Boobs. Just boobs.

Damn. Put those torpedoes away before someone loses an eye.

You know that television show, Mad Men, starring Jon Hamm and Christina Hendricks’s boobs? Even if you don’t watch the paean to the heyday of 60’s cool advertising execs on Madison Avenue, you’ve no doubt still seen Christina Hendricks’s boobs. Jesus, but they are everywhere. And there’s so much of them. I am starting to think somebody manufactured Christina after one too many viewings of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Am I the only one who sees the eerie resemblance between the cartoon bombshell and Ms. Hendricks? But. Don’t get me wrong. I never said there was anything positive about the overabundance of mammaralia or the shameless display of said glands.

Since approximately 1971, I’ve had cumbersome bosoms. I used to tug them over to the sides when I was lying down so that I could see what it was like to be flat like my best friend, Donna. She was dying for a training bra, and I would’ve killed to get rid of the excess flesh that I had to wrangle into a tight undergarment every morning. Stupid, idiot, asshole sixth-grade boys thought it was all the rage to reach up the back of my shirt and snap my bra strap. Those mother fuckers have no idea how lucky they are that they didn’t grow up a couple of decades later when I’d have been suing their sorry asses for sexual harassment.

In my senior year of high school, I had a slight change of tune about my honkers, hooters, headlights, paw patties, ta-tas, whatever you want to call ‘em. I was in a variety show that required quick costume changes, so I didn’t have time to go to a dressing room. I had to change just off stage, and I remember the furtive, feral glances from the boys in the orchestra pit, their glimmery eyes half-lit by the music-stand lamps. I specifically selected insanely gorgeous and sexy lingerie just for the occasions. I had discovered the might of the melons. 

And as I aged (not fucking gracefully, I might add), I grew to enjoy a well-placed neckline and super-push-up cups. It is kind of funny to conduct scientific experiments in the field to see how many people cannot make one second of eye contact when there are cupcakes on the counter. But, damn. There is a time and place for everything. And apparently Christina Hendricks has never been told.

That woman—whose warheads are actually natural—cannot attend a single event without displaying her goddamned Pointer-Sisters on a shelf. At one of the recent premiers for the soon-to-be-released Sarah Jessica Parker film, I Don’t Know How She Does It, Ms. Hendricks pink-satin-encased funbags were clearly vying for top billing. We get it, okay? You’ve got humongous hood ornaments. But you do not have to wear every single neckline at the tippy top of your nipples. It’s actually unappealing to see all that smushed flesh with its criss-cross of blue veins spurting out under your chin like two exploded cans of Hungry Jacks. Sometimes it’s okay for the girls to stay inside.

Photo credit: Jessica Rabbit. (Cartoon image.) Retrieved from http://www.empireonline.com/100-greatest-movie-characters/default.asp?c=88