NATIONAL CLEAVAGE DAY - NOT TITTY-FUCK DAY

One of my great Internet blogger colleagues says that today is National Cleavage Day. Sapristi!

Somehow, this didn't make the evening news.

I did not see any of the anchorwomen on my local news channels flash their cleavage.

In a country that supports Subway Underpants Day, or whatever the fuck it's called, where the TV news actually shows morons walking around subway platforms in generally dull looking briefs (and many more geeky men than women doing it), what, WHAT has prevented full coverage (so to speak) of National Cleavage Day?

Actually, most of us do NOT need reminding...because EVERY day is National Cleavage Day. It's a woman's secret weapon in wielding power. As in, "Look but DO NOT TOUCH." PS, if you look, you get a glowering stare from the Titter, reminding you, that you, the TITTEE, have SOME NERVE. Eyes up front, fella. My face is "not down there."

Blood of Christ (aka Sapristi) it can be an infuriating moment when some "made you look" bitch has you trying to glance...QUICKLY...at her cleavage....and then she gives you the skunk eye. Whatver you do, she's won the made-ya-look game.

I hate fake DAYS that you're supposed to celebrate...most are stupid. And the ones you'd LIKE to celebrate, you rarely can!

Might as well call it "National Tittie-Fuck Day." Or, "Titty-Fuck Day." Or BOOB BANG DAY.

This is what turns amusement into disgust. It's a scam. No fake "holiday" will ever do you any good and most..Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day...will make you throw up.

Do you like boobs alot? Tit-fucking? You bet. You can consider yourself very lucky, despite all kinds of hell, if you've got a missus with big titsus, who also enjoys having a hot hunk of pipe centered between them while they're squeezed together...a hot dog between two giant MUFFINS...

And I'm DISGUSTED with anyone who doesn't find this AMUSING.

Cleavage. OH CLEAVAGE. BIG BOOBIES! Or, as Alexander Portnoy anguished, or rather, author Philip Roth, what about "those two great untouchable loads"???

Look...don't TOUCH, SQUEEZE, SUCK, COME ON...

Have I digressed? Oh. OHHHH, a PHOTO. Yes, yes...wait a minute...her...

What do you notice about this photo...

First, yes, great cleavage, you could drop a golf ball down there, or better yet, several gurgling loads, or to use the technical and medical term, "Man Goo."

Second, after staring at her tits...her face. Sobering, isn't it? What's she got to be so mopey about? Oh, right, that you wouldn't have looked twice at her if she didn't have CLEAVAGE.

And third? Say, what IS all that writing all over her tits? Tattoo of some kind?

Sadly, fun-spoiling bints are very prone to putting tattoos on their tits. Usually these involve embarrassingly no long appropriate names of past sex partners (fortunately for some old bints, their tits are droopy enough to list half a football team full of names). Also popular...grotesque "bad girl" shit...skulls, devils, flames, or a Yorkie Bar (which signals that her boobs are for MEN ONLY).

Quaint hippie chicks will have the stereotypical butterfly (or two). Or some bizarre Chinese word or an Egyptian heiroglyph, which makes you ask two questions: "What does it mean" and "Have you been fucking some dirty urine-skinned monkey?"

Also popular...some ridiculous phrase from Gibran, or McKuen, or some slogan off a pack of crisps.

THIS girl has a quotation from James Joyce. Because she's intellectual? Hell no. Because I put it there, and I'M intellectual. This bint couldn't ad-lib a fart after a Tesco bean dinner.

Since YOU have an inquiring mind, you are wondering what the quote is. Well, the other day, come to think of it (and my memory isn't THAT bad that I can't), I was in a bookstore discussing James Joyce with a pseudo-intellectual bookstore volunteer. I mentioned that I remembered in college, a particularly depressing quote from James Joyce about our place in the universe, and what "eternity" means.

So, on the theme of gather ye cleavage while ye may (especially if you can put your dick between the tits and fuck, fuck, fuck and forget about mortality), here's the quote, which wasn't originally in a poetic zig-zag, but it would have to be if you plan to tattoo it onto some chick's tits:

“What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell forever? Forever! For all eternity! Not for a year or an age but forever. Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness, and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of air. And imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all. Yet at the end of that immense stretch time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been carried all away again grain by grain, and if it so rose and sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals – at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain not even one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time, there mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would have scarcely begun.” ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man