Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Dietary advice
Can you call yourself a vegan if you eat your friend’s semen? The question occurred to me after watching a video made by a 29-year-old English woman who says she is a vegan. Miss Tracey Kiss (pictured above) is justly proud of her flawless complexion, which she credits to a healthy diet of organic food and a daily sperm supplement.
“People are so weird about sperm when in fact a teaspoon is full of amazing goodness,” she explains. “I’d been feeling run down and had no energy, but now I’m full of beans and my mood has improved.”
She’s certainly full of something, but before any man thinks of making her an offer, please note that her nourishment is not taken at source. A gentleman friend provides her with regular emissions (in a test tube?), which she stores in her refrigerator.
“Every batch tastes different, depending on what he’s been eating,” says Tracey. “If he’s been drinking alcohol or eaten something particular pungent like asparagus, I ask him to give me a heads-up so I know not to drink it neat.”
Miss Kiss has a number of appetising semen recipes in which the taste of the raw ingredient is modified by various condiments. Perhaps she should share her ideas with a gourmet chef. Michelin star restaurants are always on the lookout for additions to their menus, and there is no surer path to immortality than having a dessert named after you. “Open-mouthed Kiss” would be a plausible title for the dish.
The mysterious character in this otherwise uncomplicated tale is the fellow who donates his manly secretions. The question I can’t help asking is: “What’s in it for him?”. If Tracey were taking an active hand the extraction process, that would be one thing, but where’s the fun in having to milk yourself like a cow? If a female gorilla asked me to perform such a service, I would tell her to go and molest a baboon.
A generous explanation of his behaviour would say that he is acting from the same neighbourly instinct that causes the resident of an apartment block to offer a new tenant a packet of sugar. But I am not inclined to be so generous. I fear he derives some sort of wicked pleasure from the thought that a nubile woman is gulping down his jism. A man who is proud of something like that can have little else to be proud of.
I started this post with a question you may have forgotten in all the commotion: Is semen a permissible food for a self-proclaimed vegan like Miss Kiss? I would say it’s no less of an animal product than milk, eggs or cheese. Perhaps Tracey would argue that it does no harm because the animal in question is not locked up in a paddock or chained to a fence. Yet if millions of women take her dietary advice to heart, who is to say that men will not be locked up in paddocks or chained to fences in the future? You can’t go around breaking rules without thinking about the long-term consequences.
Labels: dietary supplements, jism, semen, vegan cooking
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Bank robbery
Tourists often ask me how a gorilla can prevent his stuff getting stolen in the jungle. I tell them I am an abstemious ape who carries few possessions and keep his valuables in a bank vault in Brazzaville. “What could a thief pilfer from a man that he could also pilfer from me?” I ask. They never come up with a valid suggestion.
However, the strange case of a Puerto Rican salsa singer has given me pause for thought. He claims that his sperm was stolen to be used in a manner of which he did not approve. This is not a form of theft I have any protection against, although I’d like to think the varmints around here have better things to do with their time. Hatching a plot to steal a gorilla’s jism is not what I’d expect of your typical jungle outlaw, not least because of the difficulty in fencing the loot.
The salsa singer, whose name is Maelo Ruiz, says his manly secretions were unlawfully procured by a woman called Karla Ankara Toledo Cova, who successfully impregnated herself to bear his twin daughters. He claims that she did not need to perform the delicate task of extracting the goods from his person, because he had taken the unusual step of storing his semen a sperm bank. He says he did this to enable his wife to bear his children if he suffered an untimely death. It’s an unusual precaution for a 49-year-old man to take, but his picture suggests he’s not in the pink of health.
Ms Toleda Cova, of course, has her own side to the story. As a former acquaintance of Mr Ruiz, she says he impregnated her in the conventional manner and is now trying to shirk his duties. I would not dismiss her claims out of hand, because her picture indicates that she’s not a woman who would struggle to persuade a man to plant his seed in her flowerpot. Mr Ruiz insists that he was not tempted by her voluptuous body and I want to believe him, but maybe he should take a lie-detector test to banish our nagging doubts. The fat man must go the extra mile to prove he didn’t eat the complimentary cookie.
If Mr Ruiz is telling the truth, what then? His twin daughters can’t be blamed for the manner of their conception, and they won’t be helped by sending their mother to prison. Although he has every right to be furious that a devious floozy stole and misused his potent nut-sap, there comes a time when the alpha male must stop thumping his chest and take a pragmatic view. If I were his lawyer, I would advise him to make a generous financial settlement on condition that Ms Toleda Cova withdraw her scurrilous allegations and hang her head in shame. Not a penny would she get until she publicly confessed her sins, disordering her hair and exposing her breasts in Homeric fashion. No mercy without penitence, as we say in the jungle.
Labels: bank robber, jism, personal security, sperm bank
Wednesday, October 01, 2014
The Sperminator
Behold Ed Houben, the Dutchman who has fathered 99 children by offering women his “exceptionally potent sperm”. The good news for women desperate to conceive is that the sperm is provided free of charge. The bad news is that he advises his clients to let him inseminate them naturally – the syringe option is less effective, he says.
He claims there is no shortage of woman willing to travel to his apartment in Maastricht to be impregnated in the time-honoured way. This allows him to be choosy, rejecting customers who can’t spell, weigh 300 pounds or have genital cooties. What is his secret? This is what he says:
“I try to be the perfect gentleman in every way and not look like the ex-murderer who just got sprung. In a short time, I have to make the assessment: What does this woman prefer? I always invite them to tell me what they want.”
This is all very charming, but I don’t believe it explains his popularity. I put it down to the most skilful piece of marketing since the invention of Brylcreem. By telling women he has already fathered scores of children, he makes them think he’s a super-stud who produces premium jism. It’s an old gorilla trick. The female feels like a Ferrari having high-octane fuel injected into her tank. Little does she realise that any cross-eyed goof is capable of impregnating a large number of females. If you turn a fire hose on a crowd, lots of people will get wet.
Houben is unquestionably a wily fox, but the service he provides is no great boon to humanity. A far more impressive feat was accomplished by doctors who have grown artificial vaginas in the laboratory. This is no mere party trick. Sadly, a small percentage of women are born with defective coochies that need to be replaced. Praise be to the goddess Chacharita that those who have received transplants are very happy with their new organs. All have reported “normal levels of desire, arousal, lubrication, orgasm, satisfaction and painless intercourse.”
No doubt, there are many curious men who would jump at the chance of testing out these miracle vaginas. I can’t imagine Houben turning down a transplantee who asked him to plough her furrow. When I told the manager of the safari camp about this breakthrough in regenerative medicine, he grinned like an alligator:
“Of course it makes them more desirable,” he affirmed. “What man wouldn’t want to say that he’s fucked a bionic pussy?”
“A man who’s never made fart noises with his armpits?” I suggested.
“Do such men exist?” asked the manager, walking off with a pensive look on his face.
What I’d like to know is whether these sterling snatches can survive outside of a woman. It would surely be fascinating to keep one as a pet and watch it respond to stimuli. The biggest problem would be knowing what to feed it. I’d be tempted to put a gobstopper inside it, which it could suck on whenever it got hungry.
Labels: coochie transplant, jism, lab-grown vagina, pregnancy
Wednesday, June 04, 2014
The intern returns
Monica Lewinsky has blossomed into a confident, intelligent, attractive woman of 40. Before you call me a kiss-ass, study the recent picture of her above. When I emailed it to my friend Smacker Ramrod, he sent me the following response:
“Gadzooks, she is gorgeous! Lucky is the man who moistens the gum on her flap!”
I’m sure we would all agree with him on that.
Now, some of you might be thinking this is a gratuitous blog post about Miss Lewinsky, written for no other reason than her suitability as a target for bawdy jokes. That would be a scurrilous, defamatory half-truth. I was inspired to pen this piece by Monica herself, who is the author of a fascinating article recently published in Vanity Fair. Let me summarize its main points for you:
1) Monica chided the chanteuse Beyoncé for taking her name in vain in one of her songs. The offending lyrics were:
He popped all my buttons and he ripped my blouse
He Monica Lewinsky’d all on my gown.
To which Monica retorted:
"Thanks, Beyoncé, but if we're verbing, I think you meant:
He Bill Clinton'd all on my gown.
Well said, Monica. Some might say that although you didn’t own the gun you helped to pull the trigger. I would say that no one is entitled to turn your name into a verb for jizzing. It wasn’t your mess and Beyoncé is clearly an airhead.
2) In reminiscing about her youthful indiscretion in the White House, she said that the public disclosure of her deeds had made her “the most humiliated person in the world”, and that the true villains of the affair were those who did the disclosing, rather than the tomcat president whom she willingly siphoned. (I apologise for the length of the last sentence, which is a bigger mouthful than the one Monica got, but sometimes it’s necessary to spit it out in one go.)
3) After getting her Masters degree from the London School of Economics, she turned down job offers from firms seeking to exploit her status as the world’s most famous fellator. She is now using her experience to help victims of on-line humiliation and harassment, which she hopes will give a purpose to her past.
You’ve got to respect Monica for dealing with her debacle in such a dignified way. She could have made millions by promoting herself as America’s No.1 hoochie, but instead she chose philanthropy, which is an entirely different field.
Being humiliated is a terrible fate for a human, although it has to be said that many deserve it. I get the impression it’s easier to bear for those not overburdened with grey matter. Take Mr Becks, for example. He recently revealed that he wooed Victoria Spice by wearing an exceptionally tight pair of trunks. A man of greater intellect, like Einstein or Eddie Murphy, would have surely been embarrassed to admit to such a thing.
Life is so much easier if you can respond to ridicule and insults by grinning like a village idiot.
Labels: humiliation, jism, Monica Lewinsky, Mr Becks, Victoria Spice
Monday, September 10, 2012
Health news
I note a spate of breakthroughs in the field of human healthcare. I say “human healthcare”, because you’d have to be a blithering idiot to believe that any of these therapies would work on another species. Homo Sapiens has evolved into an idiosyncratic beast, with its own peculiar diseases and remedies. That’s why vets and doctors are rival professions with their own qualifications and secret handshakes. Having seen both of them, I would say that the vet handshake is kinkier.
The first treatment to consider is clown therapy. Apparently, bringing clowns into hospital wards improves the morale of patients and gives their immune system a boost. I can well believe it. Laughter is a natural opiate which exercises all the right muscles. In my circus career, I raised the hilarity to an even higher level by kicking the clowns’ arses when they were performing. Whether this was good for the health of the audience is difficult to say. Most of them probably felt better, but a few may have suffered hernias or died from laughing too much. A classic case of swings and roundabouts.
The next theory to consider is that eating walnuts improves the health of a man’s sperm. There must be something in this. We apes have always been pro-nut, going to great lengths just to munch on a handful of them. They are surely more than capable of perking up a man’s jism. I am sceptical, however, about the feeble-textured walnut being the nut of choice. Groundnuts and almonds should make human spermatozoa swish their tails more vigorously.
The final treatment I wish to discuss follows conveniently from the last one. It has been postulated that women suffering from depression can cure themselves by taking a man’s semen. This can be done by having straight sex, but oral ingestion is of greater therapeutic value.
Reluctant though I am to pooh-pooh the work of scientists, this one is much harder to swallow. I suspect that a cabal of male researchers have got their heads together in the hope of getting some head. There are a lot of depressed women in the vicinity of medical research laboratories, desperately looking for something to give them a lift. Although going down on horny scientists is unlikely to harm them, one should never give patients false hope. And how will they feel when they find out they’ve been duped into fellating geeky men? It would surely be a terrible blow.
Many humans, of course, nonchalantly ignore the findings of medical science in attending to their physical well-being. I recall an old gypsy woman who cured her ailments by putting a clove of garlic up each nostril. Our local witchdoctor, peace be upon him, got rid of a boil on his behind by smearing it with chicken shit. There are many paths to wisdom in this world of ours, and the men in white coats don’t have all the answers. Having said that, they’re probably the best people to ask if you’re looking for someone to give you a blowjob.
Labels: clowns, fellatio, jism, semen
Friday, May 16, 2008
Eggs, honey and sperm
There is an awkward silence at the safari guesthouse when a young lady from Texas asks whether “ennia yew boys” have made a deposit at a sperm bank. I imagine such questions are no big deal in the domain of the longhorn bull, but it’s not what you expect to hear over cocktails in an exclusive resort. As bartender, I attempt to relieve the embarrassment by interjecting a flippant remark.
“Miss Eunice,” I say (for that is her name). “I have banked my sperm in a number of hairy safe-deposit boxes!”
“Ah just bet you did, big fella!” she replies with a saucy wink. “But some of yo’ hoomanoidal cousins tug the slug so they can sell their spooge for cash!”
I react to this allegation by slapping my forehead in feigned surprise before making the following response:
“In that case, Miss Eunice, I fear that your enquiries will be fruitless. A gentleman does not discuss his financial affairs with women or children.”
This prompts the southern belle to opine vociferously on what men claiming to be gentlemen are capable of doing and have in fact done. It does, nevertheless, deflect her interrogation from its original purpose.
Discerning readers will have realised, of course, that Miss Eunice was teaching her grandmother how to fertilise eggs. Having spent my youth in a travelling circus, I could have given her a 10-lecture course on artificial insemination with a couple of lab tutorials thrown in for free. Most of our four-legged employees bred in that fashion, although one case I remember involved a girl in the costumes section. She impregnated herself with the sperm of a nameless performer, co-opted for this purpose by her lesbian lover in the trapeze team. All the nosey humans naturally tried to guess who the donor was, but I was more interested in the mechanics of the operation. The happy couple were pleased to satisfy my curiosity by describing the following four-step procedure:
(i) Empty fresh jism into beaker and mix with two tablespoons of Highland Spring mineral water (to give sperm space to swim about and get in shape for big event).
(ii) Add one teaspoon of honey for flavouring and nourishment (human sperm have a notoriously sweet tooth).
(iii) Suck mixture into teat pipette from children’s chemistry set.
(iv) Make gentle love to pipette, squirting fluid into cha-cha while imagining scene from Cadbury’s flake commercial.
It does have a certain panache, as far as recipes go, but not quite the vitality befitting an event as significant as the creation of new life. Dress it up how you want, no child wants to be fathered by a device used to make unstable liquids in a test tube go poof.
For much the same reason, I always feel twinge of sadness to read of middle-aged ladies having the best sex of their lives when their children are well past puberty. How would the young ones feel on discovering that the mother who merely went through the motions when they were conceived is currently experiencing toe-curling bedroom delights? Human couples trying to reproduce owe it to their future offspring to make it a night to remember. As we gorillas say, “Start life with a bang, end it with a whimper.”
Labels: Artificial insemination, jism, longhorn bull
