Wednesday, November 26, 2014

A bull is saved

A gay Irish bull called Benjy has been saved from the abattoir. Good news like this doesn’t come along every day, so I’m making the most of it by clapping my hands and singing Hallelujah. The bull had been sent to a stud farm to impregnate cows, but unlike the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain he refused to act like a regular gun-slinging dude. Instead, he flirted outrageously with his fellow bulls, which did not impress the owner of the establishment. Realising that Benjy was a dud stud, he booked an appointment with a slaughterhouse to change him into a hunk of meat more lifeless than Channing Tatum.

Fortunately for Benjy, news of his impending butchery was reported to the press and reached the ears of Sam Simon, co-creator of The Simpsons. This soft-hearted cartoonist put his cash on the line to save the bull from a fate worse than butt sex. Maybe Benjy reminded him of Smithers, the gay manservant of Mr Burns who served his boss so devotedly. Whatever the subtext, the bull was spared and sent to a sanctuary in England, where he now mingles freely with other gay beasts.

Beef-eating carnivores should be especially pleased with this outcome. They can now tuck into burgers and steaks without worrying about whether they are feasting on the flesh of a gay martyr. If I were the CEO of McDonalds, I would guarantee that none of the meat served under the golden arches came from animals that were killed because of their sexual orientation or political beliefs. People who eat hamburgers have a right to know that the beef they are chewing comes from dumb livestock too reactionary to adopt minority lifestyles. Customers of the fast food industry shouldn’t be expected to navigate such political minefields.

One way of preventing this kind of persecution is to adopt sexual practices that transcend the gay/straight divide. A hermaphrodite sea slug that lives in the Pacific Ocean is provoking much wonder among Japanese scientists. Lacking fluency in Japanese, the BBC asked a museum curator called Bernard Picton to explain its mating habits:

“The penis from one fits into the female opening of the other one, and the penis from that one fits into the female opening of the first one, if you see what I mean,” he said. “I haven't seen anything like this before,” he added.

The most fascinating thing of all about this creature is that its penis is disposable. It discards it after mating and grows another one when the need arises, avoiding the burden of carrying useless baggage.

Humans often boast about how inventive they are, but they have never matched the sexual ingenuity of this sea slug. I suppose lesbians who wear strap-ons have come quite close, but even they would admit that attaching a plastic phallus to your loins isn’t quite as good as growing a real one. I hope this story will make humans humble as the Christmas season approaches. Those who recognise their own limitations will have more compassion for gay bulls and other oppressed fauna.

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Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Beatle for Sale

So the manager of the safari camp told me that Paul McCartney was paid a million dollars to perform at a billionaire’s investment conference:

“Money can’t buy you love, but it sure can buy you a Beatle,” he remarked wryly.

“Paul is a vegetarian and a friend of the gorilla nation,” I replied haughtily. “I will not believe gossip about him until I have researched the matter to my own satisfaction.”

My investigations have since confirmed that the story is well-founded, although there are several qualifications to add. A million dollars is pocket money for Paul, so he was clearly there to network and promote his own investment ideas. Many of those fund managers will soon be putting money into sea cucumber farms. They were also ardent fans of his music:

“I love you Paul!” screamed one investor, jumping up from her seat the moment he appeared.

I’m not the least bit envious of these people. The truly lucky ones were those who heard the Beatles rehearse in the studio. The Beatles themselves were incredibly lucky to have heard themselves play when they were playing.

Although I did not attend the famous rooftop concert at Savile Row, I am proud to reveal that a couple of chimpanzees were among the onlookers. Having been hired to appear in a TV commercial, they were being measured for suits in a nearby couturier when the music started. Quick as a flash, they scarpered out of the shop and bounded up the tallest building in the street to get a panoramic view of the action. The Fab Four’s hirsute appearance affected them as deeply as the music, which they danced to in the traditional arms-forward-bum-backwards style.

People often wonder why it took the police over 40 minutes to end the concert, which was causing major traffic jams as well as annoying several old farts in the vicinity. I can now clear up this mystery. When the Beatles started playing, a retired army colonel phoned the police to demand that they “stop that bloody din” coming from the roof of a nearby building. He put his phone receiver outside his window so the duty sergeant could hear it for himself, and this witless Plod, being no aficionado of pop music, told a couple of fresh-faced constables to “get the Monkees off the roof”. This caused the hapless Bobbies to waste half an hour trying to evict the chimps from their vantage point (an impossible task given the comparative gymnastic abilities of humans and chimps). It took another phone call from the irate colonel to make the sergeant realise his error and redirect his troops to the Apple studios.

To be honest, I don’t blame Paul for preferring to hang out with rich people like himself. His fingers and toes got badly burned by Heather Millstone, who not only fleeced him for 30 million bucks but aired a lot of dirty linen that should have remained in the laundry basket. As we say in the jungle, if you swim with the crocodiles it might cost you an arm and a leg. 

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Wednesday, November 12, 2014

A spicy confession

Mel B, the Scary Spice Girl, has said she is no longer a lesbian:

“I was one of those for a few years but that was years ago,” she confessed on a chat show.

Call me an innocent ape, but I never knew she was ever “one of those”. Now that I do know, I don’t approve of her dismissing it as a bad habit she managed to kick. Being a lesbian is not like a fad for wearing Velcro underwear – there are serious issues to be pondered and important commitments to be made. The good lesbian is a pillar of her community, test-driving motorbikes and organising ladies’ bowling nights. If she is a famous diva, she should sing audacious songs to gee up the rank-and-file. The lesbian who only feathers her own nest is a freeloader at the party – the girl who eats all the cupcakes without helping to wash the dishes.

The ironic aspect of Miss Scary’s renunciation is that she was, by all accounts, a virtuoso in the Sapphic arts. Her debaucheries were astounding in their impudence and opportunism. A former playboy model called Luann Lee recalls how Mel followed her into a disabled toilet:

“I went into the handicapped stall because it’s bigger and I wanted to put my purse down and she just popped in with me. She said, ‘Do you mind?’ and came right in. She was a good kisser. Her lips are very soft and full and she has a tender touch. It was maybe a five-minute kiss and after that she started going for other areas.”

Would it be wrong to conclude from this that Miss Scary is a natural-born lesbian? I don’t claim to be an expert on such matters, but I can’t imagine a more flattering testimony.

The most startling revelation of all is that Miss Scary may have fondled her fellow Spice Girls. The precise nature of these intimacies has not been disclosed, although where lesbian acts are concerned, a little touching goes a long way. She did nevertheless claim to have kissed all four of them:

“Back in the day I had fun,” she told a goggle-eyed Howerd Stern. “I got my tongue pierced and I wanted to try out my tongue piercing and so I kissed them all.”

She did not say which of her bandmates was affected most deeply by her erotic advances. I would like to think she had the strongest designs on Miss Ginger, who would have surely reciprocated warmly. The thought of her dark limbs enwrapping Miss Ginger’s fleshy white body is a pleasing conjecture for primates of all species.

All in all, the record shows that Miss Scary was an enthusiastic dabbler in lesbian pursuits and took many positives from the experience. She should not have brushed off this important episode in her life as a youthful indiscretion. I would urge her to book an appointment with Ellen Degeneres to apologise and do penance. Even an ex-lesbian should sometimes be willing to eat humble pie.

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Wednesday, November 05, 2014

My momma done tol' me

Halle Berry says her mother told her to always wear a bra, even in bed. While it’s nice to hear of a mother giving her daughter sartorial advice, she shouldn’t have made it public. According to Halle, following this dictum has kept her breasts perky at the age of 48, which suggests it was a valuable trade secret, like an old family recipe for pumpkin pie. Now that the cat is out of the bag, women the world over will be keeping their boobs permanently encased in the hope of replicating the Berry bust. This is unlikely to increase the sum of human happiness.

Let us consider the issues arising. There are women, I believe, who take great pleasure in removing their chest cups after returning home from a hard day at the souk. What will become of them now? Will they unhappily conform to the new orthodoxy or live with the guilt of allowing their breasts to swing freely? This painful dilemma would not have arisen if Halle had kept her trap shut.

Then there are other women, like my friend Kola Boof, who believe that liberating the jahoobies from their unnatural confinement is a revolutionary act of self-empowerment. If her comradely sisters suddenly started wearing bras, the consequences would be dire. I have visions of her wandering from hamlet to hamlet with her hair unkempt and her breasts smeared with soot, wailing and cursing like a vengeful priestess. Only those with nerves of steel would be unperturbed by her prophecies of doom.

As for the menfolk, one imagines they would approve of the greater quantity of shapely bosoms on display, although constantly turning their heads might strain their necks. But the realisation would soon dawn that these delightfully-packaged dumplings would never be available to play with in their denuded state. This would make them feel like boys in a sweet shop fully of juicy bonbons whose brightly-coloured wrappers they weren’t allowed to remove. The frustration would be intense and might drive many of them mad.

After painting such a grim prognosis, I should lighten the gloom with some cheerier news. Cameron Diaz has announced that she would be happy to “strip completely” in a film role, as long as it was in good taste and befitted the script. Even those who have no wish to see her naked should appreciate her willingness to go the extra mile for her art and her public. It remains to be seen whether the movie moguls will find a tasteful part for her to display her tasty parts.

I reckon the best way of holding her to her word would be to offer her the female lead in a big screen version of the Adam and Eve story. The early part of the film would have all the nudity, with Cameron frolicking unashamedly in glistening pastures and cavorting energetically with the furry creatures of Paradise. There would also be nude scenes with Adam, where they innocently play the humpy-pumpy game God taught them for the purpose of begetting. The biggest headache might be finding a convincing snake.

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