Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Incurable Afflecktion
Ben Affleck has got in a tizzy over allegations that he slept with his children’s nanny:
“The story is complete garbage and full of lies!” he bawled. “It’s shameful and desperate!”
Any man who contests a conjecture so hotly is probably hiding something, but that would be straying into matters of irrelevance. I have no interest in what games Affleck and the nanny played inside the wendy house. What bothers me is the vehemence of the denial, which indicates a lack of etiquette. A man should never imply that having sexual relations with a particular woman is an abomination on a par with massaging the devil’s buttocks. The poor nanny must be feeling like Henrietta of Hagsville.
I remember when my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod was rumoured to have slept with the daughter of a local farmer, thereby obtaining free supplies of fresh milk, whipping cream and other choice delicacies. The ringmaster publicly confronted him on the issue:
“Ramrod, you sly dog!” he exclaimed. “Have you been procuring fresh produce by rogering the farmer’s daughter?”
Smacker smiled wistfully and sighed, looking into the distance.
“I should be so lucky,” he said.
His answer was the last word spoken on the subject, and when the farmer’s daughter got to hear of it she was immensely gratified. So much so, that the favours she allegedly performed for him were extravagantly enhanced and upgraded.
Another fine example of such gallantry occurred in the film Live and Let Die, in which James Bond seduced a virgin priestess played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour. The downside of this auspicious event was that Miss Solitaire (as she was known) lost her power of prophecy, which is the unavoidable fate of any virgin seer who is despoiled by a sharp-shooting servant of the Crown.
This greatly displeased the crime baron who controlled her. After capturing Bond, he summoned Miss Solitaire to the interrogation chamber and immediately guessed what had happened. In the style of the ringmaster, he put the question to his captive directly, not sparing the blushes of the deflowered maiden who unwillingly witnessed the scene. As one would expect of a British secret agent, Bond was unflappable:
“That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers,” he replied dismissively.
Everyone knew, of course, that Bond had tutored her in the wiles of the boudoir, but a man of honour is discreet in his utterances about the ladies he consorts with.
One has to pity Mr Affleck for lacking the refinement to respond to an accusation of hanky panky with the decorum befitting a squire of the parish. It is too late for him to learn these niceties? One would like to think that he could acquire such habits if he served an apprentice as a dogsbody of Colin Firth or some other thespian of more notable pedigree. On the other hand, one look at his spoiled, whiny face suggests he is too far gone to be improved by an example of superior manners and deportment.
Labels: Ben Affleck, Colin Firth, hanky-panky, James Bond, Miss Solitaire, nanny
Monday, December 05, 2011
Lady Gaga's secret
Lady Gaga has revealed the secret of her “perfect skin”. Apparently, her alabaster complexion is maintained through lots of orgasms and spinach. I share this information with the manager of the safari camp, who hopes to entice La Gaga over here for a holiday.
“Her spinach-orgasm therapy wouldn’t protect her skin from the mosquitoes,” I remark. “You’ll have to warn her if she visits.”
“Wouldn’t the sound of her orgasms scare off the mozzies?” asks the manager facetiously.
“Indeed not,” I reply. “Only female mosquitoes bite, and they wouldn’t be intimidated by her caterwauling. The female of the species instinctively knows when a creature of the same gender is getting herself off.”
“In that case you’ll have to give her some of your natural jungle ointment,” says the manager with a smirk.
“She’ll have to pay for it,” I insist. “Jungle skin cream doesn’t grow on trees, and she could easily afford the full retail price.”
“Aren’t you worried she might think you’re a tight-fisted wanker?” guffaws the manager before sauntering off. I suppose he thinks he made a joke of some variety.
As well as discussing her beauty secrets, Gaga explained why her love affairs have been short-lived and turbulent. It seems the artistic types she attracts soon grow envious of her musical talent:
If I go to the piano and write a quick song and play it back, they are angry with how fast and effortless it is. That's who I am, and I don't apologise for it.
I believe Mozart had similar problems, but Gaga is kidding herself if she thinks it’s why her boyfriends keep throwing her out of bed. Methinks the lady doth boast too much. The real reason for her break-ups might have something to do with her annoying little habits, like having 37 orgasms a day to avoid getting zits. And how do we know her skin is really so wonderful beneath the layers of make-up she puts on? I suspect her true complexion is like that of the Milky Bar Kid – pale and creamy, but lacking in lustre.
Now, the Scandinavians claim that the best thing for the skin is a sauna. I once got invited to one in Sweden, by a couple of flaxen-haired girls who had watched me perform in the circus:
“Please join us, GB!” they begged. “It will open up your pores and flush out the toxins. We will blow dry you afterwards if you like.”
I thought it best to decline tactfully: “A most generous offer, ladies, but sweating is for the hairless. We gorillas flush out our toxins in other ways.”
The girls were bitterly disappointed, and in truth I could have easily endured a sauna, which is not so different from the climate of a tropical rain forest. My real fear, of course, was wagging tongues. A gorilla should never get into a cabin with naked women unless there are witnesses who will testify to the absence of hanky-panky. That idiot King Kong has given us enough bad publicity.
Labels: hanky-panky, Lady Gaga, Mozart, perfect skin, sauna
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The meaning of dreams
You know what the great thing about being a gorilla is? Humans who’ve known me for less than a day will tell me personal stuff they’d normally reserve for their shrink. Last week it was the turn of a posh English girl to unburden her soul to the hairy bartender of the safari guesthouse.
“I’ve been having this dream about an ex-boyfriend,” she said. “It starts when I’m in the kitchen in my underwear making an omelette.”
“No apron?” I interjected, wishing to picture the scene accurately.
“No apron,” she confirmed. “So my ex walks up behind me, pulls down my knickers and start shagging me from behind.”
“The lecherous swine! How did you know it was him incidentally?”
“He’s talking to me the whole time.”
“Monstrous! Being violated is bad enough, but being forced to listen to the brigand’s running commentary, no doubt delivered in coarse and boastful language, would have crushed the spirit of Joan of Arc!”
“Oh the sex is actually great. Much better than it was in real life. The weird part is that he tells me to carry on making the omelette and gives me instructions while looking over my shoulder. But I can’t concentrate on the cooking and the eggs begin to scramble.”
“Who could blame you? I’m sure even Fanny Cradock would have scrambled the eggs if Johnny had snuck up on her from behind.”
“Well exactly! But after we’ve finished he tells me that I’m a dreadful cook who should never be allowed in a kitchen! Then I wake up feeling terribly humiliated. What do you think it means?”
I scratched my chin pensively.
“The dream seems to be saying that your former paramour took sadistic pleasure in disparaging your cooking. Consider yourself fortunate to be freed from the clutches of that backseat chef!”
“So that’s what it means!” she exclaimed. “Well I hope the dream stops bothering me now that I’ve got the point. Many thanks, GB.”
I was glad to have been of service, but in all honesty I have no idea whether my interpretation was correct. For all I know, the dream might have been telling her to brush up on her cooking skills before letting a man get in her pants.
Be that as it may, I was inspired to do a little research on the subject of dreams. It seems that in the classical world they dealt with far weightier topics than maintaining one’s culinary composure while being bonked from behind. In ancient Rome, the purpose of a dream was to alert the sleeper to some imminent disaster involving pestilence, war, famine or an outbreak of toga rash. Occasionally a goddess might make an appearance, but she always had a fairly important matter to discuss before letting you nuzzle her boobies. It wasn’t until Dr Sigmund Freud said that dreams were expressions of sexual desire that everyone started fornicating in their sleep. The power of pompous bearded men over the collective human psyche should never be underestimated.
I sense that you are dying to hear about my own dreams. What hairy hanky-panky is Old Bananas up to when his eyelids start a-twitching in the dead of night? Well I do have a recurring dream about eating a tub of ice-cream. After scooping most of the contents into my mouth with a silver spoon, the remaining dollops of delight are caressed from the carton with leisurely licks from my primate tongue. I’m sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping for something more titillating. Sex is something you do with your eyes wide open in the jungle.
Labels: Dreams, Fanny Cradock, hanky-panky, Omelettes, Sigmund Freud
