Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.
I love summertime. No, not the song by Will Smith. Having heard that song roughly 1,000 times annually since it was released in 1991, I’m quite sick of it by now. I’m talking about the actual season of summer. Summertime has warmth, sunshine, blue skies, green grass, and women everywhere trying to stuff their four pound boobs into a three pound sack.
Or top. Whatever you want to call that particular piece of clothing. Referring to a shirt as a “sack” sounds funnier. Claiming that boobs weigh four pounds is also funnier. I considered using metric system measurements – 1.81 kg boobs in a 1.36 kg sack – but that would not have been funnier.
Because it’s summertime, I’ve been thinking about boobs a lot lately. Well okay, being a man, I’m always thinking about boobs, even if I’m at a funeral or presenting our department’s annual budget in a meeting at work. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t thinking about boobs, or some subject in relation to or eventually leading towards the thought of boobs.
If I was dying of dehydration in the middle of the desert and I spotted a small oasis in the distance – one with an icy waterfall of cold beer – I’d probably still be thinking about boobs the entire way there. Not water. Not shade. Not the refreshing, clean taste of a cold beer. Boobs.
I’d be standing underneath the waterfall, my favorite beverage splashing down upon my head, and I’d think, “I wonder if this waterfall of beer can help me get boobs?” If I were in a horrible automobile accident, I would lie there, crushed under the weight of my own car, wondering how it would affect my chances of getting boobs. If I owned a house and it burned down, I’d watch all my possessions burn, wondering whether the sympathy from this tragedy would include boobs.
Summertime always makes me think of boobs more than usual. Perhaps it’s an ancient mating call buried into human genes, calling us to the breeding season, or the fact that women dress more provocatively when it’s warm. Either way, summertime is boobtime every time.
The greatest thing about summer boobs is their omnipresence. They’re everywhere. Like the ghost of Jesus, wherever you go, they are near you. In Duluth, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, New York, or Superior, good Christians can rest easy knowing boobs will be there. To paraphrase Augustine and his interesting take,”In boobs things are, rather than boobs are in any place.” Most men would agree that every item can be imagined as a boob, and every boob is indeed an item.
Sometimes, when people I don’t like are talking to me, I imagine their head is a giant boob.
Of course, everywhere you go you’ll also find dicks, but that doesn’t sound as pretty, now does it?
Boobs are not just an event for men. Women – whether they want to admit it or not – are also fascinated by boobs. You’d think having some of their own would make them as sick of them as I am of the Will Smith song “Summertime”, but many women still have a great curiosity about other women’s boobs. While for most it tends to be more of a competitive fascination – like studying the Zagros Mountains before entering the War in Iraq – it’s still an obsession of sorts. It’s one area where my female friends and I could bond meaningfully if they continue speaking to me after reading this column.
I wouldn’t, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about women over the years, it’s that the ones I hang out with put up with far more of my crap than I ever would.
I don’t know what women look forward to in the summertime. Men in shorts? Ugh. We’re hairy. If women were turned on by men in shorts, the gorilla exhibit at the zoo would be overflowing with women all winter long. Perhaps women look forward to summer just for the nice weather. It’s hard for me to understand how climate could be more exciting than boobs, but to each their own.
The month of May begins this week. Summertime is near and our senses are tingling. For women, this tingling in their brains is for the right reasons. For men, the tingling isn’t even in our brains. Regardless of the reasons, we can all agree that it’s just nice to be tingling.