A Clean Breast of It.

Not missing you at all.

In this issue I customarily lash together some sort of retrospective year-in-review bit and with 2008 being a serious doozie I saw no reason to alter the tradition. Unfortunately however, something went haywire with the print schedule, and it turns out that the issue has to wrap much earlier than the writers are used to - a full ten days before it goes to press, and two weeks before it hits the stands. Rather than opting out of the issue (which I hate to do, but always prefer to turning out some half-baked under-cooked crepe). This time, however, Jeff was able to lure me back by asking me to dust-off one of my old classics (since this issue is a Best-of job) And it just so happened that the undisputed fan fave fit in nicely with the new stuff I'd already written. Ergo, ladies and gents, may I present the "Breast-of 2008." Or "How to lose your calling in the Elders quorum."

Though this particular news item was far from being the most notable event to transpire in this groundbreaking year - it certainly was a bizarre one. I suppose you've seen footage of it on TV or youtube, but during President Bush's first-ever press conference in Iraq - one of the Iraqi journalists (perhaps confused about the procedural ground rules) decided to phrase his question in the form of a shoe. First his right and then his left. Not only did he hurl them at an impressive velocity but with uncanny accuracy. Bush, for his part, proved that all that cheerleading experience at Harvard was not a total waste, as he deftly dodged the savage sandal salvo with remarkable agility.

Luckily the many news agencies promptly informed a confused world that in Iraq and even parts of Iran the custom of removing one's footwear in order to hurl them violently at the head of another is a longstanding custom meant to demonstrate "disrespect" or even "ill-will" toward the "throwee." Ah hah, so that's the deal. I might have gotten the whole thing mixed-up with the Pakistani practice of launching a mud-encrusted work-boot at the head of a neighbor as a friendly reminder of a pending property exchange.

Poor old George. Reviled the world over by countrymen and foreigners alike. Just trying to waddle through the last few weeks of his lame duck days with a modicum of dignity. Y'gotta figure the "salad days" are over when the secret service can't even be bothered to protect him from a Birkenstock barrage. Disgraceful. Still what a wonderful world it would truly be if all we had to worry about was footwear terrorism. Sneaker attacks. Even an occasional long-range loafer launch. It reminds me of Winston Churchill's brilliant idea to replace modern warfare. Chilly proposed that all war and political hostility be replaced with a single event wherein matters of international dispute be resolved in a packed stadium of partisan onlookers. The crowd could cheer and shout while the respective leaders of the two contending nations battle it out using only fishnet stockings filled with cowsh*t. Genius.

As far as New Years resolutions go, last years plan to simply wait for morbid obesity to come back into fashion has not worked out as well as I'd hoped - thus in '09 I'm planning to go ahead and renew my gym membership. The other little problem I need to work on is something that all men are guilty of to some extent, but now that I've made the move to become more active in the church, I think I need to make a truly concerted effort. Because, with the exception of my family, it's the thing I enjoy the most about this world. Ladies and gentleman, dear readers - I love boobs. Yessir. Big ones, little ones, fake ones, real ones - the Boneman is nuts for the knocksters.

In the interest of preserving my marriage, I should promptly explain that this mammary-mindedness isn't any kind of nasty business; in fact, it's a lot more along the lines of a hobby - not unlike "birdwatching." Though personally, I don't understand the allure of hiking half the day into the wilderness just to catch a glimpse of a rare Spotted Owl, when you can just as easily skip the hike, stay right here in town and eyeball a nice boob. There's plenty of hooters right here in town.

And for goodness sake, the boobwatcher doesn't hurt anybody. You don't have to compromise your dignity, your self-respect, your health, or alter your lifestyle in any way - you don't even have to leave the house. You simply go about your business as though you weren't a "boobwatcher" at 'all', while secretly inspecting those melons like the produce manager at Smith's. ( As a man brimming with fiendish lust? Nay!!! Rather a gentleman connoisseur of the many wonders of nature.)

It's all about nature. A chilly breeze, a sudden torrential downpour - these simple shifts in nature can make a boobwatchers day. It's nothing more than an innocent pastime and if it's a sin, it's a victimless one - nobody gets hurt, abused or neglected. It's not like you've gotta drag your sorry neighbor over to watch your smelly, bawling, rugrats while you go out and try to score some boobage. You simply turn on the TV or go to the store or something - they're all over the place. Boobs, boobs, boobs - it's a regular "mamm-o-rama."

You'll often find them traveling in groups of anywhere from two to twelve, and there's such a wide variety of the species that it's almost impossible to lose interest. Believe me, I'm not talking about any kind of slobbering perversion - in fact, if you're going to be successful at all, you've gotta know what you're doin'. In this respect, it's "very" similar to birdwatching - any suspicious noise or sudden movement and you can scare 'em off. Some of them spook easy.

"Top"ography is an art as old as the dawn of man, and there's no small amount of skill involved. It requires advanced techniques that have evolved right along with our species. Highly developed peripheral vision, diversionary tactics . . . sunglasses. I don't want to get too technical, but you're not going to make it out there as a boobwatcher, if you're constantly getting "bust"ed. It's just bad form. Unfortunately, there are way too many novices out there blowing the action for us crafty old vets - harmlessly trying to stay abreast.

I hope you don't regard this little confession as in any way demeaning to the fair sex. If anything, I don't think it's fair to women that us males don't sport around any kind of readily apparent outcroppings for them to make a hobby of. You can say whatever you like about cute butts or big muscles, but let's face the music - you can't beat a boob. You wanna know Victoria's secret? Boobs.

I know what you're thinking, this guy's way too obsessed to overcome such a vice. Not to worry folks, as I mentioned I wrote this baby years ago. In fact I kicked the habit so long ago that I really have no interest whatsoever. What's the big deal? Y'seen one, y'seen 'em both.