Scarlett's phantom pregnancy

Scarlett Johannson has denied that she’s carrying Sean Penn’s baby and I, for one, believe her. The bulge in her belly could have many innocent explanations, such as a bout of dropsy or too many side orders of potato wedges. She might even be hiding a gopher beneath her sweater like a mommy kangaroo. Most actresses go through a sentimental phase about animals. We gorillas will always remember the visit of Daryl Hannah, who approached our hairy community like a girl in search of a piggy-back ride. A kindly female patted her on the head and gave her some roots to chew. 

There’s another reason why Scarlett is unlikely to be pregnant – I seriously doubt whether The Pennster’s man-seed is up to the job. Actors who’ve led dissolute, drug-taking lives often end up with lackadaisical sperm that chase their own tails rather than making a beeline for the nearest egg. The couple must have had carnal relations, of course. A woman doesn’t shack up with one of Hollywood’s leading men unless she’s ready and willing to spread her legs for him. Refusing to oblige would have certainly provoked a huge tantrum from Penn, possibly culminating in Mel Gibson-like threats to burn the house down. 

One thing that doesn’t surprise me is Scarlett taking to an older man. Those of you who’ve seen the film Lost in Translation will know what I’m talking about. In that movie, she plays a bewildered young woman who wanders around Tokyo looking for someone to talk to. Amid the unsettling hordes of inscrutable Japanese, she finds an American man played by Bill Murray, who soothes her troubled soul with his mellow reflections. It was obvious, even then, that Scarlet hankered after a craggy-faced Daddy figure who would tell her bedtime stories while balancing her on his knee. You may say that she was only acting, but A-list thespians habitually draw on their own emotions to make their performances convincing. 

Speaking of older men, the relentless hounding of Silvio Berlusconi is beginning to get on my nerves. The latest accusation against him is that he encouraged a pair of party girls to make love to a statue of the god Priapus, whose broken todger he had previously repaired. Is this supposed to be a crime? What would be the point of restoring a statue’s manhood if you didn’t intend to help it use its new equipment? If a man is prosecuted for being a pimp to a restored work of art, the emasculated sculptures of the world will remain forever dickless. 

The allegation I utterly refuse to believe is that Berlusconi has had sexual congress with multiple high-class harlots in his “bunga-bunga” parties. Aside from the fact that “bunga-bunga” means “masturbation” in the Congo, the statue incident proves beyond doubt that he prefers watching to participating. A wily old goat like Silvio knows better than to endanger his health by allowing whores to milk his waning gonads. When a man gets to his age, vicarious titillation is a safer option than the real McCoy.

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