Making a Clean Breast of Things, So To Speak

In my never-ending quest for self-promotion and increasing the readership of my blog, I have taken to analyzing my regular readership and have found an interesting factoid: the majority of my regular readers seem to be women.

This is not necessarily a bad thing as, like most men, I have spent much of my life trying to attract the attention of the fair sex. But it does lead me to wonder what I can do to attract more men to this little corner of cyberspace. I could write more about things men tend to like, such as cars, guns, professional sports, and Kim Kardashian. Or, I could just spend more time on the Universal Male Attractant: breasts.

No, not these ...

But, well, these ...

I actually got to thinking about the topic of breasts this morning when I followed this link on Miss Cellania's blog: 12 Problems That Only Busty Girls Have. It gave me a new appreciation for the trials and tribulations of the ladies who have been endowed (whether by nature or otherwise) with somewhat more than their fair share of feminine cantileverage.

Of course, we men don't usually think about the down side of such things the way ladies do. We're spring-loaded to appreciate breasts of all shapes and sizes, and we long for the warm summer days of tank tops and halters and the scoopiest of scoop necklines.

For those of us who collect cartoons, there are ample opportunities for humor that spin off from our collective fascination with breasts, such as ...

And ...

And ...

And ...

And then there is the little ditty attributed to one Robert Paul Smith that goes,

B is for Breasts

Of which ladies have two;

Once prized for the function,

Now for the view.

Rodney Dangerfield, the original "I don't get no respect" comedian, once commented that ...

"My mother never breast-fed me. She told me she liked me as a friend."

Well, that's enough about breasts for now. It's time to read the Sunday paper, fix breakfast, and get myself ready to head out to the Spring Showcase at Lioudmila's Dance Studio, where I'll be doing the honors as the emcee. This is a much better gig for a dancer than actually performing - I don't have to remember any routines or worry about annoying things like rhythm, timing, and looking utterly blissful even when I know I've royally screwed up.

Oh, and I also get to spend the afternoon looking longingly at beautiful ladies in their sexy ball gowns and Latin costumes. Which brings us back to ... uh ... never mind.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo