China syndrome

I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.

It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:

“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”

“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.

“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”

“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”

So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.  

I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.

The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour. 

Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.

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Disposable waste

I notice a spate of incidents in which sex dolls have been rescued from rivers and oceans. One presumes they were dumped there by their owners. Is it possible that men who buy sex dolls grow bored or disenchanted with their company? I find the idea quite upsetting.

I discussed this ugly development with the manager of the safari camp.

“Couldn’t they have offered them for sale on eBay rather than callously disposing of them in that fashion?” I asked.

“What makes you think anyone would want to buy a second-hand sex doll?” he replied. “If I ever bought one I’d want her to be a virgin.”

“You might be disappointed,” I said. “I’m fairly certain they’re tested in the factory before being shipped to customers.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the manager. “I pity the poor fool who has that job! I wonder if his wife gets jealous – if he has a wife.”

“Why would she mind unless he brought his work home with him?” I said. “Would your wife be jealous if you copulated with a sex doll?”

“Yes,” answered the manager.

I didn’t argue the point. He knows his wife better than I do and presumably has reasons for his belief.

I personally think it should be a crime to treat sex dolls like garbage. They may not have feelings, but they possess a stoic dignity that ought to be respected. The fact that they were mistaken for real women before being rescued from drowning shows how beautifully crafted the latest models are. The virginity issue is nonsense, of course. I’m sure they’re as good as new after a thorough douching.

Some of you might be wondering whether I own shares in a company that manufactures sex dolls. I am happy to answer your question. Yes, I do. I once asked the directors, at the annual general meeting, why we didn’t make dolls that looked like famous actresses or pop stars. They said the women would sue us. When I suggested asking them for permission, everyone just laughed.

One female celebrity who might agree to have a sex doll made in her likeness is Lady Gaga. She prides herself on being unconventional and “out there”, so maybe she’d take it as a compliment. Her latest avant garde exploit was to be photographed naked on the toilet. She claims she did it to highlight the eating disorders she endured in her adolescence. I don’t quite see the connection unless she suffered from constipation.

What fascinates me is how small the toilet bowl is compared with Miss Gaga’s bottom. I’m sure this isn’t because her bottom is particularly big. My theory is that she will only sit on small toilets because of a morbid fear of falling into the bowl. Maybe she did actually fall in when she was a little girl, and now has a phobia.

I admit the above is pure speculation on my part; but if I’m right, she ought to have plenty of sympathy for sex dolls that get dumped in the sea.

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Sex doll relationships

The latest human sex dolls are getting very realistic. The company I own shares in printed photos of their new “Supersnatch” model in their annual report. In a recent TV documentary, a client confessed that he’d fallen in love with one of these dolls. Admittedly, he was a 78-year-old man with custom-built model based on his 22-year-old ex-girlfriend. The doll’s physical likeness to the girl was extraordinary. Her personality and conversational skills were pretty close as well, apparently.

The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.

An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.

The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.

Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.

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