When I asked the SLUG editors what they wanted me to write my article about this month, they were very specific. They told me not to write it about Mike Brown Fest 5 (V) happening at Urban Lounge on October 30t featuring the Fucktards, Powerhouse Rock and some skaters who rap. I’m not going to write about the next Mike Brown Fest that will feature a Mike Brown costume contest. That would just be narcissistic. What isn’t narcissistic is dressing up like me to win prizes. Actually, it is.
Instead, they specifically asked me to write about things I am familiar with. The editors asked me to write about boobs, even though they both have boobs and I don’t. Now I’m faced with the challenge of writing 850 words about tits with a broken pinkie finger. I like a challenge.
My first thought when asked to write an article about boobs was—how the fuck did I win a best of City Weekly award this year for my SLUG articles? Don’t get me wrong, I’m way honored to win. I mean, they called me a ‘journalist’ and they put me in the same category with all the other journalists. When I saw the “Best Of” in City Weekly, my first thought was, “Take that! Chris Vanocur!” and my second thought was, “How many of these other journalists dropped out of college?”
My point is, I have to write about boobs this month, and I won a plaque for it, and people wonder why I work for SLUG.
Ok, back to boobs. The whole suggestion that I write about boobs came about when we were looking at boobs on the SLUG office computer and talking about how a bunch of them were fake. I started talking about why I think guys like fake boobs. See, I have my own special set of theories for all sorts of stupid shit, like how I think the Mormons are their own special race and how Courtney Love killed Kurt Cobain. That whore.
I don’t think most guys actually like fake boobs at all. I think girls like them more than guys do. BFTs (big fake tits) are more of a status symbol for the broads in our culture. Other girls don’t really give a shit if another girl is rocking a fancy watch or platinum chain at the club, but you have a flat-chested chick’s full attention if your silicone is slamming. BFTs are the Rolexes of the feminine world.
I came up with this theory while at dinner with an ex-girlfriend who was considering taking that next step into modern femininity. Her and all her friends talked seriously for over an hour about BFTs. She was talking about how she had felt others’ BFTs to help make a firm decision. Pun intended.
The whole time, I was holding back the urge to ask them if they needed a male opinion on the decision, because you’d think it would be more logical to have a guy’s perspective. I kept thinking about times my guy buddies had gotten new watches, taken them off their wrists and made me hold them while saying something stupid like, “That’s real titanium, son.” But it was clear that my expert opinion on the matter was not needed, and I felt like a big enough perv already just being around the conversation.
The reason why I think guys aren’t that into BFTs is this: We look at boobs no matter what. We talk about boobs no matter what. Fake or not, boobs are boobs—whether they are being held firmly and discreetly like a nice set of sweater kittens or have cleavage pushed together most sluttily for all the world to enjoy. Guys may discriminate against different knocker sets, but only because we stare at every set in eve James, I bet you are right! Ha ha ha, let’s start a collection fund now for Oblivians and the other garage rock gems he’s got.
Long Gone John, Did I ever tell you about the time I met him in Au ry bar we’ve ever gone to. We even stare at trannies’ boobs.
It’s easy to tell when a girl’s got BFTs. She doesn’t have to tell the whole world, even though she’s likely to. When I stare at them, it’s not like I get an insta-boner. I’m usually looking at them with the same fascination as when I stare at someone with a deformed baby arm or huge scar on their face. Sorry to all deformed people, but yeah, other people are staring too, whether they are willing to admit it or not.
When the BFTs are so disproportionate to the rest of the woman’s body, I have to look. For a long time. Wondering: Why? How? When? Can I hug you? If I hug you, am I going to get a semi or just the sensation of latching onto two perfectly round granite stones? Can rocks shaped like boobs with scars on them turn me on? I just don’t know.
To me, boobs are supposed to be, and be treated like, baby kittens—soft, always cuddled with and fed twice a day.
I think boobs are a great thing. They yield a certain power amongst both men and women that any true-blooded feminist should be proud of. I’m probably gonna get some hate mail for that last comment, but I don’t get enough hate mail these days, which makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong with my life.