Why Am I Inundated With Unfamiliar Boobs On Facebook?
…or mutant wolverines. Or mutant gophers. Or mutant mollusks, filled with a terrible resolve. Or those just perfectly awful Just Stop Oil pests, the ones wearing all those petroleum products. / photo courtesy of John Loves America men’s staff barber shop
I KNOW IT’S THANKSGIVING. I SHOULD BE REMINDING THE WORLD ABOUT gratitude, family, beloved American traditions and L-Tryptophane seizures. Alas, I’ve been haunted about my Facebook page.
I seem to be attracting boobs.
Let’s be clear. In speaking of “boobs,” we’re not talking mouth breathers, civil servants, Russian military inductees 11-to-84 who gleefully bounce while yelling, in Russian: “Pick me! Pick me! I wanna visit Ukraine!!” I’m talking mammary glands. Specifically? Women’s mammary glands. Learn this. Repeat it. Memorize it. Guys have — “chests.” Women have — “baby pillows.” Sorry, glue-sniffers and Democrats. Hope this helps clear things up.
This is Igor. He’s from Albania. I think he’s the internet scammer kid who’s actually sending me Facebook friends requests from his uncle’s bomb shelter basement, posing as an endowed divorcee with an ah-blah accent. / photo courtesy of John Loves America which shares an office with the CIA’s Albania Home Office
Seemingly, I attract an inordinate number of women’s breasts in the Friend Request department on my Facebook page. From the photographs sent, I’m guessing there might be an actual woman hiding behind the boobs they’re sending. But, who knows? We live in the post-modern days of Photoshop and Artificial Intelligence. I could be getting friend requests from perfectly decent female human beings who happened to have Library of Congress World Globe-sized breasts frolicking in the waves like, say it with me, playful whales. There may be an actual Double-Bar-X Yee-Haw Chromosome soul behind the bosom images they text. Perhaps, behind the obligatory breast photo, there’s a caring woman with a sense of humor, wicked cooking skills, kind, loving, gifted conversationalist, good listener and knitter, dances with abandon, whiz bang in leadership skills with the moral compass of Joan of Arc, (R).
I’m beginning to suspect there might not actually be a corporeal woman behind my hundreds of Facebook pal inquiries. Could it be? Maybe it’s not a woman. Maybe it’s the same, disfigured, skull-filled-with-bomb-fragments Albanian 14-year-old boy named Igor with a detached retina and acne who works for some East European crime syndicate at 35-cents a month who has access to an international data base of busty women who thought they were auditioning for the cover of “Vogue.”
A Vogue cover girl (or, who knows; maybe it’s little smudge-faced Igor, posing as a Vogue cover girl) who wants to be my BFF Facebook pal… / photo courtesy of JLA Staff Girls’ Beauty Boutique
Wait. Sorry. That’s not right. The New York fashion magazine “Vogue” favors the more androgenous cover girl. Or, cover person. Or, my personal favorite — Pronoun of Cover. Me? I get Facebook friend requests from women that perverted artists sketched on the covers of Argosy or Stag magazines from the 1950’s. Not that I’ve ever seen one of the periodicals. I’m Catholic.
Those old men’s blue magazine covers featured some guy, knee-deep in a swamp, cigar firmly clenched in big white Hollywood teeth and brandishing two smoking submachine guns whilst combating Giant Marsh Weasels.
Darn fine band name — Giant Marsh Weasels.
It was also my home town of Newhall mayor’s (Cameron Smyth’s) Indian name from Brownies.
I don’t know why the cover stud is emptying white hot automatic weapons, dispersing weasels clutched at limbs, torso, neck and noggin. I’m not the brightest bulb in the NRA basket, but, I seem to recall overhearing a couple of ROTC cadets during a high school lunch that you shouldn’t shoot any bloodthirsty gnawing vermin clutched to your body because there’s always the dumb luck you’ll miss and shoot yourself in groin or forearm.
As they used to wisely remind in Kiwanis, “Use the hatchet…”
In the background of all these manly men monthlies was a terrified woman with a thought balloon exclaiming, “Eeek!” Her bodice is ripped. Her mammary glands are bigger than sea monsters and exposed in an un-ladylike manner. I can’t say their breasts were heaving, because, well. The magazine art? It’s two-dimensional. But. It seemed like their breasts were heaving, or, as we say in pirate language, “heave-hoeing...”
I just joined Facebook. I thought these National Geographic photo offerings with the women astern wanted my friendship, or, more importantly, were interested in my exciting new website. I won’t mention my new website by name because, whenever I do, a certain newspaper editor starts stomping on the carpet and swearing, which disturbs the nice Polish family living in the flat below.
Sometimes, I take the time to visit the friend-seeking ladies’ home pages. Suspiciously? They all graduated from the same beauty college in Uzbekistan or were employed as dental hygienists at the same El Salvadoran prison. Pouty lips protesting, bodies distorted, they pose as if visited by COVID stomach cramps, twisted across a restaurant table in pain or throes of estrus.
Throes of Estrus.
One column. Two band names.
Typical Facebook photo of a guy who responds to a troll posing as a buxom lonely woman in a “It’s complicated…” relationship looking for someone to dote over and to whom they can shower in love and baby talk and is just asking for your Social Security Number because “…it’s fun!” / photo courtesy of JLA Human Resources & Facebook of Doug, Just Doug, Janitorial Services
I notice something. These companionship-sleeking ladies have no female friends. It’s all dudes. Housed in their FB Pal Panel are butt-ugly, Never Been On A Date With An Oxygen-Breathing Female Anything guys who look like they were recently and unkindly rejected for membership by an upstate Michigan militia. The fellows all look 60, same number IQ, unshaven, wearing weathered feed lot baseball caps with 9-inch foreheads and craven expressions. You know. Kinda like me, except I have the chiseled jaw going for me.
I’m tempted to write each gomer, asking for money, or, possibly interest them in purchasing a sister. I’d offer them Tweedie Boston, but, alas, Tweeds possesses severe and overt leadership skills, which, at this stage of her life, might be misconstrued as erosionary. Then, there’d be the hassle of just how to physically send Tweedie — wooden crate, C.O.D, large manila envelope with that fun plastic bubble wrap you can pop.
Bright side?
Tweedie could offer helpful suggestions on how they can pose for better Facebook photos by closing their mouths and 86-ing the confused, “Is It Wrong To Love Your Or Someone Else’s Cow?” facial expressions.
Tweedmeister? Happy Birthday by the way today, “you…”
I used to write back to the large-breasted women of Facebook, something like —
“Thank you, Ching Wing O’Jones-O’Johnson, for your kind interest in FB friendship, and, for showing me the north face of your cleavage. Noticed, on your West Coast orb, a low-pressure ridge forming down from Canada. Alas, I’m studying for the priesthood and fear sharing margarita photos would endanger my scholarship. Seeya in Confession (:- )!!! Best wishes for your continued success, I remain…”
With more than 11,000 columns, essays, blogs and alleged think pieces, John Boston is history’s most prolific satirist. Special thanks for the swashbuckling Mighty Signal newspaper for providing cathedral-like sanctuary and protecting the 1st Amendment. You guys really need a subscription…
