Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Once a week

A psychologist is claiming that human couples are happiest when they have sex once a week.

“It’s not necessary to have sex as frequently as possible,” explained Amy Muise of Toronto Mississauga University.

Dr Muise didn’t say how often she does it, but her picture indicates she might have to wear a chastity belt to remain celibate for six days out of seven. Maybe her partner is a Zen master with infinite powers of self-restraint.

Now, humans are the only primates who aren’t sure how much sex they should be having. The other apes just fill their boots whenever the females are in season. “Make hay while the sun shines and salad during the rainy season” is a famous gorilla proverb. What makes humans different is that their mating activities are more often recreational than procreational, like a game of tiddlywinks or hide-and-seek. However enjoyable such pastimes are, they inevitably get tiresome and repetitive if you engage in them too frequently.

The ignoble fate suffered by certain rock stars, found dead in their hotel rooms with ball-gags in their mouths, is distastefully relevant to this discussion. Why do these deranged cokeheads wank themselves to death in bizarre strangulation episodes? The only explanation is that excessive debauchery with eager groupies has made conventional copulation too boring for them.

The life of the sex maniac is nasty and brutish. The Marquis de Sade developed a passion for dildos, ordering his wife to bring custom-made appliances to his prison cell. A historian writes:

Incited by his usual mania for numbers, Sade obsessively recorded the number of “introductions” (by which he seems to mean sodomitic masturbations, with or without orgasms) he enjoyed with the help of his devices. It is hard to know how seriously this mathematical exercise should be taken. By December 1st, 1780, only two and a half years after his return to Vincennes, he had recorded 6,536.

It’s difficult to know what to say about such behaviour. Is there any doubt that the silly old pervert would have led a more contented life if he hadn’t been so obsessed about raping his butt? If you let something pleasurable become an addiction, the pleasure turns into something manic and desperate.

I’m not convinced, however, that once a week is ideal for all humans. My old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod used to get antsy if he hadn’t had sex for a week, sometimes biting pieces of wood in frustration. And when he did eventually get laid, the women were often dissatisfied by the speedy service he rendered. He had to force himself to think about Latin irregular verbs to keep himself going for longer.

So Dr Amy Muise has the right idea, but her advice is overly prescriptive. It’s easy to draw erroneous conclusions by taking the average of a large sample. She should make her data public so we can give it a thorough examination. There must be many examples of happy couples having crazy monkey sex every day.

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Wednesday, November 18, 2015

New York dash

I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about the news that Al Pacino was seen sprinting through a street in Manhattan after a fan asked him for an autograph. On the plus side, a 75-year-old man who can show a clean pair of heels to stray autograph hunters must have the heart and lungs of an impala. But on the minus side, it is somewhat deflating to see the actor who played Michael Corleone run like a hare when confronted by a fellow holding a pen and notebook. Maybe he had a flashback of Don Corleone telling a business associate that either his signature or his brains would be on the contract.

The manager of the safari camp once asked me if any of the characters in The Godfather would have been at home in my community.

“Didn’t Luca Brasi remind you of a gorilla?” he said in an attempt to rile me.

“He was more like a hippopotamus who got hunted down by a pack of hyenas,” I replied. “Sonny Corleone did remind me of a baboon, though.”

“I never knew baboons had sex standing up,” smirked the manager.

“Baboons will try most things,” I remarked.

In truth, we apes could never set up an organisation like the Mafia. The code of omertà would impossible in the jungle, where the parrots overhear everything. As soon as we agreed to bump off some baboon, the news would flash through the neighbourhood in an instant.

Now I don’t deny The Godfather was a great film, but there are aspects of the plot that didn’t quite add up for me. Why, for example, was Michael Corleone so keen to marry the woman played by Diane Keaton? She wasn’t Sicilian and clearly showed signs of being the whiney, moralising type who would make a fuss whenever someone got shot in the head. Nor was she a follower of the popish religion, which allowed her to terminate a pregnancy to the great annoyance of her husband. Couldn’t Michael have foreseen all these problems? When he was a fugitive in Sicily, he had the good sense to marry a local girl who spoke no English and didn’t ask questions about the family business. But unfortunately she was killed by a car bomb intended for her husband. It was the saddest scene in the movie and I confess I cried like a baby.

You see, that’s the problem with these gangster movies. There’s never a happy ending and you leave the cinema feeling as if you’ve just been to a funeral. A few years after The Godfather, Pacino played a Cuban hoodlum called Tony Montana in a film called Scarface. The only light moment in the movie occurred when Tony’s sidekick explained how he could seduce American girls by wiggling his tongue.

“Oh, look at that f***king thing it looks like a lizard!” exclaimed Tony. “Like a bug coming out of your mouth!”

It was a brilliant line which Pacino should remember the next time he is pestered by autograph hunters.

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Wednesday, November 11, 2015


I overheard some tourists on safari discussing the new James Bond movie.

“Have you seen it?” they asked me.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“We better stop talking about it so we don’t spoil it for you.”

“How very considerate of you,” I said. “But when it finally appears in the Congo I will have forgotten everything you say, so don’t hold your tongues on my account.”

The manager of the safari camp, who lacks the patience of a gorilla, will shortly be visiting London with his wife so he can watch it at a West End cinema. I have advised him to take his cattle prod with him.

The question on the lips of every Bond buff is whether Daniel Craig has completed his stint in the role. The producer, Ms Broccoli, has muddied the waters by claiming she wants to hang on to him for as long as possible. This is just luvvie talk. Speaking as Danny’s confidante and mentor, I know for a fact that his 007 days are over. Time is the pitiless eroder of all flesh, and Danny is far too sensitive about his appearance to risk another Bond love scene.

“What am I going to do about my moobs?” he asked me the last time we spoke on the phone.

“Cover them up, Danny,” I answered. “If the sweatshirt doesn’t work, try the male brassiere.”

There’s been a lot of idle speculation about who the next Bond will be, with some suggesting he should be gay or black. The most radical idea of all is to make him a woman. And by “woman”, I mean a human born with two X chromosomes rather than a man who’s had his dangly bits cut off. The idea sounds ludicrous on the face of it, but many great advances in art were ridiculed and belittled when they first appeared. Think of the Spaghetti Western, the garden gnome and the merkin.

My own view is that a female Bond might just work, but she would have to be a lesbian. And not just your typical slick-tongued harridan with hairy armpits, but a dyke so delicious that even heterosexual women would find her irresistible. You can’t have a Bond film without dolly birds being seduced, with or without the assistance of a strap-on.

A shortlist of actresses to play Jessica Bond is available in this website, but none of the candidates looks spunky enough to me. They’re all too girly to pistol-whip the bad guys and remove the panties of the bad girls with their teeth.

I would give the part to Amanda Donohoe, the English actress who performed the first lesbian kiss for a prime-time American audience in L.A. Law. Amanda is not a lesbian in real life, but nor is she the kind of lady who lies on her back and waits for the man to do his thing. If she got the part, we’d quickly forget the days that 007 was packing anything more than a Walther PKK in his trousers.

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Wednesday, November 04, 2015

Million dollar dick

I got an email from a cheeky fool asking me whether I owned shares in the sex-toy company that offered Justin Bieber a million dollars for the right to replicate his penis.

“You cheeky fool!” I wrote in reply. “I have invested a small portion of my capital in a respectable manufacturer of adult leisure products that would never dream of acquiring the copyright to Bieber’s appendage. Mind your own business.”

The silly idea of making an effigy of Bieber’s willy arose after nude photographs of him were taken when he was on vacation. Bieber claims the pictures were taken without his consent, causing him to feel super violated when they surfaced on the internet. This may be so, but wasn’t he aware that the paparazzi would be lurking in the popular holiday resort where he chose to prance around butt naked?

My ape intuition informs me that this narcissistic young man subconsciously wants people to admire his penis. If so, he is likely to be disappointed. Although I have not scrutinised the pictures myself, and would spare myself the indignity of doing so, I found a number of comments about the organ in question on a popular website. Here is a selection of them:

“I thought his penis was actually a bit uglier than usual, with what appeared to be a hack-job of a circumcision.”

“I thought it was one of those pig ear rawhide chews. Ever see what a lab does to that?”

“My vagina just shrivelled up, fell off and blew away like a tumbleweed.”

Call me a sceptical ape, but I don’t believe Bieber’s phallus has any commercial value. Who really wants a replica of that thing? It’s not the sort of artefact you can put on the mantelpiece for your guests to admire. The demented groupies who might acquire one for personal use would find the experience less than fulfilling. The standard-issue dildo is a computer-modelled product, precisely shaped for maximum comfort and efficiency. Bieber’s bumpy little sausage would not give comparable service and the novelty would soon wear off.

If you ask me, the million dollar offer is a publicity stunt instigated by a small fry in the sex-toy industry to advertise its brand name. Why else would they have made their offer public instead of discreetly asking Bieber to stick his dick in a carton of resin, something he might have done for free to prove what a badass stud he was? They don’t have the dough and wouldn’t part with it if they did.

My observation of human society leads me to believe that when anyone offers a million dollars for anything it’s probably a hoax. The figure is too round for a real business deal and is obviously chosen to impress the impoverished masses. I personally wouldn’t accept a million dollars to do anything more onerous than peel a bunch of bananas. If anyone wants me to climb the Empire State Building, my price is $3.68 million plus expenses. 

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Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Doing the decent thing

Would you believe that Playboy magazine has decided to stop displaying pictures of naked women? Some people might say it’s the passing of an era. The manager of the safari camp thinks it’s the dawn of a new dark age.

“It’s not the end of the world,” I said on seeing his grim face. “You’ll still be able to download nudie pics from the internet.”

“That’s not the point,” he replied glumly. “Putting the clothes back on naked women is like turning the clock back. How would you like it if tourists went back to thinking gorillas were big hairy monsters?”

“Well it might stop them asking for my autograph,” I remarked.

I personally think it’s a positive step for Playboy. It will now be possible for men who enjoy reading its articles to subscribe to the magazine without being thought of as compulsive oglers of tit-and-bum. Dentists will be able to put copies of Playboy in their waiting rooms. Fashionistas will be able to admire the stylish garments of fully-clothed women. Wankers will have to fantasize about undressing these women instead of getting it all on a plate. There’s no doubt these developments are an advance for human civilisation.

Loyal readers of this blog will know that I’ve written uncomplimentary things about Hef in the past, so it’s nice to pat the old codger on the back for a change. The decision was actually made by Scott Flanders, Playboy’s chief executive, who made the following observation:

“You're now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free. And so it's just passé at this juncture.”

Hef gave it his blessing at a board meeting. In the spirit of the new Playboy, let’s hope he will now keep his own clothes on in the mansion. He will still need a nurse to undress and bathe him, of course, but there’s no need for the playmates to witness these repulsive and macabre events.

Lest anyone should accuse me of being a prude, let me emphasize that disrobing can be an admirable deed in the right context. Consider the case of Inés Estévez, a 50-year-old Argentinian actress who was recently the victim of insulting remarks because of a somewhat revealing blouse she wore at a public event.

“20 years ago, I would have killed for that, but now I wouldn't even look at them,” wrote one anonymous cyber-bully in reference to her bosom.

Miss Estévez responded to these contemptible barbs by issuing the following statement:

“For your hunger for destructive critique, you will see [on my Facebook page] a recent photo of my breasts without silicone or photo-shopping. And yes, I'm proud of them.”

In the circumstances, I considered it appropriate to accept her invitation to view the items in question. Having done so, I have no hesitation in affirming that her jahoobies are superb for a woman of 50 (or any other age). There’s no point staring at breasts unless you can link it to some higher noble purpose.

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Wednesday, October 21, 2015

She said she said

Yoko Ono has revealed that John Lennon wanted to sleep with men but was too inhibited to explore his queer side:

“John and I had a big talk about it, saying, basically, all of us must be bisexual,” she recalled. “And we were sort of in a situation of thinking that we’re not doing it because of society.”

In evaluating Yoko’s claim, let us note that she is 82 years of age and no less batty than she was in the sixties, when she was organising “bottomfests” in Germany. Her “big talk” with John might have occurred in a hallucination fuelled by Siberian ginseng. It’s well known, of course, that the Beatles’ manager was gay and probably wanted to sleep with all four of them. But Brian Epstein was a private man who was terrified of getting caught with his pants down in an era when “gross indecency” could land you in prison. His intimate encounters were conducted anonymously with rent boys and Mediterranean gigolos.

If John Lennon really wanted to sleep with a man he would surely have made a pass at his song-writing buddy Paul, who was pretty enough to be a gay beauty queen. Maybe he secretly wanted to. The only sure way of getting to the bottom of this mystery would be to ask our local voodoo witchdoctor to convene a séance where he would allow Lennon’s spirit to take possession of his body. Before you snort in incredulity, please note that he has successfully channelled a number of dead singers, including Elvis Presley and Perry Como. I can reassure Elvis fans that their idol had no desire to sleep with a man, although it’s quite likely he wanted to sleep with his mother. I’d say that was pretty normal for a white boy from Mississippi.

But enough of tittle-tattle. As a gorilla who prides himself on fair-dealing, especially in jungle fruit, I disapprove of telling tales about the dead. If you want to know something about show business performers, have the good manners to ask them directly, preferably when they’re still alive. In some cases, of course, the performers will answer the question before it’s been asked. Did Miley Cyrus wait for people to inquire whether she and Stella Maxwell were munching their mutual macadamias? Not a bit of it! The couple staged a bean-flicking show so the media could obtain the photographic evidence. There’s nothing like pre-emptive disclosure to kill all the malicious gossip.

To prove that she’s still fond of men, Miley is planning to give a concert with an all-male band that I’ve never heard of called The Flaming Lips. The gimmick will be that both she and the band will perform in the nude while being sprayed with a milky liquid that may, in fact, be milk. Obviously they are many questions one could raise about this event, but why should we ask them now? Miley will tell us everything we need to know before milk is dry on her shapely little boobies.

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Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Precocious lechery

Shocking news arrives from England of an 11-year-old boy who had sex with his 20-year-old babysitter. Miss Jade Hatt, pictured above, was arrested and put on trial for having sexual relations with a minor. No words of praise are high enough for the boy’s father, who spoke in her defence:

“He is sex-mad,” he said of his son. “He would have been fully up for this experience and in many ways sees it as a notch on his belt and is totally unaffected by it.”

It must have been terribly difficult for him to admit that his 11-year-old son was a compulsive fornicator who treated his sexual conquests like baseball hits. One has to pity Miss Hatt for being lured by such a remorseless jackrabbit. The judge was clearly influenced by this testimony in sentencing her to two years of hard therapy:

“Having read everything before me, it was quite clear he was a mature 11-year-old and you were an immature 20-year-old so that narrows the arithmetic age gap between you,” he said.

Age can indeed be deceptive as an indicator of emotional and physical maturity. One look at Miss Hatt’s chubby little face told me she could have had sex with a baby panda and not realised she had done anything wrong. As for the boy, one can only guess how he got to be a sex maniac at the age of 11. It seems he is tall and manly for his age, which suggests a similarity with Homo Erectus, the prehistoric ancestor of humanity. Maybe he switched on his ancient Erectus genes by adopting their diet of raw meat and wild berries. If so, it’s a warning for all parents to feed their kiddies safe tinned food, like Heinz spaghetti in tomato sauce. Infants who eat like wild beasts end up behaving like them.

It’s interesting that the judge said nothing about giving the boy help. Maybe he is too proud of his naughty deeds to be counselled by a conventional therapist. I wonder if Tom Jones could be persuaded to have a word with him. Having slept with 250 women a year at the height of his fame, he should be able to convince the boy that he knows all the ins and outs.

In spite of his track record of rampant skirt-chasing, Tom has followed fairly strict rules of conduct throughout his life. One of them concerns swearing and farting, pastimes that he revelled in in his younger days:

“I used to go to a pub that was only for men,” he recalled. “The reason was so that we could tell dirty jokes and break wind… I don't think that bad language and breaking wind is right in front of ladies,” he explained.

Okay it’s not a code of behaviour that could convert a vagabond into a gentleman, but it might nudge the boy in the right direction if Tom carefully instructed him on the finer points. Education has to start somewhere in life.

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