Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Another internet scam
Have you ever taken Hatha Jodi? It’s a magical Indian root that will give you mellow thoughts and a tingling sensation in the toes. The Hatha Jodi plant is very rare, grown only in a handful of holy sites, but many online retailers are now offering the root at very reasonable prices. Suspecting a counterfeiting operation, the Indian police acquired samples of the merchandise to send to a laboratory for analysis. It was then discovered that the roots being sold online were actually dried lizard penises.
Before discussing the implications of this disturbing discovery, let’s pause to pay tribute to the scientists who determined what the fake roots really were. To identity a few scraps of dried flesh as lizard penises must have involved some fiendish detective work with microscopes and test tubes. Sceptics might wonder whether they could really tell the difference between a lizard penis and a crocodile clitoris, but the reliability of biological tests is not to be questioned. You can’t argue with science.
Now let’s get back to the substance of the matter. This fraud is clearly a serious crime on several different levels. We must face the appalling fact that millions of people have eaten dried lizard dicks on false pretences. This probably did them no physical harm, and might have even helped their digestion, but the psychological consequences should not be pooh-poohed. No one likes to be tricked into eating a penis – for a vegetarian, indeed, it could be a life-scarring event.
The most pitiable victims, of course, are the lizards. There’s something particularly horrible about being hunted for your todger. Even a reptile would have been driven insane with fear when contemplating such an ignoble fate. It’s also incredibly sexist that only male lizards were targeted. Removing so many of them from the ecosystem would have ruined the gender balance, resulting in an oversupply of females. The surviving males might have enjoyed this for a while, but the novelty would have worn off pretty quickly. Being surrounded by sex-starved females will sap the loins of the horniest stud.
Justice demands that the retailers who sold these lizard organs should pay damages to the victims. As well as giving full refunds to those who bought the goods, there should be compensation for every lizard penis eaten in ignorance. It’s difficult to assess what sum would be appropriate – I would start the bidding at ten US dollars per appendage consumed. As for the lizards, it’s sadly too late to help those that have perished, but fines could be paid into a fund to protect the survivors from poachers and give them the counselling they need.
The deeper question, however, is whether scams like this are inevitable when people think some species of plant has magical properties. I’ve eaten hundreds of roots in my time, and all they gave me was calories and wind. This Hatha Jodi sounds like a quack remedy cultivated by devious Indian Swamis to trick gullible Westerners into parting with their cash. Feed it to the baboons.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Big is bountiful
I’ve been reading a curiously defensive opinion piece written by a 25-stone prostitute. This anonymous call girl is upset that fat women never get kissed in films and TV shows, the implication being that no one wants to have sex with them. Given that men actually pay her for sex, she finds this supposition grossly insulting.
She insists that a woman of her size can do things for a man that the slimmer wench cannot. For example, her clients often ask her to assume positions in which they are crushed, smothered or otherwise compressed by her wobbly flesh. For some men, this is achieved by straight sex in the cowgirl position. Others require her to walk over their bodies in stiletto heels, which she can do without inflicting lethal injuries. The most common request she receives, however, is to sit on a client’s face:
“Men would want to lie under my glorious bottom for hours, doing what men do when they’re under a glorious bottom for hours,” she declared.
(In actual fact I’m not sure what men do do in that situation, but I don’t think it’s a critical issue at this juncture.)
When a number of her clients grew beards during the “Movember” challenge, she temporally withdrew the face-sitting service to prevent her lady parts getting scratched:
“It’s like sitting on a hedgehog that’s swallowed a football,” she explained.
After sharing this information with us, she insists that fat women can and do have amazing sex lives. Their coochies are not cavernous or bucket-like, as some people apparently believe:
“We are not to be pitied. We are not desperate and our genitals are no different to anyone else’s. If you think a vagina can be any bigger because of someone’s size, you have to equate that to every other one of their internal organs – which means I must have a brain twice as big as yours!”
I think it’s fair to conclude that Ms Anonymous Fat Hooker has a sizeable chip on her shoulder, but that doesn’t mean her assertions are untrue. Personally, I’ve never doubted that fat women have great sex lives. There are plenty of chubby-chasers out there to keep them satisfied, and they aren’t too dainty to enjoy a good shafting.
Nevertheless, I don’t approve of humans who are proud of carrying blubber that would befit a walrus. Homo Sapiens, let’s not forget, evolved as a fleet-footed hunter-gatherer on the African plains. There are no lard-butts among the Masai, whose colloquial term for fat humans is “lion food”. If you can’t keep up with the livestock, you’re less valuable than a cow and more vulnerable than a goat.
Instead of boasting about her sex life, Ms Tarty-Puff should get herself a hula-hoop and starting exercising that glorious bottom of hers. I would also recommend the gorilla diet of fresh salad and insects. If she loses a few hundred pounds, she might stop resenting all those slender models and actresses who hog the limelight.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
A school in Sweden is planning to install a musical toilet for its students. On glancing at the relevant news report, I assumed they were doing it to help constipated children evacuate their bowels. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, told me how listening to Mozart or Perry Como would relax his sphincter and loosen the granite-like dung clogging up his innards. Given that human kiddies are notorious for not eating their veggies and detesting fibre-rich food, it’s highly plausible that many of them face a life-or-death struggle when attempting to eject their faecal waste. If music can help them poop it out, so much the better.
Yet on studying the news report more carefully, it soon became apparent that constipation was not the problem that inspired this innovation. The purpose of the music, in fact, is to drown out any noises made by the toilet-user. It seems that Swedish children are incredibly embarrassed about the sounds they make and don’t want anyone outside the toilet to hear them. I must say I find this quite astonishing. The human children I encountered in my circus days loved making lavatory noises, which they frequently imitated by sticking out their tongues and blowing. The sound of an authentic fart invariably produced great merriment among them. I have no doubt they would have despised the musical toilet as device for weaklings and cry-babies.
Have human children really changed so much since the days I used to associate with them? Or is there a particular problem with Swedish children, who may have been taught that farting is shameful? There’s a big difference, of course, between getting laughs for an imitation fart and getting laughed at for a real one. But I don’t believe children are born with an embarrassment about breaking wind. This can only be a complex giving to them by adults. I should imagine politically correct Swedish parents are giving their children hard stares and forcing them to apologise for their flatulence. This will be very damaging in the long run. A nation that is ashamed of its farts is a nation of sissies.
If I were a schoolteacher in Sweden, I would tell the children that big animals don’t care about the noises they make when they go to the bathroom. I’ve laughed at elephants shitting, I’ve laughed at hippos shitting, and d’ya know what? They never even looked in my direction. That’s what it means to be a big beast. You do whatever you want and don’t worry about the audience reaction. No amount of cackling and hooting is going to make an elephant feel embarrassed.
Anyone who stands outside a toilet hoping to hear amusing noises is an idiot and a buffoon. That’s really scraping the barrel for cheap laughs. Why go to the trouble of making a musical toilet to thwart such people? You may as well make a toilet that makes continuous fart noises to drown out the sound of fart noises. That, I admit, would be pretty funny.
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Apparently there’s a product called MySweetV that can improve the taste and smell of a woman’s coochie. It’s promotional website contains the following sales pitch:
MySweetV is formulated to give your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell. You should always taste better than the next chick!
The same idea is repeated in the product’s twitter feed:
MySweetV makes your milkshake taste better than the next chick by giving your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell while working with your body’s Ph levels.
I would advise them to send out free samples to get some reviews instead of hoping that everyone will believe their hype. These reviews should be written by the tasters, not the buyers, so the claims made for MySweetV can be verified. I doubt there will be any reluctance on their part – humans who have eaten something tasty are rarely shy of boasting about it.
None of which means I approve of the product, which seems to be based on the premise that a woman’s vulva is some kind of hors d’oeuvre that must be sniffed and eaten like an oyster. This idea is unhelpful, in my view, because it encourages the taster to focus on his own enjoyment rather than the pleasure he should be trying to give. The prime objective of oral sex is to gratify the receiver – pleasant sensations on the tongue are an agreeable perk, but should not be thought of an end in itself.
MySweetV's marketing campaign has provoked a few hostile reactions. An article in an online newspaper has denounced the quest for an appetising vagina as bogus and demeaning. This is the advice it gave to its female readers:
Your vagina is not supposed to be entirely odourless. It’s not supposed to smell like roses and taste like a ripe plum. Your vagina should smell and taste like a vagina.
This is a fair point, and well made, but it begs the question of what an unseasoned vagina is supposed to taste like. Is there an authentic vagina flavour? Call me an innocent ape, but I really have no idea. If you blindfolded me and gave me different things to lick, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a vagina and a shrimp cocktail.
My only source on this vexed question is Mr Krayzee Eyez Killah, the rap singer who told Larry David that vaginas come in as many different flavours as ice cream. He went on the claim that Thai pussies were a particular delicacy. Maybe Thai women eat special herbs and spices to make their juices tasty. In the absence of data, we can only speculate.
Truly, the Earth is full of unsolved mysteries. No one, to my knowledge, has got to the bottom of the Bermuda triangle. Do the ships that disappear there fall prey to pirates, or are they swallowed by a giant vortex? What affects the taste of a woman’s coochie is an enigma of comparable magnitude.
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
In flagrante delicto
I can’t make up my mind whether to feel sorry for Viviana Ross (pictured above), a hotel waitress who got fired after being found naked in a client’s bed. The client in question was a minor English film star called Orlando Bloom, who had invited Viviana to share his bed, so no one can accuse her of trespassing. In fact, she did everything possible to ensure full customer satisfaction. It was obviously wrong to give her the sack for getting into the sack with Bloom, but my bosom is struggling to feel any righteous indignation on her behalf. You can call me a heartless old ape, but that’s just the way it is.
The problem is that this doesn’t seem like your typical case of unfair dismissal. There are a number of unusual features, most of which relate to Viviana herself. First of all, she has accepted her fate with remarkable equanimity, saying she had no regrets about sacrificing her job for “a night of incredible sex”. She has also complimented Bloom on being “an exceptionally good lover”, describing his body as “very good”. Yet she has refused to sell her story to a tabloid, which made me wonder whether she had fallen in love with the blighter. But no, it’s not that romantic. The small print in the story indicates that Viviana is not the humble waitress she appears to be. She is described as an “aspiring actress” who has posted many nude pictures of herself on-line. The only logical conclusion is that she wanted to get caught having sex with Bloom to get thrust into the limelight.
Will Bloom, after being so royally serviced and showered with compliments, now use his influence to further her career? It’s the least he could do in the circumstances, but I’m doubtful it’s going to happen for Viviana. For one thing, it’s far from clear that Bloom has any influence with bigwig movie producers. He finds it difficult enough to get good roles for himself, let alone obtain parts for the women he's bedded. And he’s also conceited enough to believe Viviana’s flattery, thus reckoning she’s already been amply rewarded for her pains.
The sad truth is that Viviana picked the wrong actor to have sex with. She may not realise that now, but it’s going to become apparent in the near future. If she had slept with a gallant old warhorse like Jack Nicholson or Antonio Banderas, they would have moved mountains to get her a starring role in an art-house nudie pic or soft porn flick. But Orlando Bloom is a mere pipsqueak in the movie industry. He couldn’t get her a job as a fluffer. In this respect, human society is not so different from the ape world. A young female looking for favours has to be very careful about which males she allows to mount her. If she mates with a young dandy instead of the alpha, she’s not going to improve her social rank.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Call me an innocent ape, but I had no idea that women who subscribe to on-line dating sites receive a never-ending barrage of penis pictures. Apparently, there are men who believe that photos of their sexual organs serve as an adequate substitute for a formal introduction. If any women have found these dick pics helpful or intriguing, they are keeping very quiet about it. The ones who have spoken out publicly are divided broadly into two camps – those who are sick to their stomachs and those who are angrier than hornets.
In truth, it’s difficult to guess what men who send these pictures are hoping to achieve. You can’t measure the size of a todger from a picture, and what would it prove if you could? If having a huge appendage meant you were good in bed, women would be sleeping with horses and elephants. As one who has watched elephants mate from time to time, I can testify that it’s a clumsy, slapstick affair. The females look as if they can’t wait for the whole thing to be over.
Some women have found these penile portraits so aggravating that they have dreamt up ingenious methods of revenge. I was intrigued to read a news item about a 26-year-old woman in England who subscribes to a service called ‘Snapchat’. Fed up of being electronically flashed by men seeking to make her acquaintance, she offered one of the offenders a rendezvous:
“I pretended I was going to let him come to my house and I thought to myself, ‘where should I send this man?’” explained Miss Tara Natasha.
In a flash of inspiration, she gave him the postcode of Buckingham Palace, which he duly entered into his satellite navigation device.
“It was so funny I couldn’t cope,” said Tara. ‘When he was approaching Buckingham Palace, he still didn’t click. I then sent him a photo of the Queen smiling.”
The man did not take the joke in good part. In fact, his behaviour reminded me of a male baboon whose face was urinated on by a female in season. Fortunately, he was unable to carry out his dire threats.
Clever prank though this was, I can’t say I approve of sending the fellow to Buckingham Palace. What if he had flashed at the Queen? A woman in her 90s doesn’t need that kind of surprise when she’s watering the plants. It would have been better to send him the postcode of a Turkish kebab house instead. Any fool who acts fresh in such a place is likely to end up with a skewer in his groin.
There may, however, be better methods of redress than sending such scoundrels on a wild goose chase. Why not just publish the indecent pictures on-line, in a rogues’ gallery of wicked willies? A panel of judges could then append their own comments, dripping with sarcasm and contempt. We gorillas believe that humiliation is often the most effective punishment. A good dose of shame will make the miscreant run away and look for a rock to crawl under.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Is it true that Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are embroiled in a feud? That’s what on-line gossips like Perez Hilton are saying, but the evidence looks flimsy to me. Much has been made of the fact that Taylor released an album called Bad Blood, but what does that prove? ‘Bad blood’ exists between a wide range of antagonists in many complex and varied situations. You can’t infer the existence of a feud between two pop singers because one of them uses it as the title of a songbook.
It reminds me of when Paul McCartney put a picture of one beetle mounting another on the cover of a record he produced shortly after the Beatles spilt up. All the pundits assumed he was referring to what the Fab Four were doing to each other, but maybe he just thought insect sex was funny. I confess that the sight of bugs getting laid always cracks me up – it’s the deadpan expressions on their faces that does it.
In an attempt to gain further insights into the Swift/Perry imbroglio, I asked the manager of the safari camp what he made of the rumours.
“I couldn’t give two hoots,” he said. “Those vixens quarrelling isn’t going to change the price of jelly beans. I’m not taking an interest in the matter unless they agree to settle their differences woman-to-woman in a naked mud-wrestling fight.”
This lack of useful input from the manager prompted me to do my own research. It seems that Katy has a habit of getting pally with Taylor’s ex-boyfriends. First it happened with a fellow called John Mayer, who became the subject of a heartbreak ballad written by Taylor. Then it happened with a disc jockey and impresario called Calvin Harris, who is now one of Katy’s artistic collaborators. You could say it was a coincidence, but we gorillas don’t believe in coincidences. Miss Perry clearly has some weird fixation about bedding Taylor’s cast-offs.
I decided to ask my old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, whether he had ever encountered this syndrome in his long and distinguished career as a playboy and poodlefaker.
“Indeed I have!” he exclaimed. “It’s a competitive thing. The second woman wants you to tell her she’s better in bed than the first woman. I refused to comment until it became clear that she needed to hear it to get turned on. I didn’t want to say it, but a man has to be pragmatic when he trying to get a woman aroused.”
If Smacker’s evidence is correct – and I have a high degree of confidence in his reliability as an expert witness in the sexual habits of humanity – it reflects very poorly on Miss Perry. In spite of all the praise and admiration lavished on her and her impressive boobs, she remains a deeply insecure woman. One hopes she is undergoing therapy to deal with her issues. If that doesn’t work, she should spend a few months in a nunnery to get it out of her system.