MEN OF MEDIUM height – 5 feet 10inches (178cm) – are siring more
children than tall men, according to research in the United States.
The medium-sizers produce, on average, more than two children,
researchers at Groningen University have found. The lanky ones score
an average of less than two.
This surprises the researchers,who believed women traditionally choose
a tall man as their preferred partner. Yet the the medium-sizers
appear to marry earlier and therefore get a flying start.
Two things emerge. One is that the researchers seem to be trapped in
the paradigm of the "tall, dark stranger". They need to read less
Mills & Boon and watch less soap opera. Secondly, if statistical
correlation is to be taken to these absurd lengths why limit the
variables to height?
What about other physical variables such as sweatiness, body odour,
bad breath, booziness? All these have a bearing on reproduction.
And why limit the sampling to men? It's a two-way thing. Are these
super-stud medium-sizers married to sexpot stunners? Are their lanky
counterparts married to overweight slags? Do any of these women go to
bed with their hair in curlers? These factors have a strong bearing on
reproduction.
Let's get some scientific rigour into this!
And what about short men? Are they out of the race altogether or do
they breed like rabbits? We are not told.
Yet here in our own country we have the celebrated example of a short,
chunky man who is thought to have fathered at least 50 children.
Awuleth' mshini yami ...
Groucho
THE ABOVE recalls an exchange between Groucho Marx and a man who had
10 children.
"Why so many children?"
"Well, Groucho, I love my wife."
"I love my cigar but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."
Weighty business
A BOGUS doctor has been arrested in Miami, Florida, for injecting a
woman's bottom with cement, super glue and tyre sealant to give her "a
more shapely rear".
The treatment does indeed give the patient's derriere a different
appearance. It's shaped a bit like one of those double-humped Bactrian
camels..
Hey, I think that's the gal I was dancing with at La Bella the other evening.
Blondes
I DEPLORE these jokes about blondes. They are sexist and unseemly,
totally unfair. Foul calumny.
I know blondes who are not only stunningly attractive, they are
intelligent, talented, vivacious, charming and poised. They are
absolutely up to the mark. I treat them with respect – especially
those who also have a background in Kung Fu.
Having established my credentials, I now relate a little story.
This woman parked her car. On the back seat was a labrador puppy which
she was training. She got out and closed the door. "Stay!" she ordered
the puppy with an admonitory finger. She didn't want it to clamber
into the front seat.
"Stay!" she repeated as she stepped away backward a few paces. "Stay!
Stay! Stay!"
A girl at the wheel of another car looked puzzled: "Why don't you just
use the handbrake?"
Okay, the girl was a blonde. But that's not the point. The woman
training the puppy was also a blonde. But that's not the point either.
The puppy was a blonde – she was a golden labrador.
The point of it is ... actually I don't know what the point is.
You asked?
LAST week reader Tom Dennen provided a range of answers to the old
question: Why did the chicken cross the road? Now he sends in some
verse by a friend of his in response:
On the Net we've Wikipedia
And Oh! much info it will feed ya
On ev'ry topic, deep with th' old,
(Like, y'know) why DID the chicken cross the road?
An' many gave their clever answers
(Most, like us, just Idle Chancers):
From Nietze to Rabinovitz,
Each one of them most subtle wits:
Every one presented here
In language crisp and crystal clear
Each one philosophised his tweak
With answers thrust up in the beak:
But with all this feast of modern Wiccan,
No one asked the frikkin' chicken!
Tailpiece
A HOT AIR balloonist is lost over Ireland. He looks down and sees a
farmer in the fields below. He shouts down to him: " Where am I?"
The farmer looks up and shouts back: "'You're in dat basket!"
Last word
Nothing succeeds like the appearance of success.
Christopher Lasch
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