Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Liberated women
Marianne Faithfull says she is proud to have escaped the “straitjacket” of being Mick Jagger’s girlfriend. She makes it sound like a feat worthy of Houdini. It’s quite possible, of course, that Jagger did tie her up while attempting some devilish perversion. The 1960s are remembered as a decade of feverish experimentation, particularly for pop stars who spent the greater part of their leisure time as high as a kite. Yet, he doesn’t strike me as the possessive type in his relations with the fairer sex. Why would he chase after fallen apples when he could pluck a new one from the tree?
Whatever Mick did to her, she couldn’t have enjoyed it that much, because she cheated on him with Keith Richards, describing her debauchery as “the best night ever”. Keith had been eager to seduce her after his own girlfriend had been ravished by Jagger, and he later rubbed salt into the wound by claiming that Mick’s todger was too puny to have satisfied Marianne. There is truly no honour among cuckolds.
Ms Faithful may think of herself as a liberated woman, but her behaviour seems quite dated to me. Hopping from the bed of one famous man to another is what Helen of Troy did to secure her place in history. While it’s true that Marianne had her own musical career, her fame was obviously fuelled by her antics with the Rolling Stones. Her status was never comparable to that of Lady Gaga or Miley Cyrus, who are queen bees rather than concubines.
Miley has recently been in the news for having her bottom spanked with a Mexican flag. It must have been a token spanking, because a piece of cloth cannot smack a lady’s rump with the required force. Her stunt has nevertheless outraged the Mexican authorities, who have threatened to prosecute her. They are too easily offended if you ask me. Isn’t it obvious that Miley’s gesture was a submissive one, generously declaring her peachy posterior to be the property of Mexico? If the Mexicans don’t want it, there must be a dozen other tortilla-eating nations that would be delighted to claim it as a national asset.
Maybe the Mexicans are annoyed because Miley is an American, whom they subconsciously blame for the loss of Texas and California. Those festering wounds were later aggravated by scores of Hollywood westerns depicting them either as helpless peasants or bandits with bushy moustaches. It’s well-known that most Mexicans of that era were actually like Zorro – fearless swordsmen of noble birth whose moustaches were curly rather than bushy.
Let’s hope that Miley avoids a jail term for her well-meant stunt. Perhaps she could make amends for the unintentional offence she caused by starring in a movie showing Mexico in a positive light. I’d like to see her play an Aztec queen who eats tortillas and beans while being spanked with fly whisks made from the plumage of exotic birds. After watching a film like that, I would salute the Mexican flag whenever I saw it.
Labels: Marianne Faithful, Mexican bandit, Mexico, Mick Jagger, Miley Cyrus, spanking
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Britney rules the waves
The music of Britney Spears is being used by super tankers to scare off Somali pirates.
“These guys can’t stand Western culture or music,” explained Second Officer Rachel Owens. “As soon as the pirates get a blast of Britney they move on as quickly as they can.”
I wonder whether the pirates are terrified of Britney herself. How would they react to seeing her in person, performing one of her booty-titty dances? A superstitious bandit might think she was a succubus from Hell, trying to damn his soul by giving him a boner. Maybe he’d feel compelled to squirt lemon juice in his eyes, critically impairing his kidnapping ability.
Now the Somali pirates are not technically jihadists, but their reaction to Britney suggests she could be America’s secret weapon in the war against Al Qaeda. It isn’t over just because bin Laden sleeps with the fishes. Not by a long chalk. Anyone who’s seen The Godfather knows that killing the Don doesn’t finish it – you’ve still got any number of Sollozzo’s and Barzini’s to take care of.
When I said “secret weapon” I actually meant “public weapon”, because nothing Britney does is a secret. If the US Navy made her an admiral of the 6th Fleet, president Obama could order her to make a butt-nekkid “Eat me Abdul” video with plenty of twerking. The US Air Force could then scatter the DVDs over North Waziristan and all the other Al Qaeda strongholds.
In US military-speak, I think that would severely degrade their combat effectiveness. How could they even think of planning martyrdom operations if they were constantly horny and masturbating five times a day? They wouldn’t even be able to hold their weapons straight without firing off in random directions.
Some of you must be thinking “What’s so special about Britney? Why not choose someone really hot like Katy Perry who would make the jihadniks pull their dicks off?” My reply would be that Britney has an innocent quality that appeals to the hard-core Al Qaeda types. Even in that crazy phase she went through, when she shaved her head and exposed her cha-cha, there was something naïve and vulnerable about her.
Katy, on the other hand, is guilty of many impious deeds, like telling everyone that Mick Jagger made a pass at her when she was 18. Jagger has recently denied doing any such thing, which might cause you to infer that one of them is lying, but I put it down to a cultural misunderstanding. Men of all nationalities have noticed that American women think you’re asking them for sex when you pay them the slightest little compliment, so maybe Katy got the wrong idea.
Mick Jagger’s method of seduction was explained in a song he sang in the 1960s called Let’s Spend the Night Together. It seems to have worked quite well for him. There’s no need to beat around the bush if you’re a legend of rock music whose underpants are stuffed full of cash.
Labels: Al Qaeda, bin Laden, Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Mick Jagger, super tankers, Western culture
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Reaching Nirvana
So Nirvana have asked Paul McCartney to be their lead singer. A shrewd move. Whatever you say about Paul, he’s not going to kill himself like that drug addict who used to be their front man. He might die of natural causes, of course, but such is the fate of all mortal men. I hope they tape a device to his chest to monitor his vital signs when he’s performing. For a Beatle to die on stage would be more than the world could bear. Even to contemplate such a tragedy makes me howl with anguish.
I have a bet with the manager of the safari camp that Paul will outlive Mick Jagger. He thinks Mick is healthier because of the way he prances about on stage, but I know better. No man ever lived to the age of 100 by having ants in his pants. The secret of longevity is a serene mental outlook combined with the avoidance of physical jerks. Jagger falls short in both departments, which is why he’s as wrinkly as a prune. He won’t be able to keep it up for much longer. (Behaving like a hyperactive rooster, I mean.)
It’s an interesting fact of human biology that women live longer than men. That’s why old women greatly outnumber old men. People sometimes ask me whether evil old witches like Rider Haggard’s Gagool are common in Africa. The answer is no. Any woman half as wicked as Gagool would be thrown to the crocodiles before she got to middle age. Old ladies in Africa are wonderfully benign and sometimes have the power of prophesy. One such ancient seeress held me in her arms when I was a baby gorilla.
“Thine eyes are bright, my little hairy one!” she crooned in an obscure Congolese dialect. “I foretell thou shall migrate to a northern land and acquire human language and learning; whereupon thou shall join a great carnival and entertain the multitude in many ways, including the kicketh of clowns in the arse; after which thou shall return to the jungle with a tidy fortune to invest in the safari business; and thenceforth shall thou enjoy a life of much leisure, japing and whimsical banter.”
Needless to say, her prophesy was 100% accurate in every particular. I often visit her grave, which I decorate with scented African violets and banana peel.
Now, why do women live longer than men? The answer is testosterone, by which I mean the lack of it. In addition to making men frisky, this naughty hormone has various deleterious effects on health, which shortens the average male lifespan. This has been verified by a study showing that eunuchs live longer than men with their goolies intact.
I don’t suppose Paul McCartney will be interested in using this knowledge to prolong his own life. His attractive new wife has plenty of mileage in her for one thing. But wouldn’t the sacrifice of an ageing nutsack be a price worth paying to delay the death of another Beatle? I’m not saying anyone should force him, but he ought to consider it seriously.
Labels: eunuchs, Gagool, goolies, Mick Jagger, Nirvana, Paul McCartney
Friday, July 30, 2010
Kylie accuses Gaga
“I think there's an element of me in her,” said Kylie.
Possibly wishful thinking and hopefully not a statement of intent. If it came to a catfight, a crazy bitch like Gaga would pluck out Kylie’s pubic hair. Someone should invite the divas to a wigwam where they can share a peace pipe and inhale each other’s smoke. Those squaws need to become blood sisters before they start stealing each other’s boyfriends, which would lead to heinous atrocities.
Kylie’s outburst reminds me of a lowland silverback who claimed to be Mick Jagger’s role model. This is what he said about the rubber-lipped crooner:
“When I was performing back in ’63, I noticed that young Englishman in the audience, gaping at me night-after-night like a trout. Everything he later did on stage – the voice, the face, the strut – he took it all from me. And my bass player was a baboon who looked like Bill Wyman. The first time I saw ‘The Stones’ I thought they were a tribute act.”
But his females said he was lying, so we can’t take his word for it. Jagger has obviously been copying someone, but for all we know it could be his Latin master.
A tourist once asked me if I thought Tom Jones had been influenced by a gorilla.
“No,” I replied. “He was clearly influenced by the gospel, rock, folk, jazz and blues singers of his youth. But perhaps you meant to ask whether Tom Jones is genetically close to a gorilla.”
“Well is he?” asked the tourist.
“Let me put it this way,” I replied. “There are certain ancient genes in the human line which, for reasons not yet properly understood, are more fully expressed in particular individuals. Such persons are invariably hairy-chested men who exude a pungent sexuality that induces middle-aged women to throw their knickers at them.”
“Are you saying he smells like a gorilla?” asked the tourist.
“I don’t know what he smells like,” I said, “but it seems to bring out the female gorilla in women.”
In truth, the behaviour of all primates is driven by the urge to imitate. I often observed human kiddies pretending to be gorillas after I’d given a performance in the circus. I suspect many of the adults would have done so too if they hadn’t feared ridicule. The ape-impersonators in the remake of Planet of the Apes had a grand old time. Even Helena Bonham Carter, renowned for playing posh English roses, found the experience enlightening:
I had to go back and learn how to be still. I had to learn an economy of movement, but to be immensely focused. To stop intellectualizing and instead make everything physical and be present and alive in the moment, which is completely ape-like. Apes are more sensual and tactile than we are.
Humans sometimes ask me whether I found Helena attractive as an ape. I have to remind them that she played a chimpanzee, not a gorilla. If I were a male chimpanzee, I should imagine I’d want to pin her to the ground and put my tongue in her mouth.
Labels: Helena Bonham Carter, Kylie Minogue, Lady Gaga, Mick Jagger
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The world's funniest woman
“I’m here for the room service, not the animals,” says Joan Rivers as I carry her luggage into her room at the safari guesthouse. “Are you gorillas really my fans?”
“You are a legend in the jungle,” I reply. “Before we go to sleep we say: ‘A hundred blessings for Mother Joan and fifty more for her plastic surgeon.’”
“Hah!” she exclaims. “If you knew what I know, you’d give two hundred blessings to my plastic surgeon!”
That evening, at the bar, she expands on this theme to a TV producer from England.
“I always tell women ‘if you can afford it get everything done – the face, the boobs, the butt, the whole package’. Get real! Women are judged on their appearance, they always have been and they always will be.”
“How about labia reduction surgery?” asks the TV producer.
“LABIA?! You’re putting me on, right? Why would a woman want to pay for something only her gynaecologist gets to look at. Don’t those guys charge enough already?”
“No seriously Joan, there was a documentary* about it on British TV. A lot of women are having their flaps trimmed because they can’t bear the sight of their vaginas. It’s becoming like a nose job.”
“BUT WHO LOOKS AT IT!” shrieks Joan. “When I was a young woman, your vagina was neither seen nor heard. Not unless you did pussy farts in a freak show.”
“What about oral sex?” asks the TV producer.
“Hey gimme a break, I’m Jewish! I was brought up to believe that even thinking about such acts was asking for God to strike you dead with a lightning bolt!”
“But suppose a young, good-looking guy walked up to you today and said: ‘Miss Rivers, it has long been my ambition to eat you out.’ Would you let him?”
“Jeez, is that the kind of dialogue you write for British TV shows? I guess if he’s really set his heart on it I wouldn’t stop him. But only when I’m safely under the covers. And no torch! He has to burrow like a mole searching for a hole. Let him use his sense of smell.”
“But Joan, that would spoil half the fun!” complains the TV producer.
“I don’t care! If he wants to look and lick he can go suck a popsicle instead. What is this shit about staring at a woman’s pussy? Hey GB, do you look at your females down there?”
Having listened quietly to the conversation with a bar tender’s discretion, I am caught off guard by this unexpected question.
“Hum ah well yes, let me think,” I grunt, searching my memory. “I don’t make a habit of it, but I did once inspect a female’s vulva before mating with her.”
“So what happened?” asks Joan.
“After I’d stared at it for a bit, she said: ‘Are you going to fuck that thing or take a picture?’”
“Heheheh!” laughs Joan. “Your females sound so GREAT! I wish I could be a female gorilla. Not forever, of course, just for a couple of hours.”
“Why don’t you join them for their tree-dance?” I say. “When female primates shake their rumps together they become sisters under the skin. I’ll introduce you and play the bongo drums. You can keep your pants on.”
“The tree-dance?” inquires Joan. “Is that like humping a piece of wood?”
“Not quite,” I reply chuckling. “It more like pretending to give birth in an upright position.”
“That I can do!” declares Joan. “As long as it’s just pretending. My ovaries dried up in ’79.”
Next morning, Joan does her ‘Dot Matrix’ shtick from Spaceballs while I escort her into the jungle. She quietens down after I introduce her to the females – most humans are lost for words after they’ve been patted by female gorillas. Everything proceeds smoothly: Joan discovers her inner ape in the tree-dance and the females get autographed copies of The Life and Hard Times of Heidi Abromowitz. When we return to the safari camp, her mood is serene and contented – hanging out with gorillas does that for you. She tells me a lot of personal stuff, most of which I won’t reveal, and I feel like I’ve become her rabbi. Before I leave she makes a final confession:
“Hey GB, the night before the tree-dance I self-examined myself with a hand-mirror. More Mick Jagger than Lionel Ritchie, know what I’m saying?”
“You’re a lucky woman Joan,” I reply. “The Stones have always been big in the Congo.”
“And they’d be even bigger with my pussy as their lead singer!” she says laughing as I give her a parting embrace.
Joan Rivers always has the last word.
* Charliemingles funny and informative review of The Perfect Vagina can be found here.
Labels: Joan Rivers, Labia reduction surgery, Lionel Ritchie, Mick Jagger
