Revenge of the lipstick lesbians

Some good-looking lesbians have made a video threatening to marry the boyfriends of women who oppose gay marriage. They are supremely confident of their ability to carry out this insidious threat, believing they have qualities that men dream of in a wife. I don’t know whether their bravado is justified, but they certainly made some very persuasive arguments in the video. Women with eligible boyfriends would be well advised to keep their opposition to gay marriage between them and their shrinks.

When the manager of the safari camp saw the video his eyes lit up.

“Do you think they’d have an affair with a man whose wife was against gay marriage?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t know my wife’s position on the issue, but I might be able to convince her it’s not a good idea.”

“Cuckolding married women who would deny them their rights is entirely consistent with their strategic outlook,” I replied. “But it might not be advisable for you to encourage them, given your wife’s propensity for sadistic revenge.”

“Good point,” said the manager glumly.

Whether or not one approves of punishing a woman for her reactionary views on gay marriage, I don’t think the lesbians have thought this one through. Their proposed plan of action is a classic example of cutting one’s nose to spite one’s face. A woman whose boyfriend jilts her for a lesbian would certainly be humiliated and quite possibly heartbroken. But in time she would get over it and find another suitor. There aren’t enough lesbians in the world to steal the boyfriend of every heterosexual woman who lacks sympathy for their cause.

The fate of the avenger, by comparison, is far more intractable. She would be lumbered with an unwanted husband who would insist on sleeping with her. Switching off the lights, as the girls in the video suggest, would not be an effective remedy if the fellow made obscene and triumphalist remarks while exercising his conjugal rights. I fear that such conduct is far from unlikely in a man who would impose himself on a lesbian.

For all their feisty eloquence, these lesbian ladies have yet to master the art of delivering a credible ultimatum. There’s no point threatening to do something contrary to your own nature and ambitions. You don’t make your enemies back down by promising to blow your brains out on their carpet. What they should have said was “If you continue to vote against our right to marry, we will put on our strap-ons and chase you into the nearest cathouse.” The prospect of being pursued by a swarm of agitated lesbians intent on ravishment should persuade most women to reconsider their views.

As a gorilla, I am all in favour of giving lesbians everything they want. The appropriate response to a lesbian insurrection is unconditional surrender. Let them marry, wear trousers and wrestle with crocodiles if they want to. The lesbians of the Earth should roam free and wild as Nature intended. Preserving such wonders enriches the ecosystem.

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Push-up contest

I have just received a sumptuous basket of exotic fruit from the manager of the safari camp. You might suppose the gift is a token of his esteem for my services to the safari industry, or for my numerous diplomatic efforts on his behalf, both with business associates and his wife. Richly deserved though such awards would be, they were not bestowed with the basket of fruit. He was actually settling a bet we had made on the outcome of a contest between Ellen Degeneres and Michelle Obama. 

The president’s wife had appeared on Ellen’s TV show, where she accepted a challenge from her host to see who could do the most push-ups in front of the studio audience. The manager reacted with consternation to Mrs Obama’s willingness to participate in such a spectacle. 

“Is she crazy?!” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know that butch lesbians work out like men and have all the male hormones? She’s going to embarrass her husband by getting publicly ass-whipped by a white woman! That girl’s got too much attitude for her own good!” 

“I beg to differ!” I declared. “Having studied the arms of both women closely, I am firmly of the opinion that the said whipping will be inflicted upon Ellen’s scrawny white bottom. Would you care for a wager?” 

“Damn right I would!” replied the manager. 

The two women got down to it and started humping the floor. Ellen’s arms gave way after 20 pushes, while Michelle progressed smoothly to 25, where she stopped to avoid humiliating her opponent. The manager accepted his defeat meekly: 

“This is a sad day for butch lesbians,” he said. “Any black woman will now think she can push them aside and steal their pretty girlfriends.” 

It’s a pity that Mrs Obama can’t use her strong arms in the service of her country, being too old for the Marines and too attractive for the postal service. Perhaps she should travel around America punching rap singers in the mouth instead. It’s about time someone punished them for their surly behaviour and disrespectful attitude. A gimmick like that might appeal to millions of redneck women, winning her husband vital swing votes in November’s election. 

Not everyone is a fan of strong-armed women, of course. Back in my circus days, the female acrobats fretted about what potential boyfriends would think of the quite modest muscular development on their upper arms. 

“Ladies,” I said to them, “there’s no point covering up your arms to hide those little bumps. If a man you like notices them, flaunt them with pride and tell him they’re your arm-boobs. In my experience, men are always more favourably disposed to objects they associate with bosom flesh.” 

My advice served the girls well, but only because their biceps were moderately bulging. Women who take things to extremes in the body-building endeavour are bound to appear freakish and unappealing. Having arms like Popeye the Sailor Man may scare off the gropers and bum-pinchers, but it won’t make your boyfriend jizz in his pants. 

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Cat noises

An Australian senator has been forced to apologise for meowing at the country’s lesbian finance minister. It’s not clear whether he was mocking her gender or her sexual orientation. Whichever is true, there’s no reason for women to get huffy about being likened to cats, which are rather attractive creatures in spite of their airs and general moodiness. It’s better to be an animal that people stroke than one which they ride or milk. 

I wouldn’t like to be in the minister’s shoes now that she’s revealed the chink in her armour. Australia is a nation renowned for its uncouth and vulgar jesters. If any of these pranksters see her in a restaurant, they won’t hesitate to put a saucer of milk on her table. Whenever she appears in public, she’ll have to listen to larrikins making pussy-pussy noises or telling her to lick her whiskers. She may as well wear a Catwoman costume to pre-empt all the jibes she’s going to face. 

I used to laugh my head off when people tried to make animal noises in the circus. Most humans are only any good at mimicking dogs and pigs. The English aristocracy are not too bad at horses. Only men with very deep voices are capable of sounding like a gorilla. Tom Jones is one, and Davy Attenborough managed to imitate some of our grunts after soaking his scrotum in rum. I remember a pie-faced fellow trying to impress me with “Ook! Ook!” noises after watching me perform in the ring. He was hopeless. 

“You sound like a castrated baboon!” I jeered. “You’d better get some hormones injected if you want to impress a female gorilla!” 

In spite of rubbishing his performance, I didn’t mind the fellow having a go. Humans are perfectly entitled to express their inner ape in front of a real one. They might not get the approval they yearn for, but there’s no harm in trying. 

When all is said and done, I salute Australia for putting a carpet-munching Sheila in charge of its financial affairs. Where are the gay women in high offices of state in America? Conspicuous by their absence if the rumours about Hilldog are false, which I certainly believe them to be. 

The most eminent lesbian in America is Ellen Degeneres, who recently invited a beefy black man onto her show. It seems he became a pin-up for American women after exposing his hunky torso on an aftershave commercial. To please her mainly female audience, Ellen encouraged him to remove his shirt to wild acclaim. 

If President Obama is re-elected next year, he ought to consider appointing Ms Degeneres to his cabinet. A woman of her populist instincts could keep him in touch with the voters and give him sound advice on when to bare his chest. She could also accompany Mrs Clinton on her overseas trips, ironing her panty girdle and licking her into shape before her encounters with foreign statesmen. Any tomcat who dares to meow at Hilldog will be paying a visit to the vet.

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Motherhood and velcro

Another evening tending bar at the safari guesthouse, and I witness our guests discussing the thorny topic of how lesbians should procreate. The women favour the use of sperm banks and mechanical squirting devices, but the men reject this method as unreliable and mean-spirited. The broody lesbian, they argue, should interview potential fathers face-to-face and allow the successful candidate to impregnate her, not necessarily face-to-face. 

“Having sex with a man is the only sure way of knowing who the father is,” says one of the men. “You can’t trust a sperm bank. They may say the donor is a Nobel laureate, but he might be some snotty-nosed teenager who walks around with his butt cleavage showing. Letting a man do the business is safer and more natural.” 

“You just like the idea of sleeping with a woman who won’t expect anything from you afterwards,” declares one of the women in a somewhat accusatory tone. “What you don’t understand is that being penetrated by a man is unnatural for lesbians. Why would they willingly go through such an ordeal?” 

The men seem offended by this question. “If lesbians hate penises so much how come they use strap-ons?” asks one of them. 

“Because they’re permanently hard and easier to clean,” replies one of the women tartly. “Lesbians don’t hate penises anyway. They just don’t find them exciting when they’re attached to the body of a man.” 

The debate fizzles out without consensus or conclusion. I breathe a sigh of relief that I have avoided involvement, either as mediator, adjudicator or advocate. I know little about lesbians and their mysterious ways and might have exposed myself to derision by making a schoolboy howler. On the reproductive question, I would say that a woman is entitled to put whatever she wants up her cha-cha (within reason). How lesbians reproduce is nobody’s business. 

Yet like most things which are nobody’s business, one is very curious to know. 

My readers will have heard of Jodie Foster, the Oscar-winning actress. I always thought she had a singularly pretty face for a woman who found the male of her species unappealing. I believe she has given birth to several babies of indeterminate male parentage. The manner of their conception was kept a closely guarded secret. 

Now suppose we bribed some random fellow to publicly claim fatherhood of Ms Foster’s children. She would only issue an immediate denial if she were certain of the real father’s identity, and had presumably allowed him to mount her, which is something even a lesbian might endure in a good cause. But a delayed response would imply that she was making frantic enquiries with her sperm bank, which would have to check that our stooge wasn’t a disgruntled former employee who substituted his own man-goo for that of Ms Foster’s preferred donor. These things can happen in the best of sperm banks. 

I admit such a ruse would be roguish and unethical, but can anyone think of a better way of winkling it out of her? 

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