A friend of mine -- an extremely reputable published author -- is putting together a book of essays on "boobs," and has asked me to contribute. Which is flattering.

Except that, as I'm now five graphs in, it's occcurring to me that they are harder to write about than I'd imagined.

Why not boobs in the sense of "that Bush guy, what a boob"?

Does it always have to be breasts?

Does it always have to be breasts?

Yep. It's for an anthology.

Maybe they are saving Bush for next year's "prick" edition, Deb.

Heh.

Although, in retrospect, I could have written something positing why the phrase "boob" is used as a synonym for "idiot", but I think that's more cultural mysogyny than I really want to explore.

So, I'm going for a good old-fashioend dissection of lust, which is turning out to be work.

Victor, why not go for a short monograph on the subject of the American male's fixation on mammaries? You know, the Golden Arches, all that happy crap? Wanting to be taken off formula and back on Mama's Milk?

Because European men, bless their discerning little libidos, tend far more toward being ass and leg appreciators. Hooters as an eatery wouldn't catch on in France or Greece, even if they were serving cordon bleu.

I'm pretty deep into the thing already, but yeah, you're not too far off from where I ended up going -- looking at the fact that it's never really been my primary fixation.

Challenge #97 (camouflage) is now closed.

Challenge #98 is Baby, You Can Drive My Car. Feel free to play as fast and loose with that as you like.

Oh, man, I like that idea, Teppy. I really like it.

I see some erotica in my near future.

Not a drabble, yet, but I guess Cruel Sister didn't suck, since it's available for pre-order at Amazon Canada