My Favorite Part of the Chicken

It's been yet another hard week for us, aye America? I'm aware it's only mid-week; cut me some slack. Lots of bad shit went down, regardless to who we think we are, or what we assume we've accomplished. So, let's have some fun, shall we?

Simply put, I am a Breast Man. Yeah, capital letters, like a friggin' super hero. There's just something about knockers when they-well, knock, that gets the saliva flowing. If you have a dog, wildly dangle some sort of lunch meat in his face, & see what happens. My reaction is more tame, but similar. Now, I could be a douche nozzle, & blame it on a lack of breast feeding as a kid, but I've quite frankly never gathered up the balls to ask my mother if I've ever put my mouth on her jahoobs. That sentence alone screams "therapy!!". I guess it started long before puberty, watching cartoon caricatures of women in all their curvaceous glory. Jessica Rabbit, anyone?

Now, I'm not talking gargantuan, over sized, freak of nature, manufactured headlights that look as though they might weigh as much as newborn Samoans, but a nice set of natural, God-given majombos makes all the lunacy that a women brings to the table sort of worth it. Never mind that one day they may sag along floors, or eventually lazily rest upon their owners thighs when sitting like a lap dog. I'll always roll the dice on that gamble. If I can still motor boat them, s'all good. That could very well be the reason that men of other nationalities/races/cultures dig Black chicks (because it damn sure can't be their attitudes *rimshot*). The Black women's boobs are built perfect for leisure as well as recreation. Not that other women's aren't, I'm just not that well versed in other Kool-Aid flavors. However, I know from experience that they can be utilitarian & utopian simultaneously. If you don't believe me, ask a happily married man & his suckling son.

As far as the hind quarters go, I'll admit, I don't mind a little brown, round mound. It's every man's fantasy to caress that fabled hour glass figure made so popular by the aforementioned cartoons. I believe the "ideal" measurements are 36-24-36 for one to successfully be a "brick *da-dun-dun* hooowwse!". Again, Jessica Rabbit anyone? See, the boutros is in a class all alone. Unlike melons, a caboose is basically all work & no play, unless you're R. Kelly or a porn star. Although it may look nice walking away, like puppies tumbling about ever so gently, there's a pretty good chance it stinks. Let's be real, no matter how cute a girl is, she farts. No matter how voluptuous she may appear with her hands on her child-bearing hips, she undoubtedly poots like the rest of us. Dogs fart, cats fart, so it's common knowledge that those jiggly cakes are only a housing unit for gas emission, like a car muffler. &, I'm not motor boating that. Last thing I need is shit stains on my mustache hairs. Really though. & at some point, the girls with glamorous weaves, those streamlined legs & marshmallow backs start to resemble a minotaur, those mythical half-man, half-horse creatures. Although, one trip to the Crenshaw Mall on a Saturday afternoon & you wouldn't think they're so mythical.

On the other hand, ta-ta's very rarely stink. If you disagree then, A) you're a women & you need to hurry home & scrub your cleavage & under-breast, or B) you're a dude who has an eye for women who need to hurry home & scrub their cleavage & under-breast. In any case, one would be hard pressed to find an argument against a nice rack. Speaking of cleavage, why is it that women tease us with such a glorious crevice, then look at us like child molesters when we try, but can't look away? Seriously ladies, we can't look away! It's like footage of a car accident in slow motion. You SHOULDN'T look, but you're scared that as soon as you turn away, something will pop out that you don't want to miss.

& don't get me started on hard nipples. God bless arguments & air conditioners, word to Kelly Bundy.

I won't go any further into detail about my unique obsession, for fear of making myself look like a weirdo, but rest assured, I know I'm not alone.