Dick pics

I’m old-fashioned… which isn’t surprising in the case of a fellow born in 1940. I belong to a generation of old-timers who were never tempted to use advanced technology to transmit images of their sexual organs to various corners of the planet, and maybe even (by inadvertance) into outer space and distant galaxies, where lots of little green guys and gals will be able to appreciate our earthly junk. These days, apparently, more and more people are engaged in this activity… just for fun, naturally. I’m led to believe that transmissions of this nature are generally intended for a restricted circle of receivers, most often a single individual. But problems do occur, and some of these images escape, as it were, and end up getting into the wrong hands (no pun intended). And there can be misunderstandings, too:

This question is examined in detail in the following fascinating video of an interview between John Oliver, host of Last Week Tonight on the US TV channel Home Box Office, and the US whistle-blower Edward Snowden.

‪Yesterday, in the early hours of the morning, a bust of Edward Snowden was erected in a New York park.

On this morning’s news, I heard that authorities in New York have just removed this statue.

Click here to read the full story of this affair. Let me add that few people are aware of what’s actually happening. To punish Snowden for disclosing lots of secret documents and then pissing off to Russia, Pentagon authorities are in fact going to put him to shame by enhancing the existing statue by appending a big ugly reinforced-concrete copy of the whistle-blower’s penis (based, so they claim, upon authentic visual data), and then putting the modified statue back on public display. This mission, carried out by NSA agents, is code-named Whistle Blow Job. But don't tell anybody I told you...

Birdwatcher-in-chief

Over time, I've got around to considering that a passionate birdwatcher cannot possibly be an entirely bad person. So, the appointment of Andrew Parker as the new head of M15 (the United Kingdom's domestic security service) is no doubt good news for law-abiding Brits.

                                          — photo AFP/Getty Images

Am I alone in finding that Parker's facial features remind me of Dilbert? I know it's a mistake to judge a spook by his external appearance (which might have been manipulated deliberately, to mislead evil observers), but I can't help wondering whether his thick glasses, no doubt indicating a case of myopia, are an ideal device for spotting sleazy individuals and other varieties of exotic birds. In any case, if only I knew his personal address, I would happily share with the birdwatcher-in-chief my recent experience involving an encounter with a splendid big-beaked Hawfinch specimen [display]. But I hasten to add, to remove all possible insinuations, that I have no reasons to suspect that the bird in question, during its brief stay at Gamone, was entailed in anti-British activities of any kind whatsoever. One never knows, however. And I prefer to leave this question up to a specialist such as Parker.

PS Apparently the name of the fellow in question is indeed Andrew Parker, even though a certain British newspaper pointed out that it had been asked not to supply readers with the name of the new head of M15.

In like Flynn

Aussie oldtimers like me persist in believing that the expression "in like Flynn" evokes the great Tasmanian movie seducer Errol Flynn [1909-1959].

Jeez, there are so few famous Tasmanians that we can't afford to let this fellow slip between our fingers. I hardly need to supply a diagram to illustrate the objective truth that, with respect to countless sexy females, Flynn was often—as it were—in rather than out. Meanwhile, certain nasty detractors consider that Errol—who gained fame through his portrayal of Robin Hood—might have been gay.

I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: Is there the slightest trace of anything other than stout heterosexual manliness in these images of our Errol ?

Somebody suggested that Flynn was aiming his Robin Hood arrows of adoration at a certain budding Hollywood fellow named Ronald Reagan... but we are incapable of evaluating this allegation. And what the fuck !

Meanwhile, in God's Own Country, front-page news has been focussed these days upon the super-general David Petraeus and his James Bond girlfriend, Paula Broadwell.

It's all a bit too much. But what I like most of all is the title of Paula's hagiography of her Saint Petraeus.

What a simple but evocative title: All In. In like Flynn! In military talk, Paula Broadwell was truly embedded, literally. She's got the potential to go a long way, this talented young lady. All the way...

POST SCRIPTUM

The following journalistic opinion is interesting:

For the moment, thank God, I can feel nothing.  I've just glanced behind me... but we all know that the Holy Ghost moves in mysterious ways. In the domain of stealthy divine sodomy, I love the frank tone of this recent front page of the French weekly Charlie Hebdo:

Incidentally, this front page was a reaction to the declarations (on gay couples) of one of my favorite targets of derision: Andrew Vingt-Trois, the current empty-headed archbishop of Paris. The drawing affirms that the Catholic dignitary—whose unusual surname, meaning 23 in French, suggests that one of his anonymous paternal ancestors was lodged in a maternity clinic bed numbered 23, or maybe abandoned in front of a house numbered 23... such as the building in the Rue Rambuteau where I lived for years, in the heart of Paris—was in fact the offspring of holy intercourse involving no less than three distinct dads: God the father, Jesus the son, and an esoteric Holy Spirit. The list of procreators might have included Joseph the carpenter, an archangel named Gabriel and, last but not least, a female named Mary who supposedly never had sex with any guy whatsoever. Shit, you have to be extraordinarily smart (or maybe mindless) to grasp and appreciate Christian theology.

Limelight, lucre and lust

I'm thinking of a weird winter that started 48 years ago, in December 1962, in London. I was 22 years old, and a confirmed computer programmer who had just spent seven wonderful months working in the heart of Paris, a few hundred meters away from the Elysées Palace in which Charles de Gaulle had been cogitating upon the Algerian problem. As a well-paid employee of the European headquarters of IBM, I had ended up imagining that I wasn't learning much French (because everybody at IBM spoke English), and I thought it might be fun to spend some time in the UK.

That harsh winter of 1962/1963 was a meteorological shocker, but it soon merged into a shocking spring, symbolized by the famous photo of the notorious call-girl Christine Keeler astride a contemporary chair. That was the sexy espionage season of the Profumo Affair.

This evening, I watched a TV documentary about the rich sex life of John Kennedy [1917-1963]. If I understand correctly, his treatment for Addison's Disease involved the absorption of pharmaceutical products that made him as randy as a billy goat. JFK appears to have been obsessed with screwing any cute cunt that appeared upon the presidential horizon, irrespective of the political affiliations of the possessor of the tempting vagina in question. The most famous Kennedy female was, of course, Marilyn Monroe… whose death remains most mysterious.

Before Marilyn, there were spectacular Kennedy conquests named Mariella Novotny, Suzy Chang and, above all, the posh German prostitute Ellen Rometsch, who appears to have opened willingly her thighs for diplomatic intrusions from both the East and the West.

Today, it's ludicrous to discover that remnants of the Kennedy clan have succeeded in blocking the broadcasting of a TV mini-series called The Kennedys.

Admittedly, it's a page that's hard to turn in modern US history (like many others). A heavy page weighed down by filthy American limelight, lucre and lust.

Australian citizen in need of protection

Decades ago, before it became fashionable to joke about the paucity of effective contacts between Australian travelers and our diplomatic services, I used to say jokingly that Australian authorities would never dream of flying in helicopters to assist stranded Aussies. Today, this is no longer a silly joke, but a firm fact. Aussie embassies don't give a fuck about Aussie citizens abroad. They seem to say that, if Aussies are so dimwitted as to step outside of the Wide Brown Land, even for a brief excursion, then they deserve everything that might be coming to them in the way of devastating bolts of disaster from the Heavens. "Shit, mate, we told you not to leave. Yet you ventured into WogLand."

Seriously, we must all come together to protect our precious compatriot Julian Assange, whose Satanic enemy is none other than the fucking USA. Brain-damaged Yanks, acting on false pretenses, would be capable of seeking to eliminate Julian for his excellent deeds. It is the duty of all of us (including, above all, his English prison guards) to protect him from gunshots, poisons, spiders and snakes, evil death-wishes, etc.



We don't want to wake up and hear—in a typical American vein—that the founder of Wikileaks has been assassinated in mysterious circumstances…

Hey, I wonder if Mel Gibson might be thinking of Julian.