Electric butt plug

Somebody sent me an email urging me to read a book called Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t know who the emailer is, but the main argument he made was as follows:

It’s the perfect book to write about in your blog. The main character is a woman who enjoys having an electric plug stuck up her bottom!

I don’t know whether to believe this. Electric plugs come in many shapes in sizes, but none, as far as I know, is suitable for pleasuring a woman’s dorsal orifice. I often get emails from practical jokers trying to bamboozle me with outlandish hoaxes. Another possibility is that my emailer is woefully ignorant about anal devices and confused an electric plug with a butt plug. Here is the substance of my reply:

Thanks for the suggestion, but it doesn’t sound like something I’d want to read. I’m not a fan of inserting plugs into sockets which haven’t been electrically tested. What you describe would be futile unless the woman could generate an alternating current in her rectum.

So much for Fifty Shades of Grey, now for a book I might actually read. I discovered it by accident during my anthropological studies and its title is God’s Doodle: The Life and Times of the Penis. As a work of non-fiction, it should be full of hard facts rather than descriptions of deeds which stretch credulity. All its Amazon reviews have 5 stars and the female reviewers found the book funny. One assumes they laughed at the pictures as much as the words. Here is what a couple of enthralled ladies wrote:

“I was laughing out loud and that was just at the introduction! Appeals to both men and women, my husband loved it too. I'll be buying more copies to give as Xmas gifts. Excellent!” – JessieSmurf

“A great book, really funny, I would recommend for yourself or as a present. Well written, this could be the next big thing.” – Jacqui

It’s a pity more people didn’t buy it for Christmas: it sounds like a great stocking stuffer.

A lot of men get annoyed when women laugh at their willies. They shouldn’t. Laughter is often a mask for other emotions, such as apprehension, surprise and discomfort caused by moisture in the panties. Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, once told me that a woman he’d slept with had giggled at his dick.

“Don’t worry about it, Smacker,” I said. “Far better that she giggled than screamed or called the police.”

Unlike being sodomised by an electric plug, laughter is a normal, healthy thing for a woman to do. It relieves stress and exercises vital muscles, including those in the vicinity of the coochie. That’s why women who laugh frequently are more relaxed and easier to get into bed. If I were a man, I would happily garnish my todger with pretzel rings and icing sugar to make a woman laugh. As Martin Luther King said, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.

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The best medicine

 

A Russian doctor has opened a clinic specialising in laughter therapy. His theory is that regular chortling is an effective treatment for a multitude of maladies ranging from high blood pressure to cancer. I can verify from personal experience that it works for constipation. 

Although my current jungle diet makes my shit flow like a mudslide, I wasn’t able to follow it back in my circus days. I once got a concrete feeling in my colon after eating too many cream crackers, so I went to the bog and tried to empty my bowels by reading The Henry Root Letters. Believe me, there is nothing on Earth that feels like laughing out a turd – a mixture of agony, hilarity and relief in one big dump. My hooting and hollering caused people outside to wonder whether sadomasochist practices were going on. Fortunately they were too scared to intervene, which would have definitely resulted in an ugly incident. 

Of course this doesn’t mean the clinic is bound to be a success, because there’s a big difference between gorillas and Russians. Laughter is a habit we have acquired from a carefree jungle lifestyle involving dancing, swinging and the spanking of baboons. The Russians, by contrast, have had very few opportunities for mirth in their grim and tragic history, bedevilled with notorious despots such as Ivan the Terrible and Igor the Horrible. I seriously doubt whether many of them even enjoy laughing. 

When Solzenitsyn came to the West, the first thing he noticed was people smiling in the streets, which he found irksome. 

“Their gossip, nonsense and vain talk belie an emptiness of the soul,” he pompously declared. 

Silly old fart. Little did he realise, in his profound ignorance, that gossip, nonsense and vain talk have underpinned the greatest achievements of Western civilisation, including parliamentary democracy, the moon landings and talk radio. That’s what happens to a writer who shoots to fame as a chronicler of misery and oppression – he loses the ability to see past his nose. 

Maybe the new Russia is different, though. Communism has been dead for 20 years and Boris Yeltsin could certainly act like a buffoon, albeit not a particularly funny one. Vladimir Putin still has the old KGB poker face, but the younger generation have invented some clever practical jokes, such as the mail-order bride who steals money from desperate fat men. 

A very promising attempt at humour was recently made in St Petersburg by some up-and-coming artists, who drew a giant phallus on one of the city’s bridges. They called their creation “A Penis in KGB Captivity” to draw attention to heavy-handed police tactics during an international conference. There was talk of short-listing the graffiti for an art prize, but the authorities ordered the fire brigade to obliterate it with their hoses. They wouldn’t even let it stand proudly for the duration of the conference. 

My question for the Russians is this: If you can’t laugh at a big willy, what can you laugh at? 

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A ticklish question

Scientists have finally admitted that laughter was invented by apes (and not Charlie Chaplin, as some humans appear to believe). I once tried to explain this to a group of tourists on safari and they reacted with incredulity.

“What is there to laugh at in the jungle?” asked one of them.

“A baboon’s red bottom,” I replied.

They were forced to concede the point.

We gorillas are constantly laughing at stuff as a matter of fact – we chortle, we chuckle, we cackle, we guffaw. And it’s not just slapstick jokes like elephant-sex that we enjoy. The jungle is full of subtle little ironies that make us smirk – the forgetful frog; the confused snake; the bilious beetle. It’s difficult to keep a straight face with all these comedy acts going on around us.

But let’s get back to the scientists. After tickling some infant apes, they realised that humans had copied laughter from their hairy cousins. This having been established, they wondered whether it was safe to tickle gorillas. Now we gorillas are ticklish and enjoy it as much as the next ape, but you can’t just walk up and fiddle with us. If a stranger started prodding my belly, I would wonder what the devil he was up to and pull his nose until he stopped doing it. If you want to tickle a gorilla you’ve got to start by making polite conversation. Tell me your favourite colour; comment on the price of citrus fruit; discuss the likely ramifications of the El Niño weather phenomenon. Only after creating a friendly rapport should you ask permission to tweak the flesh in a decent area of the body. Try any naughty stuff and you’re going to get spanked.

I’m not a great tickler myself. My females laugh enough without it and the humans I encounter are too shy to bring up the subject. A woman did once ask me to tickle her in my circus days. She was agreeably fleshy, but I was not inclined to oblige her.

“Tickling is a blunt instrument only to be used when humour has failed,” I said. “Watch a comedy show instead.”

“But I don’t have a sense of humour,” she retorted.

“Nonsense!” I barked. “I’ll give you a free ticket to our next show so you can see my act with the clowns.”

So she came along to the circus and watched the show from start to finish. In all honesty, I was on top form. Our antics brought the house down, and never did a team of clowns leave a circus ring with buttocks so sore. I met the woman outside my trailer after the show.

“You were really funny but I just couldn’t laugh.” she said. “I told you I didn’t have a sense of humour.”

I stared at her grimly. Perhaps there was a defect in her brain that prevented her from reacting normally to the sight of clowns getting their arses repeatedly kicked.

“Very well,” I said dryly, “you leave me with no alternative but to employ cruder methods of stimulation.”

I invited her into my trailer, bound her hands and feet, and fingered her flesh methodically until she shrieked and squirmed convulsively. I carried on sadistically until she was begging for mercy, flushed, sweaty and exhausted.

“You may leave,” I said after untying her hands and feet. “Let that be a lesson to you. A sense of humour is a far kinder palliative than tickle torture. I suggest you visit a psychologist who might help you overcome your mental block.”

I ignored all her requests for further sessions.

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