Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Pregnant pause

I’ve been studying a video clip of the pregnant woman who almost fainted during a speech of president Obama. She was standing right behind him, tottering like a skittle, before Obama sensed what was going on. Not wanting her to collapse at his feet like a devotee of Guru Baba Ramdev, he turned round and patted her. As every American knows, a pat from the president is like sniffing a bottle of smelling salts. She steadied on her feet and was led away to the White House gynaecology room.

The president’s detractors are now saying that the incident was a stage-managed hoax, to make Obama look like a messianic figure whose mere presence gives ladies the vapours. I personally doubt he would need to resort to such fakery. Women were always fainting on me in my circus days – something about being spoken to by a gorilla made them weak at the knees. Obama is no gorilla, but his voice is deep and the woman was pregnant. I can’t really blame her for feeling giddy in the circumstances.

The woman has since been interviewed and denied she was a stooge or shop dummy (as many have alleged). I hope this silences the president’s accusers, because the man has enough on his plate, what with Angela Merkel accusing him of listening in on her phonecalls. She’s making a big fuss about it, but you have to wonder whether she’s secretly flattered that Obama is so interested in her private affairs. He denied it when she called him, but maybe it would have been better for German-American relations if he’d confessed.

“Angela, I admit it all,” he might have said. “I just love hearing you chatter away in your sexy Oberschwester voice, especially when you use words like Wirtschaftlichen and Strumpfhosen. How about sending me a tape of you singing in the bath?”

I hope no one will say that Frau Merkel is incapable of such emotions because she’s German. For one thing, it would be an unpleasant example of national stereotyping. For another thing, a 24-year-old student called Niklaus Knecht has proved that Germans can be as romantic as Troy Tempest, the submariner who fell in love with a mute girl with gills.

What happened to young Knecht was this: Someone stole his mobile phone and sold it to a girl living in Morocco. This girl took pictures of herself with the phone, which somehow got sent to Knecht’s mailbox. The besotted boy then announced on his Facebook page that he’d let her keep the phone if she agreed to have a date with him. The girl has yet to respond to the offer and is no doubt weighing up her options as we speak.

If I were Angela Merkel, I would give Knecht an award for proving that Germans can be as goofy and love-struck as men from Moldova and Azerbaijan. I’ve just noticed that Knecht is Swiss rather than German. What of it? With a name like Knecht he must have German ancestry, right? Let’s not get hung up over nuances. 

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Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Silly love songs

Paul McCartney has admitted he was too scared to tell his attractive wife that he loved her. Now why would he fear saying that, unless perhaps it wasn’t true? Some women can tell when their husbands are lying as easily as if their noses were growing longer like Pinocchio’s. Female intuition is a more powerful truth serum than sodium pentothal or a kick in the balls. But if Paul doesn’t love her, why would he have married her? That can’t be the cause of his anxiety.

Maybe the source of his fear is financial. When a rich man tells a woman he loves her, his wallet trembles in anticipation. Money can’t buy you love, but love can lose you money, as Paul discovered when he divorced Heather Mills. Was he worried that opening his heart to Nancy might have encouraged her to ask for Tahiti as a Christmas present? No, that can’t be right, the woman is flush herself. If she asked for Tahiti, he could have asked for Bermuda.

In pursuit of an explanation, I phoned Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, who’s been happily married for a decade or so.

“I know exactly how he feels,” he said. “You never know how a woman will react the first time you tell her you love her. My own dear spouse giggled like Scooby Doo before punching me in the face. I had a black eye for a week.”

“That’s a heart-warming anecdote, Smacker.” I remarked. “I shall tell it to my females as proof of the close genetic bond we have with our human cousins.”

Of course, it’s a complete myth that humans invented love. Birds of all species can be incredibly jealous lovers, as anyone who’s flirted with an ostrich knows. I never even smile at an ostrich hen for fear of getting my arse pecked by her mate. Not even among the primates do humans reign supreme in the amorous arts. Our mutual cousins, the bonobos, have fascinated biologists for years with their touchy-feely behaviour and public displays of affection. They are also extremely generous in providing sympathy sex, which is not something humans will do without a lot of play-acting and chicanery.

Another celebrity who’s been having issues with the L-word is Khloe Kardashian, whose marriage appears to be floundering. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the shaven-headed brute she got hitched to fell out of love with her bubble butt. Rather than consult a divorce lawyer, she is seeking solace among her twitter followers, to whom she tweeted the following message:

“I crave a love so deep the ocean would be jealous.”

Poor deluded girl! A love that deep would be full of shipwrecks, sharks and creatures that squirted black ink in her face. My advice to Khloe is to stop tweeting and have some sympathy sex with a good-natured rake like Russell Brand. He may not be as affectionate as a bonobo, but I doubt he’ll expect her to eat his body parasites.

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Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Legal in Sweden

The manager of the safari camp saw fit to inform me that masturbating in public is now legal in Sweden. He seemed to think it was some kind of good news story that would put a smile on my face. On seeing my poker-faced reaction, he said:

“What’s the matter? I thought you’d approve of this.”

“What business is it of mine?” I replied. “I’m sure the Swedes can manage their own affairs without my input on every policy reform.”

“But aren’t you glad they’re becoming more like apes?” he asked. “I’ve never seen a gorilla sneak into a cave with a dirty magazine when he wanted to have a wank.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re exhibitionists,” I retorted. “I assure you such feats can be pulled off in the wild without attracting an audience.”

On reviewing the relevant news item, I quickly discovered that the manager had been exaggerating. What happened in Sweden was that a 65-year-old man who had been masturbating on a beach was acquitted of sexual assault. The judge ruled that he was innocent of this charge because his act was not aimed at an unwilling victim. He may nevertheless have been guilty of the lesser crime of “disorderly conduct”.

This seems like a balanced and well-considered judgement. I’ve seen countless baboons pleasuring themselves in open country, and I never felt insulted or abused unless they made eye contact and thrust their organ in my direction. If a human did that it would obviously be a gross outrage, worthy of clamping the culprit in irons and attaching a ball-and-chain to his leg. Never be too soft in dealing with the gawker-stroker.

It’s worth remembering that many of the great men of history were vigorous self-abusers. They generally jerked off in private, although a few medieval kings did it in the presence of a manservant holding a spittoon (which was thought to be civilised in those days). William Gladstone, the British prime minister, said it was a necessary release of surplus sexual energy that allowed him to reform prostitutes without cheating on his wife:

“I have never been guilty of the act which is known as infidelity to the marriage bed,” he boasted.

I’m sure his wife was grateful that he took a firm grip of his superfluous libido.

On the subject of wives, some academics from Oxford University have postulated that women decide which man to marry from the way he kisses them. I can well believe it, but it doesn’t tell us what kind of kiss will bring a woman to the altar. One assumes it must be mouth-to-mouth, although mouth-to-arse would be a more fitting inducement for certain types of union.

It reminds me of those Technicolor Hollywood movies, where the macho hero forces his lips on the mouth of the feisty heroine, who pummels his back for ten seconds before melting into his arms. Are there really women who would marry a man who rape-kissed them in that fashion? If I ever met a woman like that, I would subject her to a prolonged inquisition on a psychiatrist’s couch.

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Wednesday, October 09, 2013

Exposing Hillary

A cry-baby movie director is complaining that no one will help him make a biopic about Hillary Clinton:

"When I approached people for interviews, I discovered that nobody, and I mean nobody, was interested in helping me make this film,” whined Charles Ferguson.

He sounds like a frustrated village gossip who’s annoyed because all the local snitches are shunning him. In his opinion, this refusal to spill the beans is a betrayal of American democracy:

“I don't think it's a victory for the media, or for the American people," he declared pompously.

The man is an ass and I’m glad his insidious project has been scuppered. You can bet your bottom’s last dollar that the film would have shown Hilldog in compromising positions with other women, which would have brought aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States, who are the last humans on Earth who deserve to be aided and comforted.

Speaking as a gorilla, it wouldn’t worry me at all if Mrs Clinton were a Velcro vixen. If any woman has earned the right to be a lesbian, it’s her. When you’ve been publicly cuckolded by a succession of empty-headed floozies, you’re fully entitled to a few private dalliances of your own, be they Sapphic or otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a Nosey Parker film maker should pry into your personal affairs and tell lurid tales to the world and his wife.

In any case, these Hollywood directors can’t be trusted to give an accurate depiction of the facts. The accursed Oliver Stoned served up a giant barrel of buffalo piss about the Kennedy assassination, which the ignoramuses of our time lapped up like cream from the she-elephant’s udders. The human masses have had their fill of fictionalised political codswallop and don’t need a film about Hilldog to shave further points off their waning IQs.

Oddly enough, the Republicans are also against the film, because they think it would give the former first lady unfair publicity for her next presidential bid. Now I’d like to see a woman in the White House as much as the next ape, but surely Hillary has missed the boat. She’s beginning to look like a crotchety old spinster whose finger shouldn’t be on anyone’s nuclear button. And don’t forget about Bill, who would insist on moving back with her so he could scent-mark his former territory. It would be like a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with the same cast as the original.

Of course, you’ve got to give Hillary credit for inspiring women to get into politics. Even a girl like Miley Cyrus, who is a novice in political affairs, is talking about her plans for world domination. One has to wonder what office of state she plans to hold, given that she’s telling everyone what a bad bitch she is. If I were president I’d appoint her Chief Dominatrix to make sure all the whips and nipple clamps were being used correctly. She could start by giving lessons to the Senators’ wives.

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Wednesday, October 02, 2013

Tits in her ass

Someone has sent me an incredibly dull video of Madonna prancing about in hot pants and announcing (in a sullen voice) that she intends to start a revolution. An empty threat if ever there was one. The super-rich never start revolutions – they’ve got too much to lose. The last thing Madge wants is mobs of angry proletarians invading her private estate and demanding the use of her Jacuzzi. The real reason for the video is explained in a line she utters approximately 3 minutes and 36 seconds from the start:

I have tits in my ass and an insatiable desire to be noticed.

This is the only convincing statement she makes in the entire 17-minute film; I hope they carve it on her tombstone. It attests to her pride in the 55-year-old butt cheeks she possesses, which were partially exposed during much of the performance. I’m not going to comment on her buns myself, apart from noting how white they looked in monochrome film. If Madonna wants me to compliment her rump, she should book an appointment for a manual examination.

People often suggest that I make my own promotional video. “GB,” they say, “the world needs to hear your mission statement.” I admit there is much I could do to educate humanity about free jungle living and the enjoyment of hirsute pursuits. But I’m worried about becoming a cult figure and starting a new religion. A lot of impressionable humans became followers of the Jedi faith after seeing the Star Wars films. I once saw a wild-eyed woman kissing an effigy of Chewbacca – I averted my eyes from her gaze before she could attempt to mesmerise me.

To my knowledge, there is no religion based on worship of the Muppets, probably because they are utterly limp and lifeless without a human hand inside them. The American Museum of History has nevertheless decided to exhibit the best-loved characters, including Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. The pair were supposedly lovers, of course, although nobody knows whether their cross-species romance was ever consummated.

Would it have been physically possible for Kermit and Miss Piggy to have had carnal relations? Admittedly, there was a danger of the porcine one getting overexcited and squashing her lover in the melee. And if she took a more passive role, the absence of an amphibious appendage might have left her disappointed. Yet frogs are slippery, smooth-tongued creatures capable of pleasuring a female with multiple techniques. My guess is that Kermit was quite capable of extracting ecstatic squeals from his chubby and amorous sweetheart.

On the principle that any pornography you can think of exists, I decided to google “Kermit Miss Piggy sex”. Most of what I found were amateurish efforts like this one. Has no thin man ever thought of putting on a frog costume and making love to a fat woman wearing a pig snout and a blond wig? It can only be a matter of time, I suppose.

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