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Hey, Whaddaya Know — Reading Can Be Fun!

Look, here’s the thing — if you don’t want me to stare at some part or other of your anatomy, then for the love of peanuts, don’t wear clothing over said parts that has writing on it.

I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. (I’m not, particularly, but I like to think that. I like to think a lot of things.) Anyway, if you put words in front of me, then I’m probably going to have a good, hard look, and have a go at making some sense out of the damned things. It seems like a perfectly natural thing to do, frankly.

Meanwhile, I’m a man. And not a particularly scrumptious, hunky chunk of beeferoni, either.

(No, don’t fret; it’s okay. I know — I’m comfortable with it. I’m not the Elephant Man or Louie Anderson or anything; I’m just never going to be mistaken for a boy band alum. Or an ex-soap opera star. Or David Hasselhoff. Or for that matter, David Duchovny. Or even David Hyde Pierce, for what that’s worth. And don’t get me started on David Alan Grier; I’m not even in the same ballpark.)

And that’s all right. I’ve come to terms with my average, anonymous looks. But the upshot of my undreamyness is that women generally aren’t interested in having me peruse their persons, or any parts thereof. I can look ’em in the eyes, and maybe I can get away with the occasional peek at a hand, or an elbow, or the bottom of a foot, but that’s about it. Any sort of extracurricular ogling is going to be met with extreme prejudice.

(Not, of course, that I’d engage in any such sort of behavior in the first place, being happily hitched and all. All of this is so theoretical. We’re clear on that, right? Sort of? Just a little?

Sure, I might be tempted to sneak just a tiny peek, once in a while. You know, just out of curiousity. There are people out there that have parts that I don’t have; sometimes, I like to check those bits out, just to see what they’re like.

Look, if some unfortunate soul had a couple of big lumpy humps growing out of their back, you’d sneak a look if you could, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t stare, because that’s rude, of course, but you’d give ’em the old once-over with the eyeballs; you know you would, because you don’t have those things, and you’d be interested to know more about them. It’s just human nature — it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

So… you know, just think of boobs as two big lumpy front-humps. That’s all they are, really. And people are naturally curious; it’s really more a question of anthropology than anything when guys stare slack-jawed at a titillating twosome of tatas. Um, other guys, that is. Of course. Again, with the ‘theoretical’ thing. Ahem.)

Okay, so you get the idea. As a filthy, dirty man, I’m rather predisposed to notice certain areas of certain bodies. But the brains in charge of those bodies really don’t want me perusing their proverbial parking lot, looking at their wheels.

(Much less kicking the tires, or taking anything for a test drive. I’m not gonna be fiddling with the gearbox, putting the top down, or — heaven help me — getting my nozzle anywhere near the gas tank.

How’s that? Have we beaten this automotive euphemism horse to death yet? I sure as hell hope so — you don’t want me to get out the ‘moonroof’ references. Really, you don’t.)

So, the problem is, it’s these same certain types of people who are most likely to wear clothing with words covering their chesticles, or their assitalia — sorry, are the official medical terms confusing? I apologize.I don’t want to leave anyone behind here.

The point is, if you wear a pair of tiny little sweat shorts, and I can see ‘ABERC’ or ‘ROMBIE’ on the bootycheek closer to me, then you can be fairly certain that I’m going to stretch my neck to find out what the rest of this little ass-puzzle says. Maybe you’re a fan of… um, ‘Aber Cookies’, whatever those are. Or you went to good old ‘St. Grombie’ college, if such a place exists. I don’t know for certain. But if you’ve intrigued me with the letters on one of your ass-halves, then I’m going to have to try to find out. And if that involves staring glassy-eyed at your rumpterior — or, in extreme cases, chasing you down and flipping you over so I can see what the hell your pants say — then I can’t really see how I’m to blame.

Still, I get some pretty funny looks. ‘Funny’, dirty, horrified… whatever. I still say these ladies are bringing the unwelcome attention on themselves, with all that ill-positioned writing. (I also say that dammit, it can take me fifteen minutes to read ‘B C’ on a woman’s shirt, if I’m having a bad brain day. Yeah. I like to say a lot of things, too, actually.)

Anyway, that’s all I’m saying — you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. More specifically, you can pimpslap a guy for getting googly-eyed over your gazoombas, or you can use your chest as a ‘boobie billboard’, and invite the world to have a look. But you can’t do both. It’s not fair, really.

Seriously, you don’t see me running around the neighborhood with my fly unzipped and streamers tied to my weenie, and then complaining that people aren’t looking me in the eye when they talk to me. (Or run away from me, or arrest me and take me to jail.) Or standing on the sidewalk out front with my pants around my ankles and ‘Leggo My Eggos’ written in Sharpie on my bare ass, then geting all huffy when folks concentrate on that instead of whatever jibberish I happen to be spouting at the time. See? It’s just ridiculous.

And… um, hmmm. Look, I’ve gotta be honest. I forgot what the hell my point was. Suddenly, I’m just hungry for frozen waffles, and I’m wondering whether those streamers would hurt. Eh, never mind the whole thing. I’m gonna find a Sharpie and go have some fun with the neighbors. You folks talk amongst yourselves. I’ll catch you later.