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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
I’ve been looking at a Powerpoint presentation prepared by Miss Lizzy Fenton, a student at the University of Minnesota. This was not a piece of coursework for her degree. The title of the presentation is “Why You Should Date Me”, and she emailed it to a chap she had a crush on.
The data in the presentation imply that Miss Fenton would be the most desirable girlfriend since Anna Nicole Smith wrapped her luscious thighs around the withering loins of J Howard Marshall. One of the slides has the heading “My Boobs Exhibit Steady Growth Over Time”, followed by a graph showing Lizzy’s cup size has increased from A to DD over the last four years. If the trend continues, her jahoobies will resemble a pair of 240mm artillery shells by 2025.
Another slide has the heading “Monogamy Not Your Style: No Problem”. Rather than saying she would be happy with polygamy, Lizzy argues that she is capable of being three different women. This would be achieved by alternate hairstyles, different pairs of spectacles and variations in her facial expression. She also claims she can change her personality from “mysterious and seductive” to “geeky and kinky”.
The last slide has the heading “Still Not Convinced: Listen to the Critics”. These “critics” include Lizzie’s Mom, who may not be an impartial judge. However, the ex-girlfriend of the fellow she has a crush on is quoted as saying “She’s definitely an upgrade. Nice work, old sport.” There are also endorsements from Channing Tatum and the New York Times.
It would be all too easy to dismiss Miss Fenton as a ridiculously forward floozy who has turned the delicate rites of human courtship into a joke. I prefer to see her as a resolutely modern woman who believes in asking directly for what she wants. This is a more honest strategy than playing hard-to-get in the hope that some chowderhead will chase after you. The “presentation” may be utter balderdash, but it’s the kind of nonsense that brings a smile to the face.
You must be wondering what response Lizzy got from the man she was trying to impress. You need wonder no longer, because she published the email he sent her. It was a very short one:
“This is very nice. Please stop contacting me.”
I’d say this was a very poor reply to a piece of work that must have taken hours to put together. A gentleman of the old school would have praised the quality of the slides, while politely explaining why he did not find the arguments sufficiently compelling to take the matter further. The man’s name is Carter Blochwitz, which could explain why he reacted in such a curt and timid fashion. Anyone given the name “Carter” is likely to be nervous about being approached in a humorous way. Who could forget the famous limerick that starts:
The first mate’s name was Carter
He must have heard that one a thousand times when he was at school.
Wednesday, May 03, 2017
House of Dolls
Would you believe there is a brothel in Barcelona staffed by sex robots? I had to pinch myself when I saw this article to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. (I have yet to awake from a dream after pinching myself – maybe it’s time to replace that old saw with biting your toe or something.) The Spanish company behind this venture is called Lumidolls, and they are planning to open a similar establishment in the UK, where brothels containing flesh-and-blood women are illegal. They hope to attract customers by advertising the following features:
• a wide selection of “totally realistic” girl robots, with “angelic faces” and “penetrative gazes”;
• the opportunity to enact fantasies you “would not dare to do with a woman”;
• the use of “special antibacterial soaps” to disinfect the robots after they have entertained their clients.
The key question for potential customers is in what sense these simulacra are “robots” rather than just “dolls”. To the naked eye, they look like dolls – I can’t detect any moving parts and the expressions on their faces are decidedly fixed. Maybe they emit squeaks when you squeeze them, like children’s toys, but I doubt that will satisfy punters looking for an interactive experience.
Naturally, I forwarded the article to the manager of the safari camp, hoping to be enlightened by his take on the robots/dolls, but he was more concerned about what they were charging for using them:
“82 pounds an hour!” he exclaimed. “That’s almost as much as a real woman costs!”
“But you are ignoring the advantages they have over real woman,” I replied mischievously. “They won’t laugh at men who whinny like horses and go cross-eyed when they climax.”
“Have you been talking to my wife?” he asked suspiciously. “I could tell you a few things about her.”
Even if the brothels were to lower their fees, they would not be popular with everyone. Feminists argue that men who use sex robots will get into the habit of treating women like objects. This may well be true in some cases. Other men, however, may suffer from the opposite delusion. I remember reading an article about a sad old codger who had fallen in love with his sex doll. The poor fellow was convinced she was a tender creature who loved him dearly. He might well have left her everything he had in his will – I suppose the money could have been used to repaint her skin or replace parts that had lost their elasticity. Or maybe he gave instructions for her to be buried with him. Sex doll or not, you have to be sorry for a girl who suffers that fate.
What can one say about these psychosexual dilemmas? I don’t pretend to have the answers. There are no sex dolls in the jungle, and if there were they would be torn to shreds by the baboons. All one can do is observe the foibles of humanity and record them faithfully for posterity. There is no hero but the truth, as Tolstoy said.