Language lessons

I’m glad to hear that Brazilian prostitutes are preparing for next year’s football World Cup by learning English. The manager of the safari camp laughed like an idiot when he heard about this:

“Why are they bothering when there are well-known hand signals for their services?” he guffawed.

“Not all whores are as cheap as the ones you’d be willing to pay for,” I retorted. “Some men appreciate a little conversation before getting down to the nitty-gritty. And possibly during it as well.”

“Oo-hoo, a gorilla pimp!” chirped the manager sarcastically. “Can I meet your bottom bitch?”

“My bottom bitch is a female gorilla,” I replied. “She’d give you her hand signals whether or not you asked for them.”

That shut him up.

I’m proud to say that I’ve always had a good rapport with women who work in the sex industry. Once they realise I’m not a potential client, they stop all their phony posturing and unburden their souls to me. (Yes, prostitutes do have souls: the religious fundamentalists are wrong about that.) After listening patiently to their confessions, I do what I can to soothe their anxieties and encourage their cultural leanings. Some of them are quite intelligent. I’ve had interesting discussions with prostitutes about wind turbines, vegetarian cuisine and the latest douche technology.

Not everyone who visits Brazil during the World Cup will consort with call girls, of course. Some men are so fanatical about football that they’d rather watch their team score a goal than score themselves with a woman. There’s been an on-going debate within the footballing fraternity about whether certain memorable goals were better than orgasms. It’s not a question I feel competent to address, other than to note that the answer depends on the quality of the orgasm as well as the quality of the goal. Clearly, some humans have better ones than others, even before resorting to strangulation and apples in the mouth.

One man who won’t be visiting any hookers for a long time is the West Indian security guard who shot himself in the penis. This unsavoury incident occurred when he was loitering suspiciously inside a parked car. What surprises me is that the police are now holding him under guard in hospital. Even if shooting one’s penis is a crime in Trinidad, it is surely its own punishment. There’s no need for a judge and jury to rub salt in the wound.

Let’s hope the doctors can arrange a dick transplant for the fellow. There must be a suitable donor from all the hundreds of young men who die in motorcycle accidents. Although Freudian theory suggests that bikers are under-endowed in the todger department, this is probably a good thing for transplant surgery. Men should not be given an incentive to replace their private parts for cosmetic reasons.

This brings us neatly to the question of what should be done with Ron Jeremy’s penis if he suffers an untimely demise. My preferred solution would be turning it into a party horn that children could blow-up when they visit the Smithsonian. On second thoughts, that’s vile, but do you have a better suggestion?

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