Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Pro bono work

No words of praise are high enough for Ms Charlotte Rose, the English call girl who gave a man with a prosthetic penis his first sexual experience. The beneficiary of her magnanimous gesture was Mr Mo Abad, a 44-year-old security guard who tragically lost his appendage in a childhood accident. After years of frustration and a failed marriage, he finally received an 8-inch replacement made from skin grafts and inflatable tubes. Ms Rose generously waived her hourly fee of 160 pounds sterling for the honour of hosting its inaugural launch.

As well as providing her services gratis, she spent a few days counselling Mr Abad before getting down to business. Far from making him impatient, he greatly appreciated her advice:

"I’m a learner – I’ve got L-plates,” he explained. “I didn’t want to go in all guns blazing and make an idiot of myself.”

When the big moment arrived, the mission got off to a tentative start:

“When Charlotte saw it for the first time, she was silent and I was a bit worried,” recalled Mr Abad.

Yet these early doubts proved to be unfounded, and the mission ended with the flag firmly planted in the lunar surface:

“After it was over, I lay there with a big smile on my face,” said Mr Abad.

Now, the bionic penis is powered by compressed air. The surgeons inserted an ingenious “boner button” in Mr Abad’s nut-sack, which activates a pump that makes the organ expand to its full length. What isn’t clear is how is how it returns to its flaccid condition after use. Allowing it to deflate like a punctured tyre would be one possibility, but then it would make a noise like a hissing snake, which many women would find unnerving in a post-coital situation.

In an ideal world, one would interview Ms Rose and cajole her to spill the beans. However, a video of a recent lecture she gave shows her to be a social reformer and political activist. This is not the kind of woman who would allow herself to be interrogated without due process.

When I related this story to the manager of the safari camp, Ms Rose’s benevolence made little impression on him:

“What’s the point having a superdick if you can’t feel a thing?” he asked. “He should have charged her for the pleasure it gave her and the publicity she got. She must be the first woman in history who won fame for getting fucked by a dildo.”

“Clearly, there are men for whom the blessings of sexual congress are not limited to the sensations they feel in their todgers,” I replied. “And you should show more respect for Ms Rose, who had no way of predicting how her body would react to that pumped-up phallus. Why don’t you watch her video to get a more rounded picture of the woman?”

“Pshaw!” scoffed the manager. “I’d rather watch a hippo fart.”

“Yes, I can see why you’d find that more illuminating,” I replied.

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Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Nicked in the bud

To my knowledge, there are no gorillas who live in Manchester, a city in north-west England. I once visited the place in my circus days. Its grey climate and chilly breezes made me muse on philosophical questions such as ‘The Purpose of Existence’ and ‘The Problem of Free Willies’. Rather than searching for answers like a human, I put on a pair of thermal underpants. This is why news stories from Manchester put me on edge, like an elephant who can sense the presence of a snake.

The latest incident of note from that benighted city concerns a 61-year-old academic who has been forced out of his job. Professor Nicholas Goddard, known as ‘Old Nick’ in the adult entertainment industry, was exposed as a former porn star when one of his students saw him in an X-rated film.

“I didn’t get paid much for my movie work, but they did cover travel expenses,” explained Professor Goddard. “I stopped acting when it all became too much.”

The “acting” he did involved having sex with numerous women while wearing nothing but a gold watch. I’m not surprised it became too much for him. I couldn’t imagine copulating with countless females with an expensive timepiece on my wrist. I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what it was rubbing against.

When his past became public knowledge, the university launched an investigation and subsequently issued the following statement:

“Professor Nick Goddard has resigned from his position at the university with effect from April 1, 2016. His teaching and supervision duties will be undertaken by other colleagues between now and April 1, 2016.”

I don’t know why they chose April Fool’s Day. Are they implying that the professor was a fool? Or do they think he made a fool of the university? If you ask me, the biggest fools are his students. I bet they were sniggering like chipmunks during Professor Goddard’s lectures, making it impossible for him to continue. So now they will be taught by unprepared tutors. If they get low grades, they have no one to blame but themselves.

The biggest villain, of course, is the student who snitched on Old Nick. In the first place, he should have been studying rather than watching porn films. In the second place, he should have kept the information to himself instead of squawking like a parrot. I hope his career prospects will now be limited to lowly occupations such as tabloid journalism.

I’m glad to say that a few honourable Mancunians have spoken out in Professor Goddard’s defence:

“It’s nothing to do with his job or the university,” declared Nicola Munro. “There is no need to investigate him unless he has acted inappropriately. Back off is what I say!”

She speaks with the courage of a tigress defending her kill. Let’s hope the university takes heed of her words and re-employs the good professor. If he can’t continue in Chemical Engineering, they could at least give him a chair in Erotic Studies.

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Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Virtually arousing

I wonder if virtual reality porn is going to be the next big thing for humans who hanker after hi-tech gadgets. The pastime involves putting on a big fat pair of goggles and watching videos stored in the memory. Apparently, the naked women don’t stay on a screen for you to admire at a distance, but walk right up to you, pouting and jiggling their jahoobies. I dare say there are naked men too for those who prefer beefcake and sausage. The first users of this gismo have been lavish in their praise:

“We tried virtual sex for the first time and it feels like we just lost our virginity again!” they exclaimed.

This looks like an impressive endorsement, but a comment from a more reflective guinea pig indicates the illusion was less than perfect:

“The scenes feature serious visual depth and three-dimensionality. My mind told me to reach out and touch, but my invisible arms were grabbing nothing but air.”

Not being able to feel the goodies is surely a major deficiency. And you can’t taste them either, unless you’re sucking on a rubber teat flavoured with essence of booby.

Call me a suspicious ape, but I don’t trust these early reviews. How do we know they weren’t sponsored by the manufacturer? Normally, I would have asked the manager of the safari camp for his opinion, but he is currently convalescing from a vasectomy operation and in no mood for such experiments. So I phoned my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod and asked him to give it a try.

“If I used that device at home my wife would hammer my kneecaps with a rolling pin!” he protested.

“So why not use it outside the house?” I suggested.

“You mean in the street, where people could see the stiffy in my trousers?” he asked. “That might get me arrested. And wearing those goggles would allow any old pervert to walk right up and grope me. The really scary thing is that I might enjoy it.”

I had to admit these were valid objections, so I’ll just have to wait for an impartial review from a blogger I trust. Until then I shall reserve judgment, like a justice of the higher appellate court. But that won’t stop me discussing the broader implications, like a prophet of the masonic temple.

Virtually reality porn will have its human enthusiasts, but it’s not a perfect substitute for the real thing. Nor can it be enjoyed in a public place with making the participator looked like an utter nincompoop. Anyone so foolhardy should expect to have his picture taken by on-lookers while someone held a sign above his head with the word “pillock” written on it.

Hence it would most likely become a private bedroom pursuit, done as an aid to self-stimulation. The main cause for concern is that many humans might become completely dependent on it, like the ‘orgasmatron’ in the Woody Allen movie. If you can’t get yourself off without the help of a machine, you might as well marry a robot.

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Wednesday, March 09, 2016

Bieber's vertical hotline

An email correspondent informs me that Justin Bieber has claimed God spoke to him.

“Why haven’t you commented on this?” asks the e-mailer.

The short answer is that I’m a busy ape who doesn’t have time to monitor every crackpot assertion from Master Bieber’s mouth. I don’t pay attention to him unless he’s created some kind of commotion that has ruffled the eyebrows of the human masses. Furthermore, there’s nothing very clever about getting a voicemail from God – humans have been doing that for the past 3,000 years and it’s highly unlikely that Bieber was the chosen recipient for any new divine pronouncements.

Having already wasted time responding to the email, I thought I might as well investigate what kind of balderdash Bieber has been babbling to provoke such a missive. I managed to track down this news report and found its contents remarkably unedifying. At no stage does Bieber reveal what God said to him – he merely implies he got some kind of advice to put his affairs in order:

“I'm not super religious or anything but I just heard a voice and was like: You know what? I'm going to change my life around. I'm going to switch up some things and put some stuff together. I called my manager Scooter and said: We need to fix it.”

So speaketh the Bieb. I think we can safely say that the noise in his brain was not generated by any power higher than static electricity. The experience clearly spooked him sufficiently to consider turning over a new leaf, which will hopefully mean that his private parts are now kept hidden from public view. May the Lord make us truly grateful for that.

My foray into one line of inquiry led me, as often happens, down other avenues. It seems that Britney Spears has been expressing sympathy for Bieber while attempting to resurrect her own career:

“Whoever is in the spotlight, people are quick to judge,” she remarked. “You know, Justin Bieber, he's huge, and he experiences that. It's just the way the world works, unfortunately.”

I hope Bieber is not too much of a spoiled brat to thank Britney for her words of support, and he shouldn’t let her description of him as “huge” go to his head. David Cassidy used to be huge and look at him now: a burned-out poodlefaker of a man who sings sentimental ballads to rich old ladies. The biggest banana can shrink to the size of a cocktail sausage.

Britney is a pretty big banana herself, of course, and the manager of the safari camp recently referred to her as a “milf”. I’m not sure what that means, but I suspect it has something to do with the fleshiness of her thighs. Be that as it many, Bieber should ask her out on a date if he has any sense. A wayward pup like him needs a big sister type who’ll give his nose a tweak if he starts behaving like an ass.

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Wednesday, March 02, 2016

Stroke of luck

A 16-year-old Russian boy has won a prize to live with a porn actress for a month. Ruslan Schedrin earned this unusual – and some would say extravagant – reward for being visitor number 100,000 on a video games website. As one would expect, he is elated about his good fortune:

“I was so happy," he said. "I saw her and I liked everything. She has got good sizes... I am looking forward to our meeting so much. Everything is boiling inside me.”

Let’s hope his boiling innards don’t evaporate before she lays hands on him. His enthusiasm for this exhilarating prospect is not shared by his mother:

“I am shocked!” she declared. “I have not seen the girl, but my son must study.”

Perhaps Ruslin should promise his mother to study very hard when he is being taught how to unhook a bra strap. She’d be amazed by how much a boy can learn from a one-month apprenticeship.

Now the porn actress, whose name is Ekaterina Makarova, will be shacking up with her eager pupil in a Moscow hotel. The good news for Ruslan is that she seems to have taken a shine to him. Nevertheless, she is curiously coy about whether they will be engaging in deeds of a steamy and sticky nature:

“It’s not supposed, but life is life,” she remarked mysteriously. “It is a usual thing when inexperienced boys are looking for more experienced girlfriends. I don't know. At least we'll be friends – I liked him in the photographs.”

Reading between the lines, I think she realises how hugely disappointed Ruslan would be if she denied him the goodies in her candy box. Perhaps she is trying to keep the itinerary ambiguous to protect the boy’s reputation when he finally emerges from her lair. Her own reputation, of course, has no need of protection.

My main concern for the boy is that the dish may taste better in the anticipation than in the eating. The job of a porn actress is to give pleasure to the voyeur, not the witless buffoon who explores her orifices. Even if he does initially get a kick out of having his juices milked, the novelty is bound to wear off after a month. It may turn out to be the kind of unfulfilling experience that propels him towards self-stimulation with a noose around his neck.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he didn’t try to hide his resentment:

“No 16-year-old boy deserves to be that lucky,” he said. “When I was 16, I had to beg fat college girls to let me feel them up.”

“And I’m sure you are a better man for it!” I exclaimed. “Is it not more praiseworthy to toil honestly for the right to squeeze the boobies of a deliciously plump college girl than be presented with a jaded porn star because of a lucky click on your computer?”

He rubbed his face and sighed, but I believe my words brought him comfort.

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