It’s Bang Card Time!

Big news here, guys. It’s official. I’m blown away by “The Bachelorette.”

I’ve watched a lot of shows, from MacGyver to Gossip Girl, but I don’t think I’ve ever been as shocked by a show as I am by “The Bachelorette.” To summarize:

Hot 26-year old brunette wants to get married and start having kids ASAP. (“Hey, Life? This is Fun. Just wanted to say it was nice knowing you, and good luck with everything.”) She’s in a rush, so she doesn’t want to go through the normal channels (e.g. dirty bars, temp jobs, eHarmony, “mishaps” with GHB, etc.), so she goes on a nationally televised program pitting 25 men against one another to win her heart through contests and tests of commitment like “opening up.” Oh, and did I mention she’s hot?

I have many complaints about the show (number one being that she kicking and punching amongst the bachelors is not allowed), but overall, in a deeply philosophical and life-redefering way, my qualm is this: That out one side of her mouth, all DeAnna does is talk about finding true love and spending her life with someone and making that magical connection that only soul mates can share, and out of the other side of her vagina she’s decided that the pool from which she will find this soul mate is a subset of twenty-five studly men. That’s it. Twenty-five. When you consider how many men there are in the world, doesn’t twenty-five seems like a small percentage? Especially when you’re a hot brunette who can basically break up relationships at will and shop for boyfriends like XBOX games at Toys R’ Us?

Now here’s something that might surprise you. Fundamentally, I think this is a sound premise. In fact, it’s something I’ve thought for a long time now. In college, I called it the “Packed Elevator” theory, the premise being that if I was on my way to class in an elevator packed full of girls, there is a very good chance that I could have a long, happy relationship (or a drawn out, cat and mouse game of who cheated on who the most) with at least one of them. No need to accidentally trip over each other in the cafeteria only to find out that we’re both English majors who secretly (shh, it’s so embarrassing!) like that song from the Volkswagen commercial. Just a simple, “Oh, you’re going to six too? We should have sex and ruin each other’s lives.”

But here’s DeAnna going on and on about once in a lifetime opportunities to find the soul mate of her dreams, when really she has just as much of a chance of finding her future husband at the local grocery store. (Or, more appropriately, the local gym. I haven’t seen that many six packs since my last trip to the beer distributor. AM I RIGHT?) And what really sticks in my craw is the sincerity of the show: that we’re supposed to believe that while DeAnna will only find one soul mate from the crop of twenty-five, that all twenty-five of those guys think she is their soul mate. I would do the math on that to prove how ridiculous it is, but I don’t think that that’s what math is used for anyway.

Listen, I’m not saying that the “natural” order the male/female mating game isn’t without its flaws. Girls go on four bad dates a week, guys sleep with their housekeepers – heck, I even have a friend who dated a girl solely because she worked at a chocolate shop. But the point is, the way they do it on “The Bachelorette” doesn’t work. You can’t just go kissing every guy who says you look “wow” in a cocktail dress and find “a connection” while enjoying extravagant meals in private mausoleums or whatever the hell they do. Bottom line – it just doesn’t work.

Until now.

That’s right, tonight is THE BIG NIGHT. It’s down to three bachelors, and tonight they may or may not (at the discretion of DeAnna’s hooha) be presented with what I affectionately refer to as a “Bang Card.” Basically, a Bang Card is an invitation to learn more about their special relationship by spend the night with do DeAnna in her “fantasy suite” in the Bahamas. Depending on how each date goes, DeAnna has the discretion to offer the Bang Card or not.

Needless to say, I think this is a brilliant turn of events. I can’t tell you how many times in my life (four) I could have used such a clear-cut signal as a piece of paper (which could considered a written contract and used as evidence in a court of law) that a girl wanted to get it on. No more of this, “She touched my hand when she laughed” or “She ordered dessert, so she owes me anyway.” Just a black and white token of intentions. It doesn’t even matter what’s written inside. It could be a drawing of a bear cub sliding down a rainbow. The deal’s done.

The only question I have left, then, is this: If you were DeAnna’s father watching tonight’s episode, how many bottles of Jim Beam would you drink:

a) 1
b) 2
c) 3
d) a gun

Knock Knock Jokes That Never Caught On

Knock Knock
Who’s there?
(deep breathing)

Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
Dan.
Dan who?
Murphy.

Knock Knock.
¿Quién es?
I.N.S.

Knock Knock.
Who is it?
Your ex-girlfriend.
My ex-girlfriend who?
You should get tested for herpes.

Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
Hugh.
Hugh who?
. . . get it?
Sorry, I don’t know any Hugh.

Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
The police.
Can you show me your badges? There’s been a few robberies in the neighborhood.

Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
I’m your son.
Ah, shit.

Some Thoughts on the Wii Fit Girl While Trimming My Pubic Hair Earlier Today

Undoubtedly you’ve seen the video of a scantily clad girl gyrating atop a Wii Fit game console, while her “so-called” boyfriend secretly tapes her. (I say “so-called” because in my opinion the only time you should secretly tape a girl doing anything is when you know she’s out of your league and you probably will never see her again, so in that case it’s for posterity, which is a noble intent.)

Despite the fact that she is wearing clothes and not saying things like, “Oh my, it’s so hot in here I could literally melt in your arms,” it has been viewed by a gabillion people worldwide.

Here’s my question: Why?

Typically, when I watch videos online they’re of situations that I will never find myself in, like a wolf eating an alligator, or an Asian man spinning on his head. But a girl playing video games? Been there! Sure, it was sixth grade and we were playing Super Mario and the sexiest thing she did was get the secret 1-up from the hidden brick in level three (in her defense, she was 12), but the point is, with videos out there like this:

what are we watching Wii Fit girl for?

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Dan. I understand you have a girlfriend, but some of us don’t, so we discuss our feelings with impunity. And, at the end of the day, I enjoy watching girls gyrate in their underwear. It just . . . it makes me feel alive. Like the first time I rode a roller-coaster or ate a strip of bacon.” And you know what? I get that. I really do. But we’re talking about the internet here. It was made to store videos of girls doing all sorts of things in their underwear, from milking cows to landing on the moon. I mean, just do a YouTube search for booty + shorts. Better yet, do one for “booty + shorts + dancing,” or even “girl + oil + dance” (because why not?).

My point here is, What makes an ordinary girl playing video games so special? And the answer, which came to me while I was trimming my pubic hair this morning, was this: voyeurism.

What’s that, you stupidly ask? Voyeurism means that we’re secretly peeking in on a world that we’re not supposed to see and watching something that we’re not supposed to watch. (This also explains the success of Two and a Half Men.) So while I’m standing there in the bathroom manscaping, and I look out the window and watch people walking by on the street down below, I think, “Man, wouldn’t they get a kick out of seeing me now!?” And not because whatever I’m doing is particularly cool or engaging (though it happens to make me look cool and engaging), but simply by dint of the fact that they’re not supposed to be watching me do it.

But also, video games are totally hot.

A Revelation* While Making Chili

In our efforts to be healthier and cook our own meals instead of constantly ordering take-out, Brooke and I decided to make chili the other day.

(Ed. Note: We use the more liberal definition of “healthy,” i.e. not from a can and not containing any chemicals currently banned by the FDA and/or salmonella. Though in truth we just couldn’t pass up those delicious looking tomatoes despite the recent salmonella “outbreak,” of which Brooke and I both use air quotes when referencing it to people, as though we are the only ones who understand that it is a scam run by the onion farmers to scare up business.)

Anyway, the chili was a couples’ effort, and we each had our assignments. One of Brooke’s was to chop the jalapeño pepper. Brooke, not a seasoned (get it?) chef, sliced the pepper and cleaned out the seeds with her bare hands.

A few minutes later, her fingers began to burn.

Brooke: “My thumbs hurt and it’s weird.”

Dan: “It’s the pepper. There’s a chemical in there that sticks to your skin and causes it to burn.”

Brooke: “Get out, really? I didn’t know that’s how it worked.”

(begins washing hands)

Brooke: “Man, it really hurts. They could make a weapon out of that stuff.”

Dan: “They do – it’s called pepper spray.”

(slight pause)

Brooke: “Ohhh…”

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* Bonus revelation! While we were in Key West over Memorial Day Weekend, we saw signs everywhere for “the best Key Lime Pie.”

Dan: “I guess key limes must be a specialty in Key Wes-”

Brooke and Dan: (simultaneously) “Ohhh…”

JetBlew

I’m not normally one to assign blame. My dad raised me to take responsibility in the face of adversity. (Although he also raised me to take a little bit of everything on my dinner plate onto my fork at once – what the hell is that about?) But sometimes it takes a real man to understand when he has been let down, and that manly man must then point his finger and say, “He did it – he’s the nanny nanny poo poo who did it!”

“It” here, of course, doesn’t refer to that minor drug trafficking charge I got when I mixed up my Claritin with my uppers, or that time “massage” misunderstanding (which was purely an issue of regional dialects). No, “it” refers to neglecting [redacted]. I had planned to come back from New York last week filled to the brim with tales of adventurous heroics and hysterical hijinks. (Ex. 1: A homeless guy on the subway smelled like a week-old animal corpse! Discuss.)

Instead, though, Mother Nature conspired with the powers that be at JetBlue to take me out back to the tool shed and spill blue paint on me. The day of my impending departure, I sat at a makeshift desk in the New York office of the company I work for hitting refresh on the JetBlue flight status page. On Time turned to Delayed; Delayed turned to Even More Delayeder! (or some other cutesy way of sloganing it that JetBlue’s crack ad team employs with reckless abandon), until finally all that was left to say was Canceled L.

Long story short, JetBlue pussied out (Birds fly in the rain all the time!) and I was stuck in New York a little longer than expected. Which sounds fine and dandy considering how majestic a place New York is (culture! hotdogs!), but sounds less majestic when you’re carrying around a huge suitcase everywhere you go, constantly rolling over the leathered feet of Blackberry-enchanted corporate suits in subway stations, and when they shout, HEY! looking back at them with you’re tanned complexion suggesting you haven’t been under a fluorescent office light (hence, not living in New York) for at least, oh, four months now, and suggesting that perhaps they wouldn’t have minded so much being bumped into by a suitcase if they would, for maybe but a moment or two, just long enough to take a bite of their custom-made chopped salad, remove their boss’ cock from their mouth.

Like I said though: I’m only angry with JetBlue. It seems their record of pissing people off is stellar. In fact, I imagine a huge convention center full or air travelers with some notable speaker like Edward James Olmos holding court, saying, “Everyone, raise your hand if you haven’t been screwed by JetBlue,” and the only person to raise their hand is a six-month old baby, at which point Edward James Olmos is like, “That’s one smart baby!” And if it wasn’t for the unlimited Terra chips and the fact that I watched the season finale of Top Chef on my flight up to New York, I might abandon them altogether. But like I said, my dad raised me right.

All the anger and aggression, though, dissipated away upon returning home to Brooke and Puppy, who was apparently so distraught at my absence that he sometimes laid prostrate on the bed, staring at my pillow.

So when I came through the door, a bleary-eyed Odysseus returning home to his roost, I was greeted with all the love an affection a man could hope for.

“You’d better not be pregnant with puppies!”

All I have to say is this: If you’re the kind of person who requires validation on a daily basis, then a dog is the way to go. It was like Puppy was trying to talk to me, in his worn away British lilt, saying, “Oh how happy I am that you’re returned!” Although, and there cold be some merit to this, Brooke likes to think that what Puppy’s really thinking is that he and Brooke are the mommy and daddy, and me (Johnny-come-lately to the scene), I’m the pet. So when they came home from the airport without me, Puppy was like, “Oh no, we forgot Dan!” And then he proceeded to look for me throughout the house and all over the two block radius around our apartment. And when I finally came through the door six days later, he was simply relieved that I, being a dim-witted pet, had found my way home, and a the weight of accountability had been lifted from his conscience: It wasn’t his fault that I was lost all alone somewhere, wandering the streets, trying desperately to return to my warm, loving home.

It was JetBlue’s.

Like Simon and/or Garfunkle, I’m Homeward Bound

I’m back in New York this weekend to attend the illustrious Tony Awards. No, not because when I was younger I dreamed of someday taking musical theater by storm with my frenetic dance moves and fine-tuned timbre. (That was but a pipe dream, lost after the ego-crushing Debbie Gibson concert my sister and I performed for my mother in third grade. “Only in My Dreams” was never so apropos.)

No, in fact my good friend from college produces the show (with some help from bosses and a few co-workers) and I just like crashing the afterparty, showing up all boozy in my tux, waving around a martini glass saying things in a deep British accent like, “Jolly good fun! Not take off that pantsuit and sing it again!”

Not only that, but it’s the first time I’ve been back in the city since we moved. While it’s only been three and a half months, the longest I was ever out of New York in the previous ten years was two weeks. And I have to say – it’s a bit shocking. Not just readjusting to the faster pace, the crowded streets, and the towering skyline, but mostly just feeling like a visitor in your native land. (Home may be where the heart is, but it helps when you have a familiar bed, TV, roof, and bath products. Ever try washing yourself with a heart? It’s not easy.)

And even worse, I seem to have forgotten everything about New York. Like I only have a limited capacity for geographic information, and the names of Miami’s causeways have replaced where the fuck the N train stops. Which has made riding the subway a thrilling adventure. I always took for granted knowing where I was going: You don’t realize how much you run on autopilot in New York until you have to start making a concerted effort to travel in the right direction.

So after much effort to find my way from Mott St. to Times Square last night, I land on the R train and sit down having forgot both an iPod and a magazine. The subway ads are of no help entertainment-wise because they haven’t changed since I left. So I’m left sitting there, prone to sporadic conversation.

Enter doofusy tourist – the kind of guy that’s wearing his high school ring and carrying a bottle of flavored water in his cargo shorts. He’s trying to look cool and conceal the fact that he has no clue where he’s going. Nonchalantly, he looks my way. Having no defense system (iPod, magazine) I’m caught.

Guy: “Hey, do you know if this train stops at Penn Station?”
Me: (internally) Are you wearing your class ring?

Now, as everyone knows, New Yorkers pride themselves on their knowledge of the subway. Generally speaking, if someone asks for directions loud enough for a group of bystanders to hear, at least three people will chime in with responses, with at least one know-it-all offering a faster route (“Transfer to the J!”) and one elderly know-it-all calling it “the IRT.” I was never one of those know-it-alls, but yes, if I overheard someone asking for directions and the person gave them the wrong answer, I would politely step in and say with a chuckle, “The 4 doesn’t stop at 23^rd. Only the 6 does. Oh the folly!” (I can’t shake my internal British accent.)

Suddenly, though, I was caught speechless. Did the R stop at Penn Station? Who the fuck knows? How could someone possibly answer such a difficult question? What do I look like, a cartographer? Did I design the New York city subway system? I LIVE IN MIAMI!

Gasp!

I live in Miami.

It’s like I didn’t believe it until right now, when this poor schlep eating a bag of trail mix needed directions that me, an out-of-towner, couldn’t provide. I was crushed. If New York was my lover, I just walked in on her tea bagging an investment banker from Ohio.

Granted all this happened in about two seconds, because of course I coolly responded, “Yup,” and went back to reading an ad for the latest six-month old inspirational self-help book. I avoided eye contact with the dufus, perhaps out of shame. Of course, with some time to reconsider my answer, I remembered that the R train didn’t stop right at Penn Station, rather a couple avenues over. But I couldn’t correct myself now.

Either way, when we pulled in to 34^th St., the guy was too busy trying to look like he knew where he was going to notice that this was where he was supposed to get off. I considered grabbing his attention again to tell him, but in the end decided it just wasn’t worth the trouble.

And with that, I felt like a New Yorker once again.

Q&A Friday!

As far as I’m concerned, there are two types of people in this world: people who love Disney World, and people who don’t. Unfortunately for Brooke, she falls into the latter category, meaning that her dark heart of stone can pump small, decrepit puffs of dust through her crippling veins for only so long before her insides shrivel up into a prune of death.

Which is why we’re leaving tonight to go to Disney World for the weekend. I’m not going to give up on her. If I have to spin her around on the tea cups until she makes sickey all over herself, then damnit that’s what we’ll do.

Remember: Dead men tell no tales.

On to the questions.

I have been dating my boyfriend for a little over two years and I’ve been successful in changing all the things about him that I didn’t like/approve of in the beginning. My dating philosophy is, “It’s easier to change him than to create a good J-Date profile” so I need your assistance with one final, pesky issue that will not go away. The Silent Treatment. I know he does this to drive me insane (it’s working!!) but I don’t know how to react so that I don’t encourage the behavior. How do you get a man who clams up whenever there is a problem (big or small) to open up? He says it’s not so much that he’s “giving me the silent treatment,” as it is that he just doesn’t like me for those few days (!!!) and I have to give him time to like me again, but I think that’s crap.

Thanks for any insight you can provide,
Talking to a brick wall in Florida

It sounds like your boyfriend is a crafty fellow. Personally, I’ve had lots of success in the past with the silent treatment. I’ve also had success with “I know you are, but what am I?” and “Talk to the hand cause the ears ain’t listening!” And one time on a date I convinced a girl to play a game of freeze tag as an excuse to touch her boob.

While these are all good tactics, I think the important thing to remember here is that one woman’s silent treatment is another woman’s relaxing weekend getaway. Just like how most people want what they can’t have, likewise most people won’t give others what they want. So the next time you and your boyfriend are enjoying a nice dinner date, as soon as the salad course comes out politely say, “I’d love it if you wouldn’t talk to me until Tuesday.” Then go about eating your organic baby greens. When he tries to protest (and he will, because you’ve beat him at his own game!) close one eye while putting your thumb really close to your other eye so it seems like he disappears. Proceed to eat with your other hand.

If that doesn’t work, try not dating high school students.
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I work for a small radio station in the big metropolitan city in which I live. We're so small that we can't afford an engineer, so we have a couple guys "on hand" in case anything goes wonky. One of them just finished up a meeting with our GM, walked over to my desk as I was putting together the newsletter, gave me a quick backrub, said "that's all you get" and walked away. It was weird.

I seriously don't know what to think about this. Thoughts?

Just how small is this office? Are we talking like one 12x12 room where small desks line the perimeter and everyone shares one computer? If so, perhaps he wasn’t giving you a back rub; maybe he was just propping himself up on your shoulder to reach the office’s pet ferret in his space-saving cage hung seven feet up the wall. And when he said, “That’s all you get,” he was talking to the greedy, though starving ferret, and not you.

No? Well then you were probably sexually harassed. And sexual harassment in the work place is no laughing matter (unless the work place is a circus and the perpetrator is a clown and the harassment is a flower squirting water on a boob).

You have a few options here: 1. You can report it to your boss; 2. You can murder the engineer in cold-blooded revenge (I recommend beating him to death with a frozen fish, and then throwing the fish in the sea. Voila! No murder weapon.); or 3. You could enjoy the fact that you’re saving tons of money on expensive massage treatments, which retail at over $150 an hour. Personally, I suggest option #2. That has “book deal” written all over it.

Bear in mind it’s possible he just read the job description wrong and thought it said “You’ll need to be hands on,” instead of “on hand.” If you are attractive, though, it is more likely that he is simply a pervert copping a feel.
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How do you de-friend someone on myspace without hurting his/her feelings? Thanks for your help!

xoxo,
Leah

This is actually a lot easier than you think. All you have to do is lose 10 pounds, go shopping for a sexy new outfit, and only order soy in all your drinks from Starbucks. Then, once you’re cool, you switch over to Facebook.
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What whacked elementary school teacher taught you to say "on line" instead of "in line?" And why have people been letting you get away with this grammatical indignity your whole life?

SHAME!

-Rachel-

I haven’t felt shame like this since the time I peed behind the recliner during an intense game of hide and seek. But you have to believe me – it’s not my fault. It’s a regional mishap. You see, I grew up ON Long Island. We say ON because it is truly an island. But you know what? So is Maui. But you wouldn’t say that one time you accidentally took a girl’s virginity ON Maui. No, you did it IN Maui. Is it because the word “island” isn’t in the name? Then why wouldn’t you say you’re spending the week with your hippie aunt ON Rhode Island? No, for some reason Long Islanders got it in their head long ago that they lived DIRECTLY ON TOP of a floating piece of land. And you know what? They’re right. Technically, no matter where you live, you live ON the land, not IN it (unless you’re one of those awesome mole people).

What does this have to do with being ON line instead of IN line? Nothing. But consider this passage from The Columbia Guide to Standard American English:

For now, to stand or wait in line is Standard. New Yorkers used to be the only Americans who spoke of waiting or standing on line, and then other Americans began to pick up the locution, but a completely new recent use for on line may bring that development to a halt: on line also means “directly connected to a computer,” as in My printer is now on line and ready to print. This sense began by being jargon, but it is now Conversational at the very least, and it may shortly be fully Standard.

So the question, Rachel, is this: Do you want to take on all of New York and their conversational ways? If so, get ON line.

(Really – you can just email them.)

(Think you’ve got what it takes to have a question? Email me at redactedblog@gmail.com.)

One Of These Stories Is More Important Than The Other

HOW TO ACHIEVE IMMORTALITY*

SIPPY CUPGATE

______________________________
* For the record, if I uncovered the secret to cheating death, I would make it the only story on the entire page. And there would be a huge graphic of the grim reaper doubled over in pain with a sword made of hearts sticking out of his chest and the headline “DEATH DIES LONELY AND A VIRGIN.” Because fuck him.

Miami Mondays: Boobs!

There’s no arguing that boobs are awesome. No matter where you are: New York, Miami, Shanghai, the Moon (where they’re even more awesome thanks to zero gravity). Even if I was trapped in an elevator that was on the verge of breaking free and plummeting the riders to their untimely deaths, I would still position myself next to the woman with the largest chest just in case the impact brushed me up against her.

With apologies to all 5,000,000 women and 10,000,001 breasts (at least one of them has to have three, right?) the problem with New York boobs is that they’re so . . . concealed. Yes, there is something tantalizing about dressing them up all nice in fancy tank tops and impossibly fitted oxfords, but this nation was built on freedom. And the women’s lib movement fought hard so that hot girls could go shirtless, just like men. Still though, they are repressed. As a lover of equal rights, I find that depressing.

Not so in Miami. Like a drug addict’s paycheck, Miami is advanced. Here, they’ve completely blown up conventional social mores. I’m taking conventional like from the beginning of time. Like if Eve lived in Miami, she would have covered up her chest with fig leaves, except when she wanted a nice even tan, when she would throw then off and go sunning in the Garden of Eden.

People told me that women sunbathe topless in Miami, but people also told me that if you try hard enough you can be anything you want. And seeing as how I’m still not George Clooney, I’m not so inclined to trust them. But the first time Brooke and I spent a day at the beach was a revelation. (Literally, figuratively, the whole bit.) We settled down on our towels and before I even scanned the scene I could sense that something was different. Then, while taking off my shirt, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the women directly to my right was topless. And not laying on her stomach topless, but sitting up looking at the water topless. The last time I sat this close to a topless woman while taking off my shirt, we had sex. In fact, EVERY time I’ve taken off my shirt this close to a topless woman we’ve had sex (except those handful of times in college when I dated boring girls). I had to fight every instinct in my body not to crawl over to the woman and ask her if she’d brought the condoms or if she just wanted to roll the dice and worry about it later.

Granted, I’ve grown more accustomed to it since that first time. Now I pride myself as the guy who won’t really stare at you if you’re topless, although of course I’ll give a passing glance because I think it’s rude not to. If I put my junk out on display, I’d be more insulted by those who didn’t look than those who covered their eyes and fled while dialing 911. Brooke and I will even comment on the topless women together, especially the ones with the breasts that are so obviously fake that when they lay on their back they stand upright like melons balanced on a fruit platter.

We’ll also engage in philosophical discussions, like, What would you do if you laid out topless on the beach next to some guy, and the next day went on a job interview where he was the boss? (Brooke’s answer: “I’d get the job.”) Or, Is it immoral to lay down topless next to a relatively unattractive couple knowing full well that the man will now pay zero attention to his clothed, relatively unattractive wife? (Brooke’s answer: “Not my problem they’re awesome.”)

But just as I was getting used to going to the beach and seeing things I’d previously had to coerce out with stiff cocktails and fancy dinners, I was thrown for another loop.

The other day I brought my laptop over to a friend’s apartment complex so I could do some work poolside. So there I am minding my own business, sitting quietly at a shaded table, when all of a sudden a woman comes out and sits down on a nearby lounge chair. I do the typical guy thing: glance, notice, remember how your girlfriend cooks waffles just the way you like them and how this whore probably can’t even boil water, and go back to work. But then she proceeds to take off her shirt. And then her bikini top.

Hold on a second.

All this time I thought the beach was some magical place where bare chests came alive, like the pot o’ tits at the end of the bosom rainbow. The idea that it can happen off the beach tore a hole in the fabric of my reality. I became dizzy. Do you understand what this means? A life where boobs could pop up anywhere, any time? Driving on the highway? At the grocery store? In line for security at Miami International? I’m not ready for a topless culture! I have work to get done, and it’s one thing to get knocked over by a wave while squinting at some girl on the beach during an intense round of “Real, Fake, or Ugly?”, but entirely another when I’m dutifully trying to perform my livelihood! I imagined boobs – large ones, big as a Mimi Cooper, floating everywhere, jostling me about as I tried to navigate my way through Target, until finally I give up and, years from now, am left destitute, homeless, alone, wandering the streets muttering, “The boobs . . . can’t concentrate . . . they’re everywhere . . .”

I packed up my computer and went home. There, Brooke was waiting for me, fully clothed. I gave a sigh of relief, opened up my computer, and spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the small glint of cleavage peeking out from the crest of her fancy tank top. The world was right once again.