Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Sexiest woman on the planet
The pop singer Shakira has announced that her fellow pop singer Rihanna is “the sexiest woman on the planet”. She formulated this opinion after spending time with Rihanna on a musical collaboration, which she described as “utopia”. Unfortunately, she made no mention of any Sapphic encounter that would have boosted the credibility of her claim. My suspicion is that Shakira is a bi-curious woman who lacks the nerve to do any serious carpet-munching. Shame on her for being such a poseur and fraud.
According to the Roman church, the sexiest woman alive is a she-devil, although she’s not technically “on the planet” until she gets sent up from Hell. Her mission on Earth is to obtain the soul of an arrogant man – typically some old codger of a professor who hasn’t got laid for the past 20 years. Wrongly believing that his brain is too big for any woman to give him the horn, he invites the succubus into his study and listens to her talk dirty in iambic pentameter. This gives him the shakes and causes him to pant heavily. Pretty soon, he is pricking his forearm with a quill and signing his name in blood on a parchment, giving his soul to the Devil in return for unlimited nuzzling rights.
The Catholic Church, however, cannot be trusted on such matters. It has a vested interest in making people believe that sex is satanic, so they confess all their sins to a masturbating priest. I have never met a she-devil (other than in my dreams), but I doubt they’re particularly sexy, what with the lack of cosmetics and bathing facilities in Hell. How would they wash their hair? Would they even have hair when it’s constantly getting singed? These are the questions that the church wants to sweep under the carpet.
A more reliable source of information about the Devil and his minions is the modern Satanist movement. The New York Satanic Temple has recently unveiled the design of a statue of Satan it wants to place outside the Oklahoma state capitol building. They envisage a seven-foot effigy of their cloven-hoofed Lord sitting on a throne:
“The statue will serve as a beacon calling for compassion and empathy among all living creatures,” said temple spokesman Lucien Greaves. “It will also have a functional purpose as a chair where people of all ages may sit on the lap of Satan for inspiration and contemplation.”
They make it sound quite appealing, but I have a couple of queries. The first issue is plagiarism. Isn’t their proposed statue a rip-off of the one in the Lincoln Memorial? No one’s going to hold Satan in awe if he reminds them of Abraham Lincoln, whom not even Colonel Sanders and the good ol’ boys thought was a good role model for the Prince of Darkness. The other puzzling point is why Satanists in New York want to erect a statue in Oklahoma, a cowboy state full of possums and raccoons. There must be better places for it than that.
Labels: Colonel Sanders, Rihanna, Sapphic, Satanism, Shakira
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Beard of Britain
I’ve been busy making preparations for Richard Branson’s visit to the Congo. He’ll obviously get red carpet treatment at the airport with handshakes from local dignitaries and smooches from their wives. I hope he remembers to squeeze their buns when they embrace him (a local custom) – a peck on the cheek should do for the wives. I’ve arranged an elephant fanfare by bribing the local herd with a sack of chick peas from the safari camp. Fingers crossed that the 10-trumpet salute won’t be emitted from their backsides, leading to embarrassing pictures of the guest of honour screwing up his nose.
If you’ve been following the news, you’ll know that Sir Richard is coming to our part of the world to hand over five baby gorillas. The soft-hearted plutocrat bought them from a zoo to save them from a life of arse-scratching in front of countless gawking humans. Having been asked to find new homes for the little apelings, I decided to place them with respectable families in Gabon. Frankly, the female gorillas in our locality aren’t as maternal as they used to be – a lot of them hire female chimps as nannies so they can enjoy hectic social lives with weekend trips to the nut orchards and gibbon ranches.
Richard and I go back a long way. We met after he saw me perform in the circus many moons ago. I don’t want you to think he got special treatment. No Sir, he had to queue up and wait his turn like the rest of my fans. As most of them were women he was actually in his element, flashing his famous grin and flirting like a gigolo. He even signed a few autographs himself, the cheeky blighter! When we finally got to exchange words he was amazingly affable and polite, so I invited him to my trailer for a glass of mango juice. (He obviously knew it wasn’t a gay thing – very few gorillas are interested in man-love).
So we met a little later and he told me of his plans to start a new airline. As his business interests were then limited to music and contraceptives, I found this mildly intriguing. He explained that Virgin Atlantic would be a new passenger-friendly carrier with innovative on-flight services and customer-participation in all facets of the journey. He said that he’d travel on the planes himself so he could experience things from the punter’s point of view and listen to their gripes. I must admit being hugely impressed by this attitude. You couldn’t have imagined Lord Wankface of British Airways slumming it with the cabin livestock and walking down the aisle for a slash.
“Richard,” I said, “it sounds like a brilliant idea, but I wouldn’t overdo the customer-participation aspect. People don’t really want to make important decisions when they’re 30,000 feet above sea level. Let the passengers choose what film to watch and leave the flying and the navigation to the pilot. Don’t forget that you’re Virgin by nature as well as by name.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah GB, you’re right,” he agreed. “You’ve got to delegate duties in an aeroplane, it’s not like piloting a hot-air balloon.”
It was odd that he mentioned balloons, but I chose to let it pass.
Now I’m aware that a lot of people deride Richard as a show-off and self-publicist, needlessly mocking his beard for good measure. That’s because they haven’t the faintest idea of what it’s like to be an over-achiever. Imagine having fulfilled all your dreams before the age of 40 – more money than the Sultan of Brunei; more beautiful bedmates than you can remember under hypnosis; a face as recognisable as Paris Hilton’s and almost as pretty. Success on that scale would destroy your sense of mission. That’s why Richard continually has to prove himself by taking on new challenges, like preventing irreversible climate change and persuading Mugabe to throw in the towel. He may not succeed, but who else would be tackling these pressing problems if he ignored them?
Respect the man who aims high, for the man who aims low is sniffing chicken-shit. (Colonel Sanders).
If you’ve been following the news, you’ll know that Sir Richard is coming to our part of the world to hand over five baby gorillas. The soft-hearted plutocrat bought them from a zoo to save them from a life of arse-scratching in front of countless gawking humans. Having been asked to find new homes for the little apelings, I decided to place them with respectable families in Gabon. Frankly, the female gorillas in our locality aren’t as maternal as they used to be – a lot of them hire female chimps as nannies so they can enjoy hectic social lives with weekend trips to the nut orchards and gibbon ranches.
Richard and I go back a long way. We met after he saw me perform in the circus many moons ago. I don’t want you to think he got special treatment. No Sir, he had to queue up and wait his turn like the rest of my fans. As most of them were women he was actually in his element, flashing his famous grin and flirting like a gigolo. He even signed a few autographs himself, the cheeky blighter! When we finally got to exchange words he was amazingly affable and polite, so I invited him to my trailer for a glass of mango juice. (He obviously knew it wasn’t a gay thing – very few gorillas are interested in man-love).
So we met a little later and he told me of his plans to start a new airline. As his business interests were then limited to music and contraceptives, I found this mildly intriguing. He explained that Virgin Atlantic would be a new passenger-friendly carrier with innovative on-flight services and customer-participation in all facets of the journey. He said that he’d travel on the planes himself so he could experience things from the punter’s point of view and listen to their gripes. I must admit being hugely impressed by this attitude. You couldn’t have imagined Lord Wankface of British Airways slumming it with the cabin livestock and walking down the aisle for a slash.
“Richard,” I said, “it sounds like a brilliant idea, but I wouldn’t overdo the customer-participation aspect. People don’t really want to make important decisions when they’re 30,000 feet above sea level. Let the passengers choose what film to watch and leave the flying and the navigation to the pilot. Don’t forget that you’re Virgin by nature as well as by name.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah GB, you’re right,” he agreed. “You’ve got to delegate duties in an aeroplane, it’s not like piloting a hot-air balloon.”
It was odd that he mentioned balloons, but I chose to let it pass.
Now I’m aware that a lot of people deride Richard as a show-off and self-publicist, needlessly mocking his beard for good measure. That’s because they haven’t the faintest idea of what it’s like to be an over-achiever. Imagine having fulfilled all your dreams before the age of 40 – more money than the Sultan of Brunei; more beautiful bedmates than you can remember under hypnosis; a face as recognisable as Paris Hilton’s and almost as pretty. Success on that scale would destroy your sense of mission. That’s why Richard continually has to prove himself by taking on new challenges, like preventing irreversible climate change and persuading Mugabe to throw in the towel. He may not succeed, but who else would be tackling these pressing problems if he ignored them?
Respect the man who aims high, for the man who aims low is sniffing chicken-shit. (Colonel Sanders).
Labels: Colonel Sanders, Lord Wankface, Richard Branson, Virgin Atlantic
