Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Boy, They Don’t Draw ‘Em Like They Used To

So, today we drove — yes, in our ‘Ram tough’ accidenta-rental Dodge truck, for those of you just tuning in — to my mother-in-law’s place, where we’ll spend the next few magical days and nights, full of joy and love and Christmas cheer.

(And bourbon, most likely. And most definitely, if they’re looking for all that ‘joy and cheer’ crap. I can’t deal with this damned holiday sober, goddammit. Humbug to that ridiculous shit.)

Anyway, thanks — I think — to you sweet, special, smartassed people who have written in to comment on our inadvertent hemi rental. I can’t possibly tell you how it brightens my holiday season to catch shit from people I’ve never actually met about a situation I had no control over. No, really. Thanks. Seriously.

(Nah, really — I mean it. You kid because you love, right? That’s what mom always used to tell me when the kids were picking on me in school.

It doesn’t make the wedgies less painful, exactly… but at least I could appreciate where the bullies were coming from, you know? What a big help. Bah.)

All right — none of this is the point, and I’m short on time right now. Not to mention patience — either my wife or I have to drag our parents screaming and kvetching into the twenty-first century and wean them off of this dialup crap. I can feel my fricking hair grow while I’m waiting for pages to load. Not cool, dammit.

So, the point is simply this: what the hell has happened to the ‘Breast Self-Exam’ handouts that women get when they visit their doctors? There have been recent changes to these little mini-brochures, apparently, and I for one am not happy about the direction these puppies are pointed in. Allow me to explain.

First, you probably need to know what brought all of this on. When my wife and I stay with the mother-in-law and her ‘new but now not so new since it’s been a dozen years or more’ man, we use the bathroom that she uses every day. And, for reasons that I really don’t need to ponder too deeply, she keeps a ‘Breast Self-Exam’ guide placard in that bathroom.

(And just to clarify, there are a couple of reasons why I don’t need to think about that too damned hard. First of all, one of those cards has been in there as long as I can remember — several years and counting. If I were to give it too much thought, I’d probably ask myself whether she forgets how to feel herself up in that certain ‘clinical’ sort of way. Or maybe she needs the diagram to remember where her breasts are. Neither seems likely, but I don’t have another good explanation. And so, I try not to consider it at all.

Plus… come on, people. It’s my mother-in-law. That’s just creepy, in an Oedipus-meets-Jerry-Springer sort of way. Big ew.)

Okay, so back to the point. Which had to do with boobies, as I recall, so let’s get to it.

So, here’s the thing — for years now, it was the same set of self-exam instructions sitting there in the bathroom. And the little placard was clearly put together by a man. You could tell by the diagrams alone — I never read the first word on that crazy thing, but it was obvious with even a cursory glance that a man was responsible for the thing.

Why? Because the woman shown in the diagram example was cute — youngish, lips parted, shortish hair, attractive. Perky, even. North and south of the neckal region. It was damned near softcore anime porn, people. And I dug it. I spent a fair amount of time in that bathroom. I’ve never studied so hard for a test I’m never going to take in my life. That was good shit.

But this year — oh, this year, alas — the instruction card has changed. I’m not sure where or how or when my mother-in-law got the new set of instructions; that’s not really something you ask, you know. We’re on good terms and all, but not that good. Hell, my wife and I are barely on terms that good.

And honestly, I don’t know for certain whether the instructions themselves have changed. For all I know, the procedure is exactly the same as it’s always been. Or maybe it’s completely different, enhanced — some might say ‘augmented‘ — with new, state-of-the-art boob-feeling techniques never dreamed of by mere twentieth-century breast exam researchers. I really can’t say.

What I can tell you, though, is that there is now, undoubtedly, a woman at the reins of whatever task force it is that publishes these little cards. Because now the woman in all of the diagrams is more… realistic. Older — as most self-exam-takers are likely to be. A bit wider around the midsection. And all business — unlike the previous chicky, this woman is fiddling around her nipples solely for medical reasons.

(The last girl was, you know, mainly feeling around her breasticles to ensure her lasting good health… but she also stopped to smell the proverbial roses once in a while, if you know what I’m saying. You could just tell.

Once she knew the coast was all clear, health-wise, she lingered a bit longer. Maybe brushed a couple of fingers over a particularly sensitive bit, just as she was wrapping things up. I’m not saying she ‘shook it more than twice’, necessarily — but the girl had a little fun with her boobie-pinching. And christ… when you put it that way, how could she not?)

Anyway, I’m not sure what brought on the change in ‘models’, but it’s not a welcome change, from my perspective. Oh sure, the women actually using the placards probably feel better about it — they can likely identify more closely with the new pictures, and feel better about checking their ‘hooter health’ (I know, I know… I couldn’t help it…) without having to see a near-model having way more fun doing the same. Still. For those males among us who are subjected to seeing these things on a regular — or, in my case, irregular — basis, it’s just not the same. I’m still one hundred and ten percent behind regular breast exams, of course — even the ones I’m not invited to ‘proctor’ — but it’s just not as exciting as it used to be. A little part of me has died this Christmas. A little, twisted, inappropriately horny part. God rest its sick, confused little soul.

But what the hell — I’ve got plenty of other little parts like that, so it’s really no huge loss. And with a little work — and a lot of that booze I mentioned at the beginning — maybe I can grow to feel the same way about this new topless cartoon lady. Hell, anything’s possible. ‘Tis the season, after all.

Hope you kids got everything you wanted this year, wrapped in a big honkin’ fat red bow.

(And preferably, nothing else. Oh, my.)

Merry holidays, folks. More when I get a chance. G’night!