What The Fuss Is All About

Breasts: A (Thank You Note) Letter

iamnotdiddy:

samgrittner:

Dear Women of Earth,

Stop. Please stop. Please stop complaining about your breasts.

There are so many things on this planet to actually complain about: CVS employees, terrible itching, famine, rodeo clowns who don’t exhibit professionalism, expired meat products, tetanus shots, Republicans, slot machines that eat your quarters, racist Eskimos, sand in your bed. Nowhere on the list of complaints are your breasts. Or your boobs or your tits or your funbags…. they go by many names but they are all perfect even with (and especially because of) their imperfections.

It doesn’t matter: size, shape, color, plasticity, nuance, viscosity. THEY ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL AND AMAZING. I’ve never once in my life met a guy who complained about a woman’s breasts. And if he did. Well, fuck that guy. He probably works at Jiffy Lube and can’t even quote Shakespeare. (I can’t quote Shakespeare but at least I don’t work at Jiffy Lube)

Trust me. THEY ARE AMAZING. Each and every pair.

I am a skinny guy. Some dudes are big enough that they do have man-boobs but we all know that’s not the same. If there’s no INSERT FUN HERE! box our reptilian brains can’t be tricked into getting excited about them. It’s a package deal (well, I guess technically it’s a ‘no-package’ deal). It’s like me duct taping hackeysacks on my chest, putting on a sweater, drinking some Wild Turkey, and feeling myself up: Sure I can pretend but I know it’s not the real deal and I’ll get bored after just a couple hours.

All I’m trying to get across to you is that all jugs are amazing. ALL OF THEM.

It’s 2010. iPads and Mazaratis exist. But those lumps of skin and flesh and fat and sugar and spice and marrow and whatever the fuck else comprises a tit these days make me excited and happy EVERY TIME I SEE ONE.

So ladies, thank you.

Now go spend your time complaining about anything else.

Sincerely,

Sam Grittner

Follow @SamGrittner here and here.

Obviously, I approve this message.