You lot are disgusting; sex mad you are. For a supposedly
advanced species it is grossly disappointing how obsessed you all are with the manufacture
of multiple-backed beasts. Quite frankly it’s a disgrace and if I was your
maker I would be face-palming and boiling up the next batch of man wax from
which to fashion Humans 2: The remake. If he has any sense, this time round he
will settle for reproduction by simple agamogenesis, avoiding
all necessity for the messy transfer of bodily secretions. A quick cell
division and back to the job in hand… as it were.
Meanwhile, here on primitive planet 2014 intimate
congress, bidden or otherwise, is (as ever) all over the airwaves and nothing
has changed in my lifetime save for the focal point of the discussion. In the
seventies it was ‘how often do you do it?’ the tabloids doing their utmost to
undermine British manhood with the outrageous lies claiming the average married
coupled engaged in, er, coupling three times a week. It was almost like you
were being goaded into getting some. Today though, it’s “How in the hell was he
allowed to get away with it?” Make your bloody minds up.
Under-age sex, five-times-a-night sex, three-in-a-bed
sex, gay sex, straight sex, deviant sex, paedophilia, necrophilia, coprophilia,
bondage, sadomasochism, auto-erotic asphyxiation, tea-bagging, double-bagging, dogging,
shagging… gagging for it, you are. You can’t pick up a newspaper without somebody
shoving it in your face or down your throat and I have to say it leaves a nasty
taste in the mouth. For as long as I can remember, other humans have delighted
in revealing who did what with whom, to whom, in whom or even at whom. Yet all
of a sudden, when attention turns to Westminster and the Leon Britton business,
they wheel in a hundred-and-fifty-year old Baroness with Jimmy Savile’s face
and a selective memory loss to cover it all up.
I wish they would cover up. I never did subscribe to the
fascination the British have with public revelations of private goings-on. We
should bring back the fictionalised Victorian attitudes, I reckon and put sex where
it belongs – behind closed doors. No more ‘intimate’ s.i.g.i. movies on YouTube,
no more public displays of animal rutting in drunken streets and chip shop
queues, no more social media awash with penis pics, tit pics and Vines of summer
festival coitus publicus; put that pecker away, I say!
The urge to shag anything that breathes may be a strong
one but so is the tug of gold and the lure of privilege and power; where there’s
a primal urge there’s a blackmail plot in the making. Honey traps have long been
a modus operandi of those who would bring down an administration. So, far from
praising manifest virility we should disdain those who succumb so readily to such
base longings and instead laud those who can show restraint; it’s surely not too
much to ask is it?
Pas devant les enfants!
Or maybe we should just fit public appointees with
chastity belts? Until we manage to breed a better type of human – models of
restraint, like me – it would seem unwise in the extreme to assume we can trust anybody in
office to keep their pricks in their pants. I just don’t understand why it should
be that hard. Oh…
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