Monday
2/3/04
Yes, You All Have Boobs. Get Over Yourselves.
It was just two years ago last week that an ostensibly "aesthetic" decision deprived the world of one half of a classic pair of matching boobs residing at the Justice Department; an institution ever so serious in it’s commitment to protecting America from, well, boobs.
And yet, despite that department’s chivalrous effort to keep us on a clean and virtuous path by tossing it’s $8,000 overcoat across the mud puddle of mammary temptation, we still find ourselves assaulted daily by the would-be charms of a variety of female pop icons, each more desperate for attention than the next. In short, we’re part of a schizophrenic society which spends half its time enabling and applauding psycho-sexually damaged buffoons like John Ashcroft, while spending the other half watching the breathless and sweaty E! network in the dark, all the while praying for a glimpse of J. Lo.’s all too ordinary ass cleavage.
Heavens yes, there it is, out in the open. Ordinary. All the chatter and flather over scantily clad women, marble or otherwise, is rendered meaningless by the entirely ordinary and unexceptional quality of that which is being exposed. That’s right, guys, not only does the Emperor have no clothes, but Lopez’s ass, while certainly a pleasant thing, is not the cosmic be-all and end-all of desire that the New York Post tells us it is. It’s just a nice butt, and that’s all.
Now of course we come full circle to the unfortunate Janet Jackson and the inexplicable display of her right breast at halftime. My question remains: "Why?" It is, quite frankly, not even a very appealing breast. It’s the rather droopy, flabby breast of a woman who’s pushing forty. Thanks but no thanks, Janet.
And yet, America has worked itself into a state somewhere between teenage titillation and righteous indignation over that one unexceptional second of airtime. As a friend pointed out to me this morning, FCC chairman Michael Powell (guess who’s baby boy…) had no problem jumping right into an investigation while blissfully unaware of the irony of his being part of an administration that fights any and all scrutiny of itself… but that’s a blog for another day.
So anyway, what would have been worthy of all this commotion? Just imagine the newly-svelte Anna Nicole Smith dropping her tube top during halftime… I’ll bet Ashcroft’s head would have exploded.
(Oh, and if you're the sort that doesn't believe that Ashcroft is disturbed, please enjoy this little insight into how he conducts his professional life.)
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Yes, You All Have Boobs. Get Over Yourselves.
It was just two years ago last week that an ostensibly "aesthetic" decision deprived the world of one half of a classic pair of matching boobs residing at the Justice Department; an institution ever so serious in it’s commitment to protecting America from, well, boobs.
And yet, despite that department’s chivalrous effort to keep us on a clean and virtuous path by tossing it’s $8,000 overcoat across the mud puddle of mammary temptation, we still find ourselves assaulted daily by the would-be charms of a variety of female pop icons, each more desperate for attention than the next. In short, we’re part of a schizophrenic society which spends half its time enabling and applauding psycho-sexually damaged buffoons like John Ashcroft, while spending the other half watching the breathless and sweaty E! network in the dark, all the while praying for a glimpse of J. Lo.’s all too ordinary ass cleavage.
Heavens yes, there it is, out in the open. Ordinary. All the chatter and flather over scantily clad women, marble or otherwise, is rendered meaningless by the entirely ordinary and unexceptional quality of that which is being exposed. That’s right, guys, not only does the Emperor have no clothes, but Lopez’s ass, while certainly a pleasant thing, is not the cosmic be-all and end-all of desire that the New York Post tells us it is. It’s just a nice butt, and that’s all.
Now of course we come full circle to the unfortunate Janet Jackson and the inexplicable display of her right breast at halftime. My question remains: "Why?" It is, quite frankly, not even a very appealing breast. It’s the rather droopy, flabby breast of a woman who’s pushing forty. Thanks but no thanks, Janet.
And yet, America has worked itself into a state somewhere between teenage titillation and righteous indignation over that one unexceptional second of airtime. As a friend pointed out to me this morning, FCC chairman Michael Powell (guess who’s baby boy…) had no problem jumping right into an investigation while blissfully unaware of the irony of his being part of an administration that fights any and all scrutiny of itself… but that’s a blog for another day.
So anyway, what would have been worthy of all this commotion? Just imagine the newly-svelte Anna Nicole Smith dropping her tube top during halftime… I’ll bet Ashcroft’s head would have exploded.
(Oh, and if you're the sort that doesn't believe that Ashcroft is disturbed, please enjoy this little insight into how he conducts his professional life.)
