Boobs
Once again, America is up in arms over boobs. At least this time it's not a split-second halftime exposure of some sagging 40-year-old singer's ta-tas, but the bodacious bosoms of Madame Perry.
I've watched the withdrawn Sesame Street video a couple times, and honestly, I don't see anything in there I wouldn't want my child exposed to (pun fully intended) other than Katy Perry's singing.
I honestly do not understand America's paranoia about boobs, especially after living in New Zealand for a couple of years. Boobs are awesome. They're quite possibly the most innocently awesome part of the human body. When has a boob ever killed anyone? When has a boob ever even injured anyone, except for that one stripper with the GGG hooters who supposedly sprained some guy's neck in the late 90s? Boobs provide sustenance, warmth, a nice cushion for a weary head, and are every bit as relaxing to squeeze as those little stress balls they sell for $20 to overworked MBAs. Boobs are happy. If they had lips, boobs would be smiling all the time, happy to be boobs.
Boobs ask for nothing, yet give us so much in return. They're like hairless cats, except not really, because hairless cats are insanely creepy, while boobs are insanely awesome.
Yet what is boobs' reward in America? Vilification. Any time the slightest bit of cleavage comes out to play, Americans scramble for their torches and pitchforks.
I'm not saying Katy Perry needs to do a topless pole dance while Oscar the Grouch throws garbage-juice-soaked dollar bills at her, but give me a break: so she was wearing a glorified bustier. So what? Is this the message we want preschoolers to learn: boobs are dangerous, so dangerous they must be covered up at all times, hidden away, OH GOD THE BOOBS MAKE THEM STOP
I've always loved boobs, even as a little kid. My mom had a friend with a particularly nice set of knockers, and when I was seven or eight years old I would take every opportunity to grab said friend's boobs because A) they were killer boobs, and B) I knew I was young enough to get away with it. I knew even then the awesome power of the boobs was nothing to fear, but something meant to be embraced, preferably face first, nose pressed into the sternum, mounds pressing against each cheek.
Do not fear the boobs. Love the boobs. To do anything less than loving the boobs is to insult the boobs, and you don't want to insult the boobs. For boobs are a precious gift. Look at the rest of mammalkind. They have teats, but can you say that any of them have boobs? No. Only humans have boobs. And what boobs we have. We are blessed by boobs, so take that blessing and run with it, preferably while wearing a skimpy tank top. Oh my, yes.
Boobs.
I've watched the withdrawn Sesame Street video a couple times, and honestly, I don't see anything in there I wouldn't want my child exposed to (pun fully intended) other than Katy Perry's singing.
I honestly do not understand America's paranoia about boobs, especially after living in New Zealand for a couple of years. Boobs are awesome. They're quite possibly the most innocently awesome part of the human body. When has a boob ever killed anyone? When has a boob ever even injured anyone, except for that one stripper with the GGG hooters who supposedly sprained some guy's neck in the late 90s? Boobs provide sustenance, warmth, a nice cushion for a weary head, and are every bit as relaxing to squeeze as those little stress balls they sell for $20 to overworked MBAs. Boobs are happy. If they had lips, boobs would be smiling all the time, happy to be boobs.
Boobs ask for nothing, yet give us so much in return. They're like hairless cats, except not really, because hairless cats are insanely creepy, while boobs are insanely awesome.
Yet what is boobs' reward in America? Vilification. Any time the slightest bit of cleavage comes out to play, Americans scramble for their torches and pitchforks.
I'm not saying Katy Perry needs to do a topless pole dance while Oscar the Grouch throws garbage-juice-soaked dollar bills at her, but give me a break: so she was wearing a glorified bustier. So what? Is this the message we want preschoolers to learn: boobs are dangerous, so dangerous they must be covered up at all times, hidden away, OH GOD THE BOOBS MAKE THEM STOP
I've always loved boobs, even as a little kid. My mom had a friend with a particularly nice set of knockers, and when I was seven or eight years old I would take every opportunity to grab said friend's boobs because A) they were killer boobs, and B) I knew I was young enough to get away with it. I knew even then the awesome power of the boobs was nothing to fear, but something meant to be embraced, preferably face first, nose pressed into the sternum, mounds pressing against each cheek.
Do not fear the boobs. Love the boobs. To do anything less than loving the boobs is to insult the boobs, and you don't want to insult the boobs. For boobs are a precious gift. Look at the rest of mammalkind. They have teats, but can you say that any of them have boobs? No. Only humans have boobs. And what boobs we have. We are blessed by boobs, so take that blessing and run with it, preferably while wearing a skimpy tank top. Oh my, yes.
Boobs.