A French tourist excitedly informs me that Pamela Anderson will be performing at Le Crazy Horse, a famous cabaret club in Paris.
“Mr Bananas, you must come! There is no charge for Pamela’s friends! She will be thrilled to see you!”
“Thank you, Gaston, but I imagine she’ll be thrilled enough without me pouting at her from the audience.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “She will be performing the striptease to the famous Harley Davidson.”
“My oh my!” I exclaim. “A spectacle to dazzle Paris, Gaston. However where Pamela’s body is concerned, that which I have already seen is indelibly etched in my memory; and that which I have not, I am content to leave to my imagination.”
He shrugs his shoulders with a Gallic purse of the lips and leaves me to ponder this remarkable event. I certainly don’t disapprove of Pamela displaying her wares in Paris and marvel at the ingenuity of bringing a Harley Davidson into the act. I hope they start up the engine as she approaches the climax of her exotic gyrations. To have that mighty beast throbbing between her legs should draw attention away from her over-hyped balloons to her under-hyped undercarriage.
The episode of Baywatch in which Pamela first appeared was one that I watched with my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet.
“I wouldn’t mind some of that,” mused Smacker as he stared at the bosomy starlet, then at the peak of her carnal magnetism.
“I’m no expert on these matters, Smacker, but wouldn’t you say that her airbags have been artificially inflated?” I suggested tentatively.
“I know that!” cried Smacker indignantly. “I was looking downstairs! I’d like to tuck into those thighs with mayonnaise and a side salad!”
Ever since that exchange, I have always thought of Pamela as a woman for the leg-and-rump man – a prime example of “white meat on the drumstick”, as the connoisseurs put it.
It's a real pity that Pamela’s acting career didn’t take off after that promising start. I would have cast her as a German slave girl in a sword-and-sandals epic set in ancient Rome. Her character would pine for Butch Hermann, a childhood sweetheart from the Black Forest, presently having his Teutonic torso oiled and scraped in gladiator school. Picture the scene as she is freed by her kindly Roman master to seek out her true love:
“I wish for every Roman a heart like yours!” she says in tearful gratitude.
“And I wish for every Roman matron a bottom like yours!” he replies waggishly.
In the amphitheatre finale, Butch Hermann (the German) would be locked in mortal combat with Fista Lesbia (the emperor’s iron-pumping sister). After an hour of pulsating action, Hermann has Fista at his mercy, his sword primed for the coup de grâce.
“I cannot slay the woman I love!” he bellows. “Let me return to the Black Forest with Fista as my queen, there to renounce the Roman oyster for the German sausage!”
He helps his opponent to her feet and clasps his manly hands on her manly shoulders.
“No!” shrieks Pamela from the Vestal Virgin box. “I am your rightful queen, Hermann! You pledged me your love when I showed you my secret treasure in the glades of Krakstein!”
The crowd gasps and murmurs as Hermann stares wide-eyed at his long lost flame.
“Let us both accompany the valiant Hermann!” cries Fista, gazing at Pamela with tender eyes. “For as we say in the Pinkus Campus, ‘two queens are better than one’!”
The crowd goes wild with joy and the emperor declares three days of orgies.
The absence of roles like this probably explains why Pamela is now straddling motorbikes in Parisian night clubs. It’s a bit of an anticlimax really. The French are certainly inventive at titillation, but the striptease is obviously running out of steam as a sensual art form. There simply isn’t enough mystery left in a woman’s body for nudity to be a thrill anymore. Men might still pay top dollar for novelty acts – like a lady newsreader getting her kit off for the first time – but a woman who has bared all is just another chicken in the meat market. The way forward for the sex goddess is to keep her naughty bits covered and work on her acting skills. Authentic facial expressions and noises are what the voyeurs of tomorrow will be after.
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