Carla and the mullahs

I wonder if the Iranian regime regrets calling Carla Bruni a prostitute. I doubt it upset her very much. France is one of those great nations where being a courtesan does not prevent a woman from becoming a national icon. The beautiful Madame de Pompadour serviced King Louis XV with great distinction until her untimely death at the age of 42. She was given a state funeral and her mourners included Voltaire, who bemoaned the fact that her life had been cut short when so many decrepit old farts were still living. I remember saying something similar when Princess Diana died, although grief may have disordered my wits. 

Perhaps Carla should have responded to the Iranians as follows:

“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”

It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom. 

The only vulnerable point in Sarko’s palace security is the midgets he has hired as his bodyguards. The problem with midgets is that: (a) they are very easy to bribe, and (b) they are small enough to hide under a bed. The Iranian regime might well have recruited one of them as an informant by offering him a regular supply of pistachio nuts, a snack which they possess in ample supply. If so, Sarko’s fear of being dwarfed in public may have exposed his darkest secrets to the Big Turbans in Teheran. Vanity is downfall of all great Frenchmen. 

As a former circus ape, I have fielded my fair share of insults from humans resentful of my fame and rugged good looks. A fat-bellied oaf once called me “a big hairy cunt” when I was having an evening stroll after a show in Chelmsford. As there were no women or children in the vicinity to overhear his coarse remark, I decided to treat him leniently. 

“There is no such thing as a hairy cunt, you fat-bellied oaf,” I said. “The hair which decorates the female pudenda is always located on the perimeter of the sexual organ rather than actually on it. This is true for female gorillas as well as women.” 

His only retort to my anatomical treatise was to make a noise like a braying jackass. I decided to let this utterance pass without comment. A dignified silence is usually appropriate when an effective riposte has already been delivered. So, after turning my back on the fat-bellied oaf, I ambled away leisurely while thrusting my rump from side to side.

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