Cleavage Anonymous 2

It's Monday, and here's installment number two in the saga of understanding my children. If you missed Friday's post, I suggest you read it first.

But what makes Barbie popular? It has to be the cleavage. Otherwise she’s nothing but an empty headed plaything with glitzy clothes, big hair, cars, and a boyfriend named Ken. And of course little girls want to look like Barbie so they can have all the toys and boys too. I’ve even heard of women having cosmetic surgery in order to resemble this icon of modern popularity.

Not satisfied, I delved deeper into the mysteries of cleavage. Movies were my next resource. After my experience with the internet, I was afraid to view the most current box office fare. So I returned to my youth once again. The rage of the mid-sixties was the beach party movies with Frankie and Annette. Every one of them was awful. The acting was horrible, the story was non-existent, the directing was worse, but there was plenty of cleavage. By today’s standards it was all very tame, yet these movies captured the imagination of countless teenage males.

With the misconception that I was now ready to tackle some hands on (so to speak) research I laid out a plan of action. Saturday morning dawned and my research team arrived as prearranged. Jason and three of his friends piled into the van to accompany me to the mall. Brittany tagged along in the hope of getting some new clothes.

Numerous candidates were reconnoitered and the boys resigned themselves to the difficult task at hand. Some chicks were too tall, too short, too plain or downright ugly. Others were too skinny, knock-kneed, had flat buns or a multitude of other inherited natural defects that did not meet their critical standards. Not one of the young ladies stood out as memorable to my team of unbiased researchers.

Then disaster struck. The six of us were disembarking from the up escalator when a pair of cantaloupe like breast encased in a postage sized, damp appearing t-shirt strolled past. Not one of the boys could tell you what the young lady’s face looked like or whether she was blond, brunette or a redhead, but she had cleavage. In fact, she had CLEAVAGE.

Major carnage was barely avoided as the boys tumbled off the escalator and over each other trying to get a better view. I barely dragged Brittany to safety before she did a cartwheel over the writhing, slobbering, incoherent mass of prepubescent masculinity on the floor. Shoppers were stacking up on the escalator behind them and other braver souls were doing their best to step around the boys. Mall security was quickly converging on us to determine the source of the disturbance.

“Get your stuff,” I snarled grabbing the closest boy by the collar,”we’re going home.” My children would just have to go through life being totally misunderstood. I’d had enough research for one day.