For about two and a half decades now, professional finger-waggers have found a decent niche for themselves in the flourishing sexual harassment industry from which they can rail-against the loathsome scourge of men who inadvertently cast appreciative glances upon the figures of women co-workers. So the MacKinnonite theory goes: If that form of rampant delinquency is ever-assiduously rooted-out and punished severely enough, it will prod everyone towards a more respectful workplace in which the first thought that enters a man’s mind when seeing a provocatively dressed, pouty-lipped woman sporting a bod that won’t quit will be: “Great accounting degree!” rather than: “Great legs!”
In my guts, I suspect that could only be attained when the last shreds of human instinct are beaten-out of existence via unimaginably powerful bureaucratic apparatuses which regulate every facet of life and constantly hold the hammer of punishment over people’s heads. Just imagine what kind of Utopian workplace that would turn-out to be, eh? Plus, it’ll work-out swell for the people holding the hammer.
But until that marvelous day arrives, us folks will have to make do with, shall we say, less-than-ideal palliatives. (Hallelujah!) And on that note, famed actress Marion Cotillard is on the case to inform us of an elegant solution to the age-old problem of getting those meatheads to look you in the eyes instead of at your juggs.
Best of all, it has NOTHING to do with you closing up the topmost buttons on your blouse so that the lacy edges of your bra don’t tantalizingly peek-out. That’s a ridiculous idea and there’s no reason you should ever considering doing that as long as you live. Ever. Pretty please? So purge that heresy from your silly little head immediately.
Right. Instead, you ought to consider getting a pair of Forehead Tittaes™ by Janae, which is a far more sensible thing to do. Plus, it sounds French. Or Walloon. Or something.
A local ad firm in Colorado Springs has nixed a bus shelter promotion for a touring production of the raunchy comedy Avenue Q because– are you sitting down? –the poster showed puppet cleavage.
And, I don’t know, that kind of view might upset some Puritanical old fuddy-duddy out there.
Right. Because maybe a poster like that would be found objectionable by, I don’t know, the sanctimonious Reverend Bubba Flavel in Porky’s II. Or the joy-killing Dean Vernon Wormer in Animal House. Or Dana Carvey’s lemon-faced Church Lady. Somebody of that temperament might get bothered by it. And the results of that could be… catastrophic.
Use your imagination, people! It could really happen!
Anyway, the cleavage in question belongs to Lucy the Slut, the lounge-singing hussy who comes perilously close to wrecking the uneasy, budding relationship between the protagonists Princeton and Kate Monster in what has to be the hottest muppet-sex scene in the entire history of live theater.
Adding to the galloping silliness of this decision, if someone is going to be shocked or offended by the poster in question, they would be well advised to abstain from the whole freakin’ performance altogether. In fact, perhaps they ought to move into some shack way up in the Rockies where the risk of any inflammatory imagery will be much, much lower.
If you’ve bought a pair of Reebok Easytones, they might very well be!
I’m not sure why they had to make the boobs sound like a pair of ditzes, though. They could have tried something more original. Like, I dunno, make them talk as if they were German rocket scientists maybe. That sure would’ve been an unexpected angle…
I figure it’s got to be a bad idea to have your breasts jealous of your derrière. The only possible result of that would be a war in your guts and these kinds of flare-ups can spread quickly. All of your organs would have to pick sides and you could start swelling-up and bleeding from your eyeballs. Maybe. It could happen. And just to err on the side of caution, there is but one reasonable way to defuse that kind of conflict:
Get a boob job.
And, by sheer coincidence, that happens to be my recommended solution to a whole slew of problems.
What can I say?
I’m into holistic medicine.
PS: This commercial sort of made me worry about the conversations that are going-on between my various body parts. I’m especially concerned about what my pancreas and my gall bladder are saying to each other; I honestly think they’re up to no good.
They’ve got to be very pissed at what I do to my liver.
..Quite an eye-opener, I mean. Courtesy of Ariana beer:
Can’t say I’ve ever had Bulgarian suds before and this is the kind of commercial that rather grabs my attention. But why a pretty young thing in a luxury car would want to step inside a roughly-hewn log dive staffed by a barkeep with a bad case of delirium tremens is something that I don’t quite understand. That’s not the kind of question that ought to be foremost on our minds, I suppose.
No matter. I go absolutely ga-ga over a gal with black nail polish. It just looks so delightfully kick-ass and bitchy. And with bee-stung lips all pumped-up with collagen like those are? I bet she could form a really tight seal if she were to come back to my place and suck on my… bottle.
And you were thinking exactly the same thing, I’m sure.
I mean, she’s got that thing on a chain around her neck, so she’s gotta be guzzling a lot of something on a regular basis, right?
A hoary little sketch from Comedy Central’s The Man Show.
I sure wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of that well-whacked gavel:
You know, I can understand the comedic value of a disco-ball spontaneously descending from the courtroom ceiling. That’s always good for a laugh or two. But why the devil they decided to throw-in those two foreigner-types is something of a head-scratcher for me.
I guess they thought the words ‘pita-bread’ would be a total thigh-slapper if they came-out of a thinly-accented mouth. But maybe I’m missing some brilliant, subtle nuance.
I mean, it is The Man Show, for God’s sake. The humor was sophisticated on so many levels…
