Thursday, August 6, 2015

Nipple Napalm

I have had time to think about this topic for awhile now as I have discovered that with the increasing amount of time I am chained to the desk doing paperwork that contrary to what many of acquaintance may opine that I have finally hit puberty as my pecs have begun increasing in girth and affluence corresponding along with the number of paper cut claims I have filed. The ballooning of my pecs, however, are not within the lines of the early 1970’s Mr. Olympia, but those of woman, after breastfeeding thirteen children, have the shape and tension of a used condom.  They aren’t huge, I think a midsized training bra is not yet required, but it got me thinking that there is a definite sexual discrimination towards the man boob that many human rights groups have overlooked for far too long.
They go by many a name: testosterone titties, gonad giblets, bob’s bazoombas, the boiezes girls, or the ever popular, man boobs. Why is it men will go ga ga over a pair of large breasts on a woman, no matter the frame, while women will tend to gag?  Is it not the oldest arguments from the Women’s Liberation movement of old that breasts are a biological fact and not merely eye candy?  Why is it that a man is sexist if he yells at a woman “take it off! Take it off!” while a woman yelling at a man “put it on! Put it on!” is not?  Why do women think it is an utter travesty of society when a woman decides to spend thousands on increasing her breast size yet applaud if a man decides to spend thousands on gym equipment to decrease the size of his breasts?  Can today’s society with its pushing of formula even use the argument that breasts serve a biological function that is solely provided by a woman?
The worst part of the development of man-boobs is that the next step is nipple napalm.  Once the breast cannot support the weight of the nipple it will begin to point downward as an omen that the rest of the body can now go straight to Hell.  I don’t know how long I have until I will have to start hiking my pants up to my ribcage in order to hamper the dropping of the ball…er…balls to the point where to do nothing would lead to having to walk bow legged so that the scrotum has more swing room thereby reducing the number of bruises caused by whacking against the kneecaps.
Nipple napalm, in fact, when I was thinking about it led me to draw this cartoon…okay, perhaps thinking is too strong of word for how most of the ideas for cartoons come about.  It is probably best to say as I was grossly overindulging on something that at my age I should know better than to, this struck me as funny…

…and oddly familiar.  Not that the situation ever occurred to me, no, I’ve never gotten that drunk to make such a mistake.  I’m merely subjugating that a person could make such a mistake…overtiredness, loud music, dimly lit tables with the occasional blindness caused by errant rays of retina burning lasers of rotating strobe lights….it is totally understandable if a person was to hear “Lauren” instead of “Lorne” and that later, once upon discovering said error having to weigh the amount of coordination it would take to fall forward with your mouth open and tongue out versus the eighteen “Alabama Slammer” muscle coordination required to put the clothes on that almost ended the removal of said clothing on several occasions from multiple head contusions and a definite lack of balance…or so I’ve heard.

No comments:

Post a Comment