CJB
05-22-2014, 05:52 PM
I wrote this as part of an email to a female friend trying to explain the thought process of some men. Jeanie is yet another non amorous female friend that I've known for a good twenty five years, and I used her as an example to the gal receiving the email.
~~~
I'd be willing to bet that better than fifty out of one hundred otherwise brave men shun the lingerie stores, or departments thereof.
I do!
And I have wondered why this is, and I've decided that boils down to what I call "Gilligan's Island Principle".** That is, at its root, is the age old question "Ginger or Mary Ann?".
There are certain men, who are prone to succumb to glamorous facades.* These are the men who obviously answer "Ginger".* Obviously, the facade encrusted women shop at places like Victoria's Secret.
There are even more men that would answer "Mary Ann", preferring to look beyond society's false standardization of perfection and instead visualize their own perception of the ideal as they see fit.* Those woman do not shop at places like Victoria's Secret.
Polls indicate that about 56 percent of American men prefer Mary Ann, 38 percent prefer Ginger, and the rest prefer the Professor.
What exactly is glamour?* Its defined as an appearance or attribute that serves to impart an irresistible desire, especially amorous or sexual desire.
I say its nothin' but whitewash on the picket fence.* And a fence is no good, except if it keeps the cows down in the pasture, and out of the vegetable garden!**
One time, I was unceremoniously conscripted by Jeanie's mother to help fold the laundry.* Sheets - better with two folks, so sure... easy peasy.** Pillow cases.* Done.**
Then she said I was to fold clothes.* What clothes I asked?* Jeanie's clothes.** But I don't see any of her clothes here to fold.* That's because they're in a pile on her bed.
(cold sweats break out)
First off, I do not, have not, and will not enter into a lady's bedroom without an invitation.* Call me old school, call me lame, call me whatever, but that's my way.* I suppose her mother's invitation was sufficient.** My hands felt oddly cold and my palms were moist.
Hey... I'm a guy, I got over it.** I folded polo shirts.* (check) I folded shorts.* (check) I folded jeans.* (check) I folded socks (check.....).
Then what I saw in the pile was more dread than any ten poisonous snakes guarding the door of the outhouse:* Underwear.
That was it.* I drew the line.* I do not fold bras.* I do not fold whatever that mutant triangle of butt-floss is called.* Her mom laughed.* I did an about face, my domestic service complete for the time being.
This is the kind of **** I go though.** I work my butt off delivering three quarters of ton of equipment in my little half ton truck, some two hundred and twenty five miles distant from my own home.* Its business mixed with social time.* What do I get?* I am compelled to shop for Thanksgiving dinner accessories at Walmart.* Don't we need a cart Jeanie?* No, we're only getting a few things and you can carry them.** Forty five minutes later, I'm holding paper plates, napkins, several cans of prepared cranberry sauce, a twp-pack of extra absorbent paper towels and cell phone case.* My arms are getting tired.* Then Jeanie decides she's gonna need new undies.
Basically, I'm screwed.* I cannot go buy a screwdriver.* I cannot go admire the engine oil display.* I cannot peruse the fishing weights.* I am to accompany my chauffer and host to the lingerie department, and stand there and take it on the chin, like a man.
I swear she does this **** to me on purpose.* I know she does.*
She's got to hold every damn bra in the place up to her bolt-on buxomness and admire herself in the mirror.* The torture lasts for at least an hour......
Listen, I can understand if you NEED some undies, well.... just go get some.* I mean the plain ol' elastic and cotton, cover yer ass kind of undies.* Hey, if ya just gotta get some pastel colors, I can tolerate that.* I can even understand the severe constraints that women are under when selecting a brassiere.* What was obviously a design oversight by the Almighty has resulted in an unacceptable variation in boobage, as seen in actual production samples from the female human populace.* Ok we're dealing with multiple measurements, ratios, principles of engineering like the cantilever truss support, etc etc.** I got it.* Just try 'em out and get something.
No.
Instead, someone has seen fit to make differences in material, pattern, texture, shape, padding, methods of closure and attachment, and only God knows what else, all in the name of promoting a lie.** I mean they are what they are.* And I have no issue with proper fit for reasons of health, and circumstantial beauty.* All the rest is whitewash.
Back to the guys that actually prefer "the glamour" as applies to females.** I think they have issues.* There's a reason men own big handguns (they say).* Ahem.* Issues.* Something's not right when a woman has to trick herself into feeling that she looks sexy, by wearing a certain cut of leopard print matching underwear.**
Not totally sure how that all fits in the thought process, but...* To please her potential mate, she has to feel ok with herself by dressing a certain way with the thought that its exactly how her potential mate prefers her to dress so in fact he will be a potential mate and not give her the old "adios muchacha".* Sounds like a viscous circle if you ask me.
Ok, this gets back to skinny biker chicks with bolt-on boobs.** You, of course, are correct in your thinking.* I cannot see the utility in that sort of juxtaposition of anatomy.
I, on the other hand, am equally correct, with CB's Breast Theorem, which states:* The physiological measure of a woman's breasts cannot exceed the psychological measure of the woman standing directly behind them.
And that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
~~~
I'd be willing to bet that better than fifty out of one hundred otherwise brave men shun the lingerie stores, or departments thereof.
I do!
And I have wondered why this is, and I've decided that boils down to what I call "Gilligan's Island Principle".** That is, at its root, is the age old question "Ginger or Mary Ann?".
There are certain men, who are prone to succumb to glamorous facades.* These are the men who obviously answer "Ginger".* Obviously, the facade encrusted women shop at places like Victoria's Secret.
There are even more men that would answer "Mary Ann", preferring to look beyond society's false standardization of perfection and instead visualize their own perception of the ideal as they see fit.* Those woman do not shop at places like Victoria's Secret.
Polls indicate that about 56 percent of American men prefer Mary Ann, 38 percent prefer Ginger, and the rest prefer the Professor.
What exactly is glamour?* Its defined as an appearance or attribute that serves to impart an irresistible desire, especially amorous or sexual desire.
I say its nothin' but whitewash on the picket fence.* And a fence is no good, except if it keeps the cows down in the pasture, and out of the vegetable garden!**
One time, I was unceremoniously conscripted by Jeanie's mother to help fold the laundry.* Sheets - better with two folks, so sure... easy peasy.** Pillow cases.* Done.**
Then she said I was to fold clothes.* What clothes I asked?* Jeanie's clothes.** But I don't see any of her clothes here to fold.* That's because they're in a pile on her bed.
(cold sweats break out)
First off, I do not, have not, and will not enter into a lady's bedroom without an invitation.* Call me old school, call me lame, call me whatever, but that's my way.* I suppose her mother's invitation was sufficient.** My hands felt oddly cold and my palms were moist.
Hey... I'm a guy, I got over it.** I folded polo shirts.* (check) I folded shorts.* (check) I folded jeans.* (check) I folded socks (check.....).
Then what I saw in the pile was more dread than any ten poisonous snakes guarding the door of the outhouse:* Underwear.
That was it.* I drew the line.* I do not fold bras.* I do not fold whatever that mutant triangle of butt-floss is called.* Her mom laughed.* I did an about face, my domestic service complete for the time being.
This is the kind of **** I go though.** I work my butt off delivering three quarters of ton of equipment in my little half ton truck, some two hundred and twenty five miles distant from my own home.* Its business mixed with social time.* What do I get?* I am compelled to shop for Thanksgiving dinner accessories at Walmart.* Don't we need a cart Jeanie?* No, we're only getting a few things and you can carry them.** Forty five minutes later, I'm holding paper plates, napkins, several cans of prepared cranberry sauce, a twp-pack of extra absorbent paper towels and cell phone case.* My arms are getting tired.* Then Jeanie decides she's gonna need new undies.
Basically, I'm screwed.* I cannot go buy a screwdriver.* I cannot go admire the engine oil display.* I cannot peruse the fishing weights.* I am to accompany my chauffer and host to the lingerie department, and stand there and take it on the chin, like a man.
I swear she does this **** to me on purpose.* I know she does.*
She's got to hold every damn bra in the place up to her bolt-on buxomness and admire herself in the mirror.* The torture lasts for at least an hour......
Listen, I can understand if you NEED some undies, well.... just go get some.* I mean the plain ol' elastic and cotton, cover yer ass kind of undies.* Hey, if ya just gotta get some pastel colors, I can tolerate that.* I can even understand the severe constraints that women are under when selecting a brassiere.* What was obviously a design oversight by the Almighty has resulted in an unacceptable variation in boobage, as seen in actual production samples from the female human populace.* Ok we're dealing with multiple measurements, ratios, principles of engineering like the cantilever truss support, etc etc.** I got it.* Just try 'em out and get something.
No.
Instead, someone has seen fit to make differences in material, pattern, texture, shape, padding, methods of closure and attachment, and only God knows what else, all in the name of promoting a lie.** I mean they are what they are.* And I have no issue with proper fit for reasons of health, and circumstantial beauty.* All the rest is whitewash.
Back to the guys that actually prefer "the glamour" as applies to females.** I think they have issues.* There's a reason men own big handguns (they say).* Ahem.* Issues.* Something's not right when a woman has to trick herself into feeling that she looks sexy, by wearing a certain cut of leopard print matching underwear.**
Not totally sure how that all fits in the thought process, but...* To please her potential mate, she has to feel ok with herself by dressing a certain way with the thought that its exactly how her potential mate prefers her to dress so in fact he will be a potential mate and not give her the old "adios muchacha".* Sounds like a viscous circle if you ask me.
Ok, this gets back to skinny biker chicks with bolt-on boobs.** You, of course, are correct in your thinking.* I cannot see the utility in that sort of juxtaposition of anatomy.
I, on the other hand, am equally correct, with CB's Breast Theorem, which states:* The physiological measure of a woman's breasts cannot exceed the psychological measure of the woman standing directly behind them.
And that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!