Keeping abreast of things
RIP Page Three. Mourn for missing mammeries. Boo(b) Hoo! Shock, yawn.
The civilised world seems to be rocking on its heels at the removal of TITillation from Page Three of The Sun – especially those who never actually read the bloody thing. But their squalks are as nothing compared to the ululations of the Femidoms, claiming success for the Wimmen’s Movement at the demise of Nipplodicus Rex, or rather, ‘Regina’. Except those shrieking the loudest from their Gruaniad Wimmen’s Page, are exactly the same lot who proclaim the right of all females to whip out their tits and cram one of them – at least – into the maw of their mewling, puking infant: in public! It would be like the cattle calling the pot black; except for the racist overtones; and confirmation that most chicks can’t cook anything without burning it to a cinder anyway. However, there may be something to be said for such an aesthetic reassessment of pert breasts and erect nipples. (Those females of a nervous disposition should look away; or buy a dictionary for the big words.)
The Funtain of Eternal Optimism.
No. I can spell just fine, thanks. Some people blame it on gravity; some on vanity. But the brutal truth is that what goes up must come down. And that certainly includes fun-sacks; sorry, ‘bwests’. After twenty-five or so, most chicks tend to let things go a bit. After all, they’ve landed the poor bastard; so why bother anymore? Besides, going to the gym to keep the bum firm and the breasts taut, can be a lot less fun than bitching on the phone to your best friend about how the victim, sorry, husband/partner/mug doesn’t seem so keen on you nowadays. I wonder why? Of course, the girlie mags like Cosmopolitan and Bricklayers Weekly are full of stories about forty year-old birds with to-die for bodies. Only these are the exception to the rule. Besides; if the female of the species is that concerned about her pendulous megaboobs, she can always have recourse to plastic surgery; just make sure she gets custody of the implants when the inevitable divorce arrives.
It is better to unravel than to arrive.
Apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson. However he does have a point. Or nipple, even. As Gossards and Wonderbra worked out a very long time ago, most little boys like unwrapping their presents. I mean, we all give it a good squeeze and shake to see if they rattle, but there is always the excitement of undoing the gift. How big is it? Or them? What colour? Are batteries included? The potential of the situation is endless. Do they each have a tell-tale scar under the bottom of them where the implant went? Will they be firm yet yielding; or soft and squishy? Will her husband find out? Sadly, with the Page Three scenario there is no room for such excitement. Rather the wares are set out before an avid and discerning pubic, leaving nothing to the imagination; except what might happen if your head got stuck between them. Accordingly, the demise of such a rarified art form may be less of a tragedy than presently suggested. Bad luck, you feminist losers. ‘The objectification of women?’ You wish!
John J McCabe. Copyright.