Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Face-sitting protest
Yesterday I got a phone call from Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy. After expressing the usual Christmas greetings, he asked me why I hadn’t written a post in support of the face-sitting protest that took place in London on the twelfth of this month.
“Your moral support would have meant so much to them,” he said.
“Did you go to the event yourself?” I asked.
“God no!” he exclaimed. “What if someone had sat on my face? The climate at home would have turned distinctly frigid if my wife had found out. She might never have sat on my face again!”
“A calamity you were wise to avoid risking,” I remarked.
The protest in London was against a new censorship law which bans various practices from being depicted in pornography produced in the UK. After biting my lip to steel my nerves I reviewed the list myself, and concluded that while some of the proscribed acts were unimaginably vile, others were merely the kind of horseplay you would see on any visit to a baboon camp. One of the forbidden deeds, as you might have guessed, was a woman resting her nether regions on the face of a compliant partner.
It seems that many of the women protesting in London were porn stars. I find it difficult not to sympathise with them. After enduring gruelling hours getting pounded from all angles, sitting on someone’s face must feel like a perk of the job. Furthermore, it is sexist and discriminatory to outlaw acts aimed specifically at giving women pleasure, while allowing men to indulge in all their favourite vices. When I told my females about it, they vowed to sit on the face of any man who refused to let a woman sit on his face. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.
I'm glad to hear that an Italian politician is taking the issue of sexism seriously. Matteo Salvini, leader of the Northern League party, deplores the disrespectful ogling of scantily-clad women by so many of his shameless countrymen. To atone for this grievous sin, he has started distributing semi-naked pictures of himself to share the pain of Italian women. It’s too early to judge whether his gimmick will appeal to disaffected female voters, but someone must be looking at all the pictures he’s been circulating.
Why are statesmen like Signor Salvini never seen in American politics? Sex only becomes an issue in the US when some wretched scandal occurs, like the distinguished gentleman from New York texting photos of his distinguished dick. President Clinton has a lot to answer for in my view. The worst thing about his episode with Miss Lewinsky was that everything was done for his own pleasure, with no regard for Monica’s needs as a fresh young hoochie. If she'd been sitting on his face during most of their intimate moments, it would have put a completely different complexion on the affair. I have not the slightest doubt that America would now be a happier and healthier country.
Labels: censorship, Face-sitting, Italy, Monica Lewinsky, porn actresses
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
Friday, September 30, 2011
Hungry for power
The manager of the safari camp refuses to believe that Sarah Palin had a fetish for black men in her carefree days as a nubile college nymph.
“There’s no way a white woman would marry a Caucasian after sleeping with black men,” he declared. “When they’ve had black, there’s no going back.”
“Perhaps it was a case of ‘too much of a good thing’,” I suggested. “I’ve heard of humans going off chocolate after binging on those dark chunky slabs they sell in the supermarket.”
“Fish-paste!” scoffed the manager. “A woman doesn’t go off men for being too chunky. Not unless they make her do kinky stuff, like biting their buttocks while the dog is watching. Black men aren’t into such vices.”
“I humbly bow to your superior knowledge,” I replied. “Your scholarship in this field is clearly second to none.”
Unfortunately for Sarah, the rumour will damage her politically whether or not it’s true. Many white men will deeply resent the idea that black college athletes enjoyed the flower of her womanhood at its freshest, while her hapless husband had to make do with the stale leftovers. I don’t see how the Republican Party could nominate her now, given that she’d have to take part in live TV debates with President Obama. All that Barry would have to do is flex his forearms and throw her a wink to make her go weak at the knees.
The unwritten rule for a woman with political ambitions is to get elected before embarking upon a sex scandal. Consider the case of Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who governs Australia in the name of the Queen. Before becoming prime minister, she fooled people into thinking she was a frigid schoolmistress who changed her knickers every time the wind blew up her skirt. When I say “people” I mean “humans”, of course. We gorillas knew she was an insatiable vixen from the minute she entered politics. You don’t deny yourself the carnal delights if you’ve got the orang-utan gene.
Now that her hands are on the levers of power, a show has appeared on Australian TV depicting an alleged kerfuffle on the floor of her office, in which she and her fancy man canoodle nakedly beneath the national flag. I’d be very surprised if this patriotic frolic will offend the voters. The last thing the Australian electorate want is a frustrated woman who obviously isn’t getting any to boss them around.
“What about Hilldog?” I hear you ask. I personally think it’s too late for Mrs Clinton to revive her flagging political career by having sex with someone. People would think she was doing it to win votes rather than because she genuinely enjoyed it. It’s time for the Democrats to pass the torch to a new generation of highly-energised hotties with the drive and ambition to get on top and stay there. If Chelsea isn’t interested, the heir apparent has got to be Monica Lewinsky. There aren’t many women in America with her record of selfless service.
Labels: Hillary Clinton, Julia Gillard, Monica Lewinsky, Sarah Palin
Friday, August 20, 2010
Chelsea's wedding
I overheard the tourists at the safari guesthouse discussing whether the Clintons had snubbed president Obama by not inviting him to Chelsea’s wedding. It was a topic on which I could not hold my peace:
“Not getting an invitation was the best piece of luck he’s had since the Republican phone sex scandal!” I exclaimed. “If he’d gone to the wedding, protocol would have required him to give a speech praising Chelsea. Flattering a girl he’s never given a second look would have made him look like a chicken-greaser!”
“I dunno,” said one of the guests. “Lying convincingly shouldn’t be so difficult for a politician.”
He had a point. I later pondered the words that Barry might have chosen for the occasion. Perhaps he would have said something like this:
When I saw Chelsea at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, I thought: “Man, that white chick’s got a great ass!” If I hadn’t been married to my lovely wife Michelle, I would have definitely asked Chelsea to be my date at The Detroit Gospel Choir’s Annual Karaoke Dinner.
A touching tribute like that would have surely transformed Chelsea into the perfect blushing bride. But it might not have impressed the guests all that much. They would have known that a woman always gets compliments on her wedding day, no matter how frumpy or boney-assed she is. Barry is pretty good at sounding sincere, but even his majestic oratory has its limits.
He could have given another type of speech, of course – one harking back to all the fond memories he had of Chelsea since she was a tiny tot:
When Bill Clinton was running for governor of Arkansas in 1982, I was privileged to be a junior staffer on his campaign team. One of my most important jobs was baby-sitting little Chelsea when her mom and dad were on the campaign trail. Now people: I can tell you her poop smelt just as bad as the possum shit I accidentally trod on when stuffing “Vote for Bill” flyers into mail boxes. But when she started hollering I said: “You wait ‘til your folks get home, Missy, changing your diapers is a task way above my pay grade!”
This sort of reminiscence would certainly go down well with wedding guests. The one allegation that humans will always believe is that someone else’s shit smells bad. If I announced that Queen Rania of Jordan produced turds that smelt of buffalo crap, people would assume I’d worked as a lavatory cleaner at the Royal Palace in Amman.
The downside of delivering such an anecdote is the risk of alienating the president’s core constituencies, who might think that smelling the poop of a white baby had taken him into Uncle Tom territory. Hilldog might then have to reciprocate by saying she’d smelled the poop of the president’s daughters, a confession which would make her surly and irritable. Much muttering and scowling would occur in the corridors of power.
So all things considered, I think the Clintons did the president a favour by not inviting him to their daughter’s wedding. But they should have invited Monica Lewinsky – leaving her off the guest list was just petty.
Labels: Barack Obama, Chelsea Clinton, Hilldog, Monica Lewinsky, smelling poop
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Chelsea flower show
I was reminded of the fable of The Ugly Ducking when I saw footage of Chelsea Clinton the other day. Who would have thought that the geeky teenager who sharpened her pencils on the White House lawn would blossom into such a foxy chick! Well, perhaps more squirrelly than foxy, but you know what I mean. I have Chelsea
“You ruddy fool!” I guffawed. “She’s not named after a football team, but a trendy London
I later warned the chimpanzee to stay clear of the place, if he ever visited London
By all accounts, Miss Clinton is giving bravura performances across the prairies and cornfields of America
Will Chelsea Chelsea
Picture the scene: President Chelsea is lying on her desk, sighing deeply with legs akimbo, having been slurped to satisfaction by a floppy-haired intern. She slides off the smooth, moist surface and pulls up her knickers, watching the young gallant comb his tousled hair. Her sharp eyes notice a wet patch on the young man’s collar and she instantly recognises the danger – that incriminating discharge would be catnip to the polecats of the political jungle.
“Hey Buster!” she calls out sharply. “Leave your shirt in the bathroom! You’re not leaving this place with my oyster sauce on your collar!”
The shirt is laundered and all traces of presidential DNA are removed.
The one thing Chelsea Chelsea
Labels: Chelsea Clinton, Monica Lewinsky, Oyster Sauce
