No, I don’t know where that headline came from either. So don’t ask. Just embrace it. I did. It’s like Grace Jones. I don’t know where she comes from. It doesn’t matter, does it? What’s important is that she came from somewhere – some distant planet where beings are programmed to make music for us earthlings to have sex to? - and sang Slave to the Rhythm, Pull Up to the Bumper, My Jamaican Guy, Love is The Drug (eat your tongue out, Mr Ferry), Warm Leatherette and, more recently and just as satisfyingly, Williams’ Blood, Libertango and Hurricane.
I don’t want to ask questions about Grace Jones. And that’s not because I very fondly remember her slugging some TV interviewer (it could have been David Frost but I don’t really care, what only matters to me is that she had the balls to do it) because he asked a question she didn’t like. I just want her to be. What she is. Wherever she’s from. Whatever she wants to be. As long as she does it for me.
And as long as she keeps making music that makes me want to have sex within seven seconds of hearing her sing. I’ve been playing her tunes in my car on the way to parties and clubs since time began. And I think time began when I first heard Grace Jones. Enough. I have something to show you. Now if you’re one of those sticklers who simply must have their videos beautifully shot and edited with the sound just right, best you hop over this one to the second bit of vid I’m throwing your way later on.
But if you’re happy to just feel the unmatchable mad sexualness of the vibe of Miss Jones, stick around…
How was that for you? I would be interested to know. OK. that was filmed by some over-excited fan sitting in the sixth row so Martin Scorsese’s not about to put his hand up and say “I did it”. But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that our girl, our stellar turbo-sexual galactico, felt like swirling a hula-hoop around her waist for at least seven minutes while giving Paris a collective hard-on. And while she was introducing her band to the audience too. I like the fact that she can multi-task while so effortlessly and felinely and so sexually giving Parisians yet another 41 reasons to think about definitely having sex when they get home, if not much sooner. Like right there in the sixth row.
There are some animal species in which the male gender have got it totally right. Not so much in the “spiders” category. There the guys are a lot smaller than the ridiculously dominant female and, after he finally gets his leg (or a few) over, she is inclined to have him for afters. As in eat him. Not nice. A bit on the extreme side, if you ask me. Well, as a red-blooded alpha-male type, this would not be a lifestyle I would necessarily recommend to myself.
In fact, if you ask me (and you’re not but I’ll just pretend you are and bomb forth anyway), the inter-gender pendulum has swung way too far the other way since my admirably rugged Neanderthal forefathers used to get back from a strenuous day of hunting / gathering, lob an antelope on the kitchen table and gruffly say: “Cook that, Wilma!” Her indoors (in the cave) would meekly (and, more importantly, uncomplainingly) barbecue up a storm, he (let’s call him Fred, shall we?) would chomp through the whole antelope, throw her a few bones and then have his barbaric but ultimately satisfying way with her for the all-that-is-required two minutes on the roughly-hewn-out-of-rock dinner table before collapsing on a comfy animal skin for a good night’s kip.
After a hard day's hunting, Fred was looking forward to a top-notch nosh and some quick nookie back at the cave
But gradually, and almost indetectably (apart from the odd burning of a bra), this has sadly changed. And caused a highly unfortunate imbalance in our social order which has left real men like me very confused. I don’t see why I should hunt all day for a Fred-sized buck, only to be told to cook it myself while she reads Heat magazine and fannys around with her fingernails in front of the telly. I won’t even go into the manipulative tactics involving the purchase of Jimmy Choo shoes, visits to her mum and putting out the garbage that have to summoned up in order to procure a roll-around in which my tongue is expected to do 90% of the work.
I mean, have a read of this so-called “joke” sent to me by a female “friend” just yesterday…
Duties of Wives.
Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.
Terry had married a woman from Greece.
He bragged that he had told his wife she needed to do all the dishes and housework. He said that it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were all washed and put away.
Jimmy had married a woman from Italy.
He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, and the cooking. He told them that the first day he didn’t see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done, and he had a huge dinner on the table.
The third man had married a South African chick.
He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, laundry and ironing twice a week, lawns mowed, windows cleaned and hot meals on the table three times a day.
He said the first day he didn’t see anything, the second day he didn’t see anything, but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye, just enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher, and call a handyman.
God Bless South African Women!
Not all that funny, is it? That’s not a joke. It’s an outrage. And perfectly illustrates my point that things have got well out of hand. Did you notice that last little dig in the balls… “God Bless South African Women!“? Pathetic! And unnecessarily provocative. If you ask me. Which you did, OK?!
Now let’s have a look at the male fruit fly. The what? Bear with me. This little feller has gone up big-time in my estimation. In fact, as I write this, there’s one buzzing the not-so-pristine pawpaw (papaya for foreign Hatpeople) in the fruitbowl here at Hatman Mansions. I know this one’s a male because he looks very pleased with himself. Why? Well, he’s out of the house looking for food to put on the table (probably inbetween titanic trysts with other really hot female fruit flies) and his missus is home doing the vacuuming, laundry, feather-dusting and whatever else it is that needs to be done in fruit fly homes. Now this is much more like it, yes?
