email advising him to consult me before publishing a work intended for the mass market.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The ballsy man syndrome
“Daddy, what are those grapefruit doing in the sack between your legs?”
Not an easy one to answer if you’re trying to set an example of modest self-deprecation to the younger generation.
Big-balled men can easily avoid such questions by wearing baggy pants, but few of them have the patience to look after children. Back in my circus days, there was a brawny Puerto Rican who performed stunts on horses. His name was Miguel de Bolas and his nut-sack was visibly well-packed. I once spit out a cherry stone in his direction and it hit him between the eyes, which prompted him to say:
“Hey buddy, I fock your modder in de ass!”
This was one of his favourite salutations.
“A wise man does not put his appendage in places he cannot extract it from,” I replied aphoristically.
He was not a wise man, of course. Most of his evenings were spent in taverns, looking for women to bewilder and men to insult. After one of these excursions, he surfaced next morning with bruises on his face. When the ringmaster asked him what had happened, Miguel said “You should a seen de udder guy.”
Suspecting that his macho behaviour was related to his oversized gonads, the circus doctor gave him female sex hormones, telling him that the pills would keep his skin healthy. We knew the treatment was working when he praised Rock Hudson:
“Dat guy was better-lookin' den der womans he kissed,” said Miguel, after watching a re-run of McMillan and Wife.
You don’t say things like that about Rock Hudson unless the male and female aspects of your personality are in balance.
Miguel’s case history makes me wonder what happens to virile men when they grow old. Empirical evidence on this question is provided by a 74-year-old Brazilian man who is planning to marry a goat. Aparecido Castaldo has fathered eight children from four different wives, so we can reasonably surmise that his testicles have served him well and are probably in rude heath as we speak. However, Senor Castaldo has no intention of consummating his nuptials with the lovely Carmelita, who ate her first wedding dress and will be provided with another. He explains his intentions thus:
“Whenever someone says I am doing something wrong, I reply the goat does not speak, ask for money to go shopping, and doesn’t get pregnant – and she can’t talk.”
Fascinating that the qualities he most admires in his fiancé are things that she doesn’t do rather than does. He isn’t concerned that she won’t be able to make him a cup of tea, but maybe none of his previous wives did that either. The moral of the story seems to be that a former stud will fall in love with anyone who refrains from nagging him and eats all the leftovers.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
The mayor of a Canadian town has been interviewed by a woman who bared her breasts mid-way through the discussion. Apparently, it’s legal in that part of Canada for women to expose their chests wherever and whenever men are allowed to do so.
I don’t have much sympathy for the mayor. It seems that his interviewer wanted him to accept her boobs as everyday objects you could pass in the street without craning your neck or howling like a wolf. The only counterargument he could offer was that some people might find a topless woman “distracting”. This feeble response allowed her to assert that the mayor’s earlobes were distracting and ask him to wear ear muffs. The mayor was left floundering by this facetious suggestion.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he said:
“The mayor should have put his face between her tits and shaken his head like a cocktail mixer. Then he should have asked her how many women had ever felt like doing that to a man’s chest.”
I thought he had a point, even if the course of action suggested would have been undignified for someone in a position of civic responsibility. A man’s bare torso will never be in the same league as naked jahoobies, no matter what the law says. However great the pecs are, no woman ever got an erection from leering at them. Even ladies who find such sights stimulating can keep their symptoms tightly under wraps. In any case, my buddy Smacker Ramrod once told me that good girls don’t get sexually aroused until you’ve bought them dinner and whispered sweet-nothings into their ear.
Having said that, one has to admire the woman for skilfully deploying her assets in a daring surprise attack. It’s a tactic that ought to be added to the debating manuals, as well as geo-strategic directives on the use of soft power. I must remember to invite her to our next jungle symposium on the use of display tactics to disorientate potential adversaries. I’m sure most of the delegates would give her a big hand.
The female bosom has its philanthropic uses, of course. Consider the case of the French nurse who posted the following advertisement on a classified site:
”I am a young mother in perfect health, a trained nurse of 29, and I am renting my breasts to milk-feed infants.”
She is looking for a gay couple to hire her services for 100 euros a day. That’s not a lot of money for milk fresh from the teat, with all the associated nurturing of a surrogate mother. Not all the enquiries she got were from gay men with babies:
“I’ve received more than a dozen requests, but only half of them were serious,” said the nurse. “The rest were from perverts.”
Tut tut. Nothing is sacred if a lactating woman cannot advertise her services without being pestered by perverts. I hope she puts their replies in the public domain, so the world can pour scorn on their depravity.
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
If you’d mentioned the name “Miley Cyrus” to me 10 days ago I would have scratched my head. When I hear it today, I scratch my armpits (a gesture of amusement in gorilla society). I am pleased to report that her recent twerking exhibition brought whoops of delight from the jungle primate community, apart from a few envious baboons who thought she was stealing their thunder. The girl is funnier than Fabio Fucini, the legendary circus clown who could fart in his own face.
Her human critics have predictably focused on minor aspects of her routine, such as the booty-wiggling and the hand-to-crotch activity. These are simple manoeuvres that most apes master before puberty. I was spellbound by her face. Her eyes reminded me of a she-hyena in heat, and her tongue might have been attached to a hungry lizard looking for insects to feed on. If I owned a restaurant, I would invite her to lick all the plates clean before putting them in the dishwasher.
The most intriguing part of her act involved the glove with the big pointing finger, which she poked and prodded the man in the striped suit with, before thrusting between her thighs like an imitation phallus. My females thought she was pretending to be a man, but I was quick to correct them:
“She is pretending to be a woman with penis envy,” I said. “The glove is actually a condom, because the human finger is an infamous cootie-magnet that goes every place it can. Singers must be mindful of the safe sex message in front of their impressionable fans.”
All-in-all, it was an inspired performance. If I were Miley’s manager, I would encourage her to develop a comedy pole-dancing act that would upstage all the boring displays you see in titty bars.
I shouldn’t give the impression that I’ll encourage anything for a laugh. Jokes can backfire, as the artist who painted a picture of President Putin in ladies’ underwear found out. The painting was immediately confiscated and the artist had to flee to France to avoid arrest. There’s no sense in mocking a humourless tyrant if he has the power to pulverise your paintbrushes and stick the splinters into your tender parts.
I’m the last one to defend President Putin, but it has to be admitted that the picture does not flatter him. He makes a very unattractive woman, and is a salutary lesson for men who think that slipping into a sexy negligee will make them gorgeous. If you don’t want to look like a hideous old transvestite, you’ve got to go the whole hog with hormone therapy and cosmetic surgery.
This isn’t to say that everything looks good on a real woman. I certainly don’t approve of the enormous rose-bush tattoo that a woman called Cheryl Cole put on her backside. Rose petals may be fragrant, but they don’t belong on the human rump. There is something very suspect about a woman who tries that hard to make people sniff her bottom.