Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Gaga gets hitched
So Lady Gaga is getting married. I don’t know anything about her fiancé, but I predict the marriage will fail if he possesses an iota of machismo. The merest morsel of manly pride must be crushed like a pomegranate seed if he’s going to succeed as Gaga’s official bed-warmer. That’s the way it has to be when the queen bee elopes with a drone. He should get into the habit of thinking and acting like a lesbian in a man’s body. If he does that, he might yet make a good fist of it.
Gaga herself is as happy as a lark, fluttering around the globe with a gooey smile on her face, like a fairy princess whose frog has just turned into a prince. When Taylor Swift tweeted a few wistful words about Gaga’s enviable predicament, the bride-to-be reassured her that “your prince charming will come”. She must be suffering from the giddy vapours to write such drivel.
Now I don’t deny there are real-life examples of a successful marriage between a show-business queen and a beta male. Some time ago I discussed the nuptials of Kate Winslet, who had pledged her troth to an oafish-looking swain called Ned Rocknroll. If anything he was an omega male, yet Kate recently praised him as the perfect husband:
“I have a wonderful man in my life who is so incredibly supportive that makes it possible for me to have those experiences,” she said.
The “experiences” she refers to were related to her movie career rather than any kind of kerfuffle in the marital bed. Be that as it may, the couple had their first child on 7th December 2013, a son whom they named “Bear Blaze”. No boy should have a father whose name is sillier than his own.
Maybe the secret of their blissful union is that everyone knows their place. Ned is so far down the pecking order that he doesn’t bother trying to compete with Kate, meekly accepting his role as concubine and comic sidekick. One can imagine him happily strumming his electric guitar in the playroom while Kate is in the lounge, discussing her next film with the moguls of Hollywood. It could actually be a similar type of relationship to the one Paris Hilton had with her pet chimpanzee.
Let’s hope Miley Cyrus learns from Kate’s experience. Her romance with Patrick Swarzenegger is currently on the rocks because he was photographed canoodling with a floozy. The blighter is now begging Miley to forgive him, but the episode should have taught her that he’ll never be a suitable consort. His famous name has given him the delusion that he’s someone of note, rather than a superficial young rake of no distinction whatever. He’ll constantly be trying to compete for the limelight if Miley accepts his suit.
Will another Ned Rocknroll come along to give Miley the unconditional service and succour she requires? If not, she may have to marry her butler.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
An on-line magazine has accused Madonna of “ruining everyone’s childhood” by publishing a cartoon of herself smooching Snow White. I’m just glad the seven dwarves didn’t get into the picture. Madonna should beat the rap on the legal technicality that it’s impossible to ruin the childhood of someone who is an adult. Once you have grown up, your childhood is either irretrievably spoiled or irreversibly coated in sugar candy. Short of getting into a time machine and chasing down your infant behind, Madonna is powerless to influence the matter.
She might have ruined the childhood of actual children, of course. But I suspect that most kids have other things on their mind, like inventing a text abbreviation for the word “bodacious”. Perhaps the Disney Corporation should interview Pinocchio to find out whether he’s developed a taste for crazy dyke action.
A potentially more serious charge about the cartoon kiss was made in the following tweet:
“Urgh Madonna! Snow White was supposed to be a 14 year old girl! Wrong just wrong!”
It’s a fair point, but wasn’t Snow White also kissed by a prince after the dwarves had exhibited her in a glass coffin? No one ever accused him of molesting an underage girl, even though she was in a coma and unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, the prince rubbed salt into the wound by marrying her shortly afterwards. There’s no point condemning Madonna for a peck on the lips if the girl is being ravished in a royal four-poster. In Snow White’s position I’d be grateful for the diversion.
It would interesting to carry out a survey of fathers with teenage daughters, asking them whether they’d prefer to have their child deflowered by Madonna or a moody young fellow with raging hormones. Madonna may like to present herself as daring and outrageous, but she’s pretty sentimental about girls of a similar age to her own daughter. My guess is that she’d execute the operation with extreme tenderness and sensitivity. Lesbian sex can be a beautiful thing if no one is trying to prove she can outdo a man.
You’ve got to be careful how you handle lesbians, though. The BBC has been accused of deliberately killing off female characters involved in same-sex relationships. I’ve not watched any of the TV shows in which this allegedly occurs, but I can understand the frustration of dedicated viewers. It’s like being told that oysters are off the menu just when you’ve acquired a taste for them.
The facts regarding the lesbian cull appear to be damning, but I’m not convinced that the BBC is responsible. Its culture has been lesbian-friendly ever since ladies’ tennis started to attract high ratings. It saddens me to say this, but I suspect that many young actresses do not want to be typecast as lesbian characters. They fear that once the public sees them in that way, they’ll never be offered a part where Zac Efron wraps his tail around their haunches. Isn’t that why Jodie Foster kept her Velcro in the closet until she was too old to play the love interest?
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
He lived long and prospered
Silly Trekkies have been bleating and tweeting at William Shatner for not going to Leonard Nimoy’s funeral. Beam them up to the Bozo Asteroid. Mr Shatner had a previous engagement at a charity fundraiser and sent his daughters to the funeral instead. It was a logical decision that Spock would have approved of. I’ve not seen the Shatner girls, but I bet they’re a pair of lookers who are in far better shape than their pop. Had I been Leonard Nimoy, I would have given them permission to snort my ashes until they got high.
Now if Captain Kirk had not attended Spock’s funeral, it would have been an unforgiveable snub. I lost count of the number of times that Spock saved Kirk’s bacon by keeping a cool head when the captain was chasing alien totty. Furthermore, a party animal like Kirk could only have outlived a celibate Vulcan if the latter had fallen in the line of duty. “To fear death is not logical,” Spock would have said, before embarking on a suicide mission to save the Enterprise from being flushed down a wormhole into cosmic oblivion. He would still have worn a space diaper, because no bladder in the universe is controlled by logic.
We should not forget that Spock was half human, of course. Spock’s mother was a schoolteacher from Wichita Falls with a thing for pointy-eared dudes. His Vulcan genes must have been dominant, though, because he could do all of their tricks, including the telepathic face-palm and the knockout neck-pinch. He also possessed superhuman strength, because I clearly remember him kicking Kirk’s ass when they got into a scuffle. I thought he was an even-money bet to successfully defend his honour against a female gorilla.
Did Spock ever show his human half? The only time I can remember him doing so was during his verbal jousts with Doctor McCoy. I don’t believe a full-blooded Vulcan would have allowed himself to be goaded by the doctor’s obvious trolling. Spock’s desire to have the last word and show McCoy up as an irrational Earthman had a distinctly human tinge to it. They never quite got to the stage of exchanging “Yo Mama” insults, but the spirit and attitude were very much the same.
One last fact we should remember about Spock, which reflects well on the late Mr Nimoy, was that quite a few ladies found him attractive. Not all them, by any means – it was the bookish type of woman who seemed most likely to find his angular eyebrows bewitching. Here is a comment I got on an ancient post from a blogging author and mother:
“As a child, I watched Star Trek and privately worshipped Spock. His detached air and beautifully articulated sentences captured my nerdy imagination; his pointy ears, intelligent face and unconventional good looks didn't hurt a bit either.”
Her confession amused me and made me wonder whether Spock’s aloof style could be turned into a seduction technique. It’s got to be better than moaning with your mouth full.
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
I wonder what became of the British inventor who made a giant metallic bottom to fart in the direction of France. I purposely ignored him when he first unveiled his creation to avoid giving publicity to his unneighbourly stunt. But now I can’t help wondering how his career has progressed since blowing one off at the French. Is he still weaponizing buttocks or did he sell his expertise to the whoopee cushion industry? You never know what someone who commits a notoriously vulgar act will end up doing. I believe the Maori who mooned at the Queen later prospered in dry goods.
It goes without saying that his prank was the height of folly. The first rule of effrontery is not to cause yourself greater inconvenience than the target of your scorn. It must have taken him months to construct that enormous arse and equip it with an effective delivery system. A device like that cannot be tested without making a big hullaballoo and who knows whether the French were even aware of his hostile emission? It would have been much easier to visit Paris and put a freshly-baked croissant in his trousers.
Now, we gorillas patched up our quarrels with the French a long time ago. I can honestly say that there’s no bad blood between us, although we still refuse to utter a word of their language, which no ape can speak without sounding like a sissy. When I toured France as a circus performer, I never failed to bring the house down by miming to a Charles Aznavour song. Whatever you say about the French, they are second to none in their appreciation of culture.
Perhaps I sympathise with the French because we gorillas are routinely and gratuitously insulted. I was dismayed to hear of an “academic” at St. Andrews University who pranced around the campus in a “gorilla suit”. He claims it was part of a research project to examine how people react to sightings of mythical creatures like “Bigfoot”. I hope a few discerning souls reacted by telling him to take off his obnoxious costume and stop mincing about like a halfwit.
He responded defensively when a newspaper accused him of wasting resources on a foolhardy escapade:
“It’s a serious study of people reporting things,” he whined. “All my work gets published in proper scientific journals.”
Does it indeed? Well, there’s a scientific journal in the Congo that would certainly accept his paper. It’s called the The Annals of Arsing About and its editor is a baboon.
I should not end without offering words of support to Madonna, who recently took a tumble while performing one of her songs. I never had a pratfall in my circus career, but a clown once fell on top of me, which was no less mortifying. People who found her mishap amusing are ignoble yahoos with no understanding of slapstick humour. As Laurel and Hardy brilliantly demonstrated, such incidents are only funny with the appropriate build-up and ritual.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
The British TV adventurer, Bear Grylls, has said he would order his son to eat him if they were stranded in the jungle without food. For this statement alone, he should be banished from the rainforests of the world and forced to live on milk and cookies for the rest of his life. A self-described “survival expert” who cannot find food in the jungle is a worthless humbug. We gorillas think of our habitat as a giant salad with plenty of protein snacks available if you don’t mind putting wriggly things in your mouth.
One has to pity his son, of course. I don’t know how old he is, but the thought that he might one day have to chomp on his daddy’s carcass must be giving him nightmares. I dare say it’s also ruined his appetite. A big-headed TV personality like Grylls no doubt believes that his flesh is tasty, but its flavour is probably no better than porcupine or wart hog. If he’s really serious about the whole thing, he ought to cut a piece of meat from his rump and try it himself. Don’t ask your child to eat something you wouldn’t touch yourself.
Now cannibalism is a dark dietary practice from man’s primeval past, so far removed from the experience of modern humans that one rarely finds it discussed. My friend Harry Hutton, the roving English teacher, explored the topic in one of his early blog posts by posing the following question:
You are trapped on a desert island with the Spice Girls. Food and rum have run out. You are weak from hunger and there is no hope of rescue. Which Spice Girl would you eat first? (Scroll down to vote).
As a vegetarian gorilla I abstained from the vote on principle. My favourite Spice Girl is Ginger, and she’s certainly the one I’d prefer to nibble if someone put a gun to my head. But eating her flesh would be out of the question. The problem with polls of this sort is that they involve a moral paradox. The Spice Girl you’d most like to bite should the last one you’d actually want to devour if you’re not utterly devoid of sentiment in confronting such dilemmas.
Scenes involving cannibalism are mercifully rare in the movies. The only example I can think of is the ending of a film called The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Helen Mirren’s lover has been murdered by the gangster who owns her, so she takes revenge by forcing him to eat her lover’s body, expertly cooked by a gourmet chef. As the gangster feels the vomit rising in his throat, she encourages him to sample the dish by saying:
“Try the cock – it’s a delicacy. And you know where it’s been.”
There should have been a warning before the closing credits that this remark was facetious and not based on culinary research. A man’s todger contains no muscle tissue and doesn’t even qualify as offal. You’d be a fool to try it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Charlie Sheen’s announcement that he intends to run for president has been greeted with hoots of delight in the Congo. The parrots are squawking, the crocodiles are grinning and the baboons are displaying their rumps.
“I wish I could vote for him,” said an excited chimpanzee. “It’s about time the humans had a leader who’s a bigger fool than the commander of the ape brigade.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I replied. “And he won’t be the leader of all the humans anyway, only the richest and fattest of them.”
There’s a long way to go before Charlie gets elected, of course. The road to the White House is snaky and strewn with potholes. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into his “truth and transparency” platform, but it remains to be seen whether it impresses the voters. I’m not a fan of transparency myself – if nothing is opaque, where is the shade to shelter from the sun? The only transparent creatures are jellyfish and the like, whose internal organs are visible to the naked eye. If humans could see their own insides it would give them the collywobbles.
As for truth, it sounds good in principle, but didn’t an American general say “You can’t handle the truth”? He had a good point. How many Americans know that Yellowstone Park is a giant volcano that could erupt at any minute, cooking their country in a pile of superheated ash? As the Bard once wrote, “Tis better to live in ignorance than piss your pants to no purpose”.
Now, I’m not saying that Charlie would be a bad president – high-minded campaign slogans can quickly be shelved after the battle is won. Yet he must be stopped for one overwhelming reason: his election would further delay the historical necessity of a lady president. My ears are still burning from Gloria Steinem’s bitter remarks after Hillary lost the nomination to Obama. Surely no one in America wants to hear that again.
Is Mrs Clinton girding her luscious loins for another shot at the top job? I confess it’s very difficult for a gorilla like me to read her body language. Although I’d be happy for Hillary to win, I don’t think she would beat Charlie. A Washington insider has no chance against a Hollywood pro – Ronald Reagan proved that. Charlie could only be defeated by a woman who’s a bigger exhibitionist than he is.
You can probably guess the candidate I have in mind. She recently displayed her talent for political theatre by exposing her butt cheeks at the Grammy Awards:
"I wasn't mooning, I just lifted my dress up,” she explained. “Mooning is like naked butt. Everyone's seen my naked butt.”
Does anyone doubt that Madonna’s version of “truth and transparency” would kick Charlie’s campaign into the quicksand? It would also breathe new life into the American system of representative government. No country can call itself a true democracy until the people have seen their leader’s naked butt.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, sent me a video which was made to raise money for a worthy charity. Apparently it earns a few pennies every time someone views it.
“If you pass it on to ten other bloggers, who each pass it on to ten more, it will soon get millions of hits,” he explained.
His calculations may be inaccurate, but I’m happy to get the ball rolling. The greatest landslide on Earth could be triggered by a dung beetle kicking some poo downhill.
The video begins with an earnest male college student asking random women whether they will raise money for charity by riding a “Sybian”. This contraption is a vibrating saddle designed for the purpose of pleasuring a lady’s nubbin. (If you already knew what it was, I take off my imaginary hat to you – I only found out after watching the video.)
It would be wrong to suggest that the women who agreed to mount the machine should be celebrated in the annals of hoochiedom. They remained fully clothed and seemed genuinely surprised that the device was so effective at stimulating their nether regions.
“I hope my boyfriend doesn’t see this!” gasped one young belle. “I may not need to have a date tonight,” quipped another.
All but one of them jumped off the Sybian before it could shift the San Andreas fault. Most of them laughed in embarrassment as they did so, which I thought was a sweet and ladylike response. The one woman who permitted her pantyworks to explode made the on-lookers feel like unwilling participants in a peep show.
Be that as it may, I consider the video to be first-rate entertainment. Far superior, to be sure, than the atrocious Fifty Shades of Grey that will soon be appearing in a cinema near you.
“I’d like to wipe the movie poster on my butthole and call it ‘Fifty Shades of Brown’!” exclaimed one disgusted film buff.
The actress who plays the female lead has described the elaborate preparations she made for the part:
“I was going to be naked, so I wanted to look good,” explained 25-year-old Dakota Johnson. “I did a lot of working out and had more waxing than any woman should have.”
A crash program of yoga would have been more helpful for a role which involves getting tied up in a variety of positions. Smooth skin is no substitute for supple limbs when you’re being toyed with by a fiend who likes to immobilise his victims before pouncing. Maybe Mr Grey was a spider in a previous life – it would explain why “I don’t do romance” was one of the brilliant lines he used to seduce women. Spiders never do romance, but they’re very adept at preparing their partners for the kill.
Where does Miss Johnson’s career go from here? A sensitive drama about a couple who make love in a straitjacket? An erotic thriller about a woman tied to a railway line? If I were her agent I’d advise her to get on a Sybian.