Viagra abuse

An English TV gardener has been feeding his plants Viagra to stiffen up their stalks. Doesn’t he know that plants don’t have sex by poking their stalks in places? Even if they did, they wouldn’t want some meddling botanist playing the pander by feeding them chemical stimulants. Nature is not a giant whorehouse for humans to pimp around in with their pills and potions. 

The worrying thing for the English housewife is that farmers might now start using this method to firm up their vegetables. The authorities better make sure that supermarkets label their produce correctly, so respectable households don’t end up chewing sticks of celery laced with Viagra. The English home is a finely-tuned ecosystem which depends on its resident sexual organs behaving predictably and obediently. Its harmony would be destroyed if willies started popping up all over the place. 

You might think that a big macho gorilla like me would have no use for Viagra. Well, I have considered using the blue pills, but not in a way you might imagine. We jungle-dwelling apes, you see, have to deal with deadly creatures that might do us harm. The most dangerous beasts are not hippos and crocodiles, but critters that creep around slyly. Snakes are a particularly aggravating hazard. The manager of the safari camp advocates a no-nonsense approach in dealing with them: 

“Chop their fucking heads off!” he once exhorted. “I’ll lend you my machete if you want.”

“That’s a very human solution to the problem,” I remarked. “We gorillas prefer less messy methods of removing unwanted guests.” 

That’s when I dreamt up the idea of doping snakes with Viagra, which would render them harmless by making them as rigid as French bread. Snakes in that condition would be unable to hiss or squirm or move from A to B. We could just pick them up and humanely dispose of them, possibly by hurling them a good distance like javelins. The only difficulty would be getting the snakes to swallow the pills in the first place. One possibility is to feed them mice that have been force fed with Viagra. You may say this is cruel to the mice, but let’s face it: they’re going to get eaten anyway. Maybe we’ll let the little rodents have a last night of shagging before they’re sacrificed in a noble cause. 

I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that I consider all humans to be machete-wielding maniacs, like the manager of the safari camp. Obviously, upright primates have a violent side to their nature (which they get from their chimp genes), but they also have a pacifist side to their nature (which they get from their gorilla genes). A laudable example of benign human behaviour was seen in the recent cuddle party at a London train station, in which pairs of humans attempted to break the world record for the longest hug. I don’t know if any of them succeeded, but the girls on the left deserve points for artistic impression. 

You have read this article cuddle party / snakes / stiff stalks / viagra with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2012/01/viagra-abuse.html. Thanks!

Sleeping booty

I’m feeling a little sorry for the 19-year-old Polish girl who mistook a snake for her boyfriend. She was asleep on a couch when the serpent coiled around her thighs, making her think that said boyfriend was exploring her nether regions. It’s an easy mistake to make in a country such as Poland, where snakes are rather thin on the ground. Apparently, this one had escaped from a pet shop and was looking for a safe place to hide in. It succeeded only partially, I should imagine. 

The girl was naturally horrified to find herself in flagrante delicto with a reptile when she awoke. I hope she didn’t feel violated. The snake obviously had no idea what it was doing and must have been as shocked as she was when its comfortable resting place turned into a mass of squirming flesh. If anyone deserves blame it’s the boyfriend, who left the young woman alone and unprotected. What’s the point of having a 19-year-old girlfriend if you abandon her the minute she lies down on a couch? 

Interestingly enough, the practice of fondling women in their sleep seems to be a growing niche area of erotic entertainment. Heaven knows why porn viewers find it arousing. In the first place, the actresses are obviously only pretending to be asleep; in the second place, their supposed condition severely restricts the range of acts they can perform. Maybe it’s something men dream of doing to their wives, to satisfy their needs with the minimum of fuss and no post-coital cuddling. I wouldn’t be surprised if quite a few husbands got kneed in the groin after unsuccessfully attempting the manoeuvre. Watching the deed depicted in pornography might help them live out their escapist fantasy. 

You might be wondering how a busy gorilla like me keeps up with the latest themes of the adult entertainment industry. As luck would have it, a couple of on-line acquaintances send me video clips, with a particular focus on the kinky genres. Are these correspondents readers of this blog? I’m not going to say, but they do encourage me to ruminate on their offerings and promulgate my views. Many humans, it seems, want to have their hobbies validated by a gorilla. 

Anyway, a more legitimate method of stimulating a sleeping woman has been devised by an Englishman called Tony Maggs. The Little Rooster Alarm Clock is a non-penetrative device that rests inside the knickers and brings the wearer to a joyous awakening at a time of her choosing. 

“It starts very gently, then slowly increases in power until you wake up,” explained Maggs. “It’s so much nicer than a conventional alarm clock,” he added. “Why would a woman want to wake-up any other way?” 

Maggs is clearly delighted with his invention, but I’d like to hear the opinion of a user before it gets the Bananas endorsement. If any lady bloggers are planning to give it a try, I will link their review at the end of this post.

You have read this article Little Rooster Alarm clock / pornography / sleep / snakes with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2011/11/sleeping-booty.html. Thanks!

Sleeping arrangements

Apparently, a lot of British people find that listening to jungle noises puts them to sleep. I suppose the chattering of monkeys reminds them of childhood visits to the zoo, rather than annoying creatures who might piss on their heads. When I want to fall asleep quickly, I listen to an audiotape of a woman nagging her husband. It takes me back to my carefree circus days, when I sniggered at humans queuing for tickets in the hot sun. 

Sadly, Britain no longer produces women like Mary Poppins, who could coax people to Noddyland by a singing a soothing lullaby. Cut-glass English accents are out of fashion in the UK, where the current crop of nannies are burly young women with hoarse voices from places like Woking and Slough. Listening to them warble is not conducive to a restful night of slumber. 

Now, the crucial point about sleep is that quality is more important than quantity. The best bit of the nightly snooze is the first part, when the brain is switched off and the spirit resides in a peaceful void on the dark side of the Moon. Things go downhill when the brain wakes up and finds that nothing is happening. In its boredom, it manufactures the mental poo we call “dreams”. 

There are people who claim to have wonderful dreams in which they fly above the Earth like an eagle, laying eggs on top of the Eiffel Tower and getting their feathers stroked by Carla Bruni. You only have dreams like that if your subconscious mind is trying to lift your spirits because your wakeful existence is incredibly shitty. In other circumstances, dreams are weird little pantomimes that signify nothing and foretell less. This doesn’t stop humans from assuming I’m a hairy soothsayer who can interpret their dreams. Last week, a fresh-faced girl on safari took me into her confidence: 

“I keep on having this horrible nightmare!” she mewed. “A giant python wraps his coils around my body and starts squeezing me ever more tightly. And while he’s squeezing me, he lifts his horrible head and looks right into my eyes: 

‘I’ll stop squeezing if you’ll kiss me on the mouth,’ he says. 

‘A French kiss?’ I ask. 

‘Is there any other kind?’ he replies, making his tongue dart in and out. 

‘I won’t do it, you beastly serpent!’ I cry. ‘I’d rather be squeezed like a lemon than kiss you!’ 

But in my heart, I know the real reason I won’t kiss him is because I want him to carry on squeezing me! Oh what does it mean, GB?!” 

The dream was total nonsense, of course. No self-respecting python would give up its supper for a bit of tongue action with a human female. Yet I sensed it would be unkind to denigrate something which she clearly believed was a highly significant piece of theatre. 

“It means you are a virtuous young lady who will not kiss a snake however good it makes her feel.” I declared. 

She thanked me profusely and skipped away contentedly. I just hope my interpretation doesn’t end up ruining someone’s life.

You have read this article Dreams / nannies / sleep / snakes with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2011/08/sleeping-arrangements.html. Thanks!

Fringe benefits

Back home from Scotland, a place I normally avoid for fear of being nipped by icy breezes and accosted by intoxicated natives. It was only the lure of a cultural festival featuring artists such as Miss Behave, Mrs Bang and Ms American Cougar that tempted me to venture into Haggis Territory. 

I don’t want to say too much about Behave and Bang. The former was more bossy than naughty and the latter rewarded the audience for laughing at her jokes by exposing a portion of her milky-white flesh. I would have laughed like a hyena if I hadn’t been falling asleep, her act being well past my normal bedtime. 

It was Sandra Risser, the American Cougar, whose hot flashes of brilliance illuminated the dingy tavern in which she performed, leaving me with a tingling sensation in my toes. Her act broke new ground by being mainly interactive, and as a keen interactor, I was the first to raise my hand and catch her eye. I began, as one should on such occasions, with a compliment: 

“Ms Risser, may I say how positively radiant you are this evening? Your skin glows like the waters of the River Congo at sunset.” 

“It’s the menopause!” cried a cheeky Caledonian voice from the audience. 

I silenced the guffaws with a loud grunt. A gorilla does not appreciate having his compliments mutilated by a heckler. 

“I’ll hang you upside down by your ankles so you know what the menopause feels like!” I shouted menacingly. 

It was at this point that Ms Risser intervened. 

“Jeez, Mr Gorilla, you’re so gallant on my behalf! Are you married? Don’t answer that, I’ll settle for being your mistress. Living in a tree would make my butt sore. Actually I have a recurring menopause. My first one started when I was 35 and it comes back every 5 years with a brighter glow. If I walk into my garden at night moths fly around my head. Did you have a question?” 

“Yes indeed, Ms Risser,” I replied. “My question is this: Are there rules which if broken by a cougar would result in her expulsion from the ranks of cougardom? For example, is a cougar allowed to have sex with an older man?” 

“Sure, why not?” she replied. “Doing it once doesn't count anyway. You’re still a virgin after a one night stand. I lost my virginity to 23 different men.” 

She continued in this vein, improvising effortlessly in response to the jocular (and often impertinent) questions thrown in her direction. At the end of her act, she invited me to join her for a drink. As we sat at our table, she assured me that her offer to be my mistress had been a joke. 

“Of course it was, Sandra!” I exclaimed. “Your slender haunches could never bear the pressure!” 

“You used to perform in a circus, right?” she asked. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“How did you manage to fill the void in your life after you gave it up? I’m 69 and the thought of retiring terrifies me.” 

“Well, Sandra, living in the wild helps. Your life is never empty when spiders and snakes are crawling nearby.” 

“You could be right,” she said with a smirk. “But I may have to get a pet snake at my age.” 

I nodded silently, judging that further serpentine matters could be left safely in her hands. She obviously knew more about pet snakes than I did. 

You have read this article Cougars / Edinburgh Fringe / menopause / retirement / snakes with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2010/08/fringe-benefits.html. Thanks!

Ancient memories

A tourist tells me about his past life as a medieval knight called Sir Roger de Pomfrey. He claims he fought both Moors and Turks before returning to England to have a passionate affair with the future queen. I smile indulgently at the fellow’s prattle. Humouring people with crackpot delusions is a pastime I have always enjoyed.

“Your lady’s heart must have been torn in two when the king proposed to her,” I suggest.

“Too right!” he affirms. “She came to me with tears in her eyes and said: ‘Oh Roger, I shall imagine thy burning eyes and feel thy bulging flesh, even as the king doth porketh me senseless on the royal four poster!’”

“Well that’s political marriages for you,” I remark. “I bet Hillary was thinking of Walter Mondale when Bill swept her off her feet. May I ask how you had the good fortune to recover these golden memories?”

“It all came out under hypnosis,” he explains. “I met a chap who does past life regression for a very reasonable fee.”

“Ah, but of course!” I say. “How else would one dig up the mind’s buried treasure?”

Apparently quite a few humans can remember a past life. Why is it, I wonder, that those who lived in medieval England were always members of the nobility rather than Eric the Serf or Fanny the Fishwife? As 90% of the population of that era were peasants, one assumes the lower orders were doomed to be reborn as hedgehogs or snails. I myself have no recollection of my past lives, perhaps because no one has succeeded in hypnotising me. We gorillas are not susceptible to mental jiggery pokery – our jungle instincts make us too sceptical of the spoken word.

I witnessed the peculiar power of hypnotic suggestion in the circus. It all began when one of our female acrobats approached the cage of a rather magnificent snake, which was asleep at the time. Much to my surprise, I saw her write a little message and slip it beside the slumbering serpent.

I decided to retrieve the note to find out what the dickens she had written. Technically a violation of her privacy, I know, but justifiable in this unusual situation. I mean it wasn’t as if the snake was going to read it himself. So I gently fished it out of the cage with a long stick and was shocked to discover it was a love note. I don’t want to go into details, but the entreaty “O squeeze me in your coils, you enormous python!” gives you a flavour of the contents.

I happened to know that this woman was receiving hypnotherapy from my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, so I immediately went to see him to find out what he was up to.

“It’s nothing much really,” he said. “I just tell her good things about snakes when she’s under – that they’re beautiful, intelligent, sensitive and so forth. She wants me to cure her phobia.”

“Smacker, you bumbling quackhead!” I exclaimed. “You’ve made her fall in love with the giant python! She’ll jump down the ruddy thing’s throat if you don’t deprogram her!”

So he contacted the woman to arrange a quick remedial session, and reduced her serpentine appreciation to a platonic level by saying things like “Snakes make terrible boyfriends and are very selfish in bed” (which may be true for all I know). It seemed to have the desired effect anyway.

This anecdote illustrates the nonsense that hypnosis can plant in the human brain. In spite of being a firm believer in reincarnation (like most gorillas), I don’t for one minute believe that anyone can remember a past life. The beauty of being reborn is that the slate is wiped clean, so you don’t have to reflect on all the embarrassing things that happened to you last time. That would distract you from all the sordid events in your current life, which will once again be forgotten when you die. It’s part of the cycle of existence.

You have read this article hypnosis / past lives / snakes with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2009/02/ancient-memories.html. Thanks!

Workers' rights

I hear that the snake charmers have been campaigning for fair wages and decent working hours. Good for them. A dangerous job like that deserves a high rate of pay, even though any jungle dweller can see that it’s a colossal waste of time. It is not in the nature of a snake to be charmed by anyone, expect perhaps its mother or its paramour. Snakes have no concept of good manners and no interest in social intercourse with any non-reptilian creature. Better to leave them writhing in their juices rather than tooting them out of wicker baskets.

Being a rare talking gorilla, I could virtually set my own terms in my performing career. Yet when negotiating my salary with Mr McDougall, the proprietor of the circus, I insisted on a salary of no more than five times that of the next highest paid artiste.

“If we pay you that little, GB, I’m worried you might be poached by one of our rivals,” said the hard-headed Scotsman.

“Rest assured that I will not be tempted, Sir,” I replied, “for there are more important things to a gorilla than hard cash.”

My moderation and restraint earned me the respect of my fellow performers. They made me the big cheese in their staff association and a trustee of their pension fund – a bit like that American chap Jimmy Hoffmeister. Mr Becks, currently gorging himself in the swill bucket of Los Angeles, would do well to take note.

I probably acquired my progressive outlook from the example of my human mentor, Dr Whipsnade. In spite of being a self-made millionaire, he always stood up for the rights of the little people. I once saw him refusing to cross a picket line outside Foyle’s Bookshop in London during an industrial dispute. “It’s my way of showing solidarity with the workers,” he explained, “instead of voting Labour which costs me money.”

There are limits to all this plebeian militancy though. Ever since my failed attempt to join the Communist Party, I have drawn the line at Bolshevism. Support the workers by all means, but there’s no need to skulk around with a sour face, treating everyone who’s got on in life as a class enemy, to be strung up – come the Revolution – from the nearest lamp post. As the late Tony Randall once said, millionaires are also a minority group. They know their rights and they’ve got the money to fight for them. Instead of antagonising them unnecessarily, how much better to co-opt them in worthy causes.

My favourite story about a philanthropic millionaire concerns Roy Attwater, the pot-noodle tycoon. He hired an Indian gardener to tend to the grounds of his holiday mansion in Florida, and the man kept the lawn and shrubs in prime condition. The most unpleasant aspect of his job was picking up turds deposited by the dog of an inconsiderate neighbour, who allowed it to run off the leash. Tiring of this annoyance, he set a trap involving raw meat suspended from a string attached to a carton of Madras curry power. The pooch took the bait and snorted a fair dose of the powder, causing it to scamper back home to Mummy, whimpering and sneezing in a state of some distress.

The dog's owner was a middle-aged woman called Mrs Silverman, who took the agitated animal to the vet, where it was sedated before getting its nasal tract purged. She then stormed to the Attwater residence to berate the gardener.

“Whaddya do to my Mookie?” she screamed. “We got laws protecting animals here! You’re not in Mexico!”

"Madam," replied the gardener, "during past month your dog is doing shittings all over this grass. Where are laws for this?"

Mrs Silverman was not won over by this explanation. She pressed charges against the gardener for cruelty, and when Mr Attwater heard of this he flew to Florida to negotiate with her in person.

"Mrs Silverman," he said, "I will reimburse you for your veterinary bills provided that you drop all charges against my employee and keep your pet off my property. If you persist in your complaint, I will ensure that my man has the finest legal defence that money can buy. I will also initiate a lawsuit against you for harassing him in his workplace.”

Mrs Silverman relented and accepted his terms.

A few months later, the gardener had to return to India for his sister’s wedding. Mr Attwater arranged for a thousand pots of Bombay Bad Boy to be delivered on the day of her nuptials. It’s little gestures like this that separate men of quality from the riff-raff.

You have read this article dog shit / pot noodles / snakes / workers with the title snakes. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/02/workers-rights.html. Thanks!