Saturday, February 05, 2005
Has it already been a year since the Breastastrophe? How time flies! I was one of the lucky ones on that Super Bowl Sunday. Because I have somewhat Socialistic tendencies I decided to spend that afternoon tending to my mushroom collection in my crawl space. I had scarcely clambered down and begun meticulously labeling a particularly lovely cubensis, when the phone rang. It was Panchesco.
“Homer, I don’t really mean to bother you, since I know you are having a little private time with your fungi, but something rather strange has happened,” he began. I will admit to being quite irritated (which I expressed through a loud sigh), but I listened as Panchesco rambled on.
“I’m in the backroom at IBTs photographing this interesting foam party and the management rushed in and locked the doors. They claim there is some massive riot going on outside!”
“That’s crazy!” I said.
“Yes, I know that there are never riots like on Fourth Avenue, so I am wondering if you could check and see what is going on.” Wearily I dragged my ass out of the somewhat confining space and, after brushing the dirt off my clothes, went and turned on the television.
Nothing. The screen was black. Every channel. I switched the radio on. It was making that funny emergency test noise they make every once in a while. Except this time it was interrupted by some broadcaster screaming over and over, “I saw it! I saw it!”
What the fuck!? I went outside. My neighbor Amalia was lying in her driveway. I ran over, “Are you alright!” I shouted. “No, no!” she moaned. “I’m blinded, I’m blinded!”
From a nearby house loud screams could be heard. My phone rang again. It was Mark. “Homer, did you see it?” he shrieked. “See what?” I asked. “Janet Jackson’s NIPPLE!!!! Ohmigod, I think I saw it. Or maybe I saw a sun-shaped nipple guard! I dunno, but I’m suddenly different, suddenly changed. Homer, I’ve become a raving heterosexual!!!” He hung up abruptly after telling me of his sudden desire to go to Hooters.
I called Panchesco back. “Umm, apparently there was some kind of wardrobe malfunction at the Stupor Bowl halftime show.” I said. “Don’t tell me that there was nipple exposure!” he shouted back. “Yes, apparently that was the case.” Panchesco was quiet, maybe he whimpered a little. Finally he softly whispered, “Oh the humanity! Nothing will ever be the same again!”
And he was so right. The following day only a handful of people showed up at work. Several of the women came out as lesbians. A number of young men damaged themselves through excessive masturbation. I heard that many, many children asked their mothers what a nipple was used for. Many other kids suddenly became very afraid of the sun. Worse yet, thousands of homosexuals, a few of whom I had had carnal relations with, were suddenly converted to heterosexuality. This caused innumerable problems since those women not converted to dykedom decided to divorce their husbands and marry the fabulous ex-gays, who dressed better, gave consistently better cunnilingus, and brought flowers home for unexpected reasons.
After a while I got tired of the endless telethons to help homeless sport fans. I stopped keeping abreast of the issue. I even stopped watching the boob tube because of the endless coverage of the issue. I couldn’t even watch the Oscars because Whitney Houston was a shoo-in to win Best Supporting Bra Actress for her role as LaToya Jackson in the Mammarian Candidate. Nowadays I callously drive by the orphaned children begging in the streets. I find myself ignoring the billboards with litigation lawyers asking “Was your life ruined by Janet and Justin, call now for your settlement!”
Sometimes Panchesco and I get together and get a little drunk remembering the good old days, back before Janet Jackson’s right nipple destroyed life as we knew it.
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“Homer, I don’t really mean to bother you, since I know you are having a little private time with your fungi, but something rather strange has happened,” he began. I will admit to being quite irritated (which I expressed through a loud sigh), but I listened as Panchesco rambled on.
“I’m in the backroom at IBTs photographing this interesting foam party and the management rushed in and locked the doors. They claim there is some massive riot going on outside!”
“That’s crazy!” I said.
“Yes, I know that there are never riots like on Fourth Avenue, so I am wondering if you could check and see what is going on.” Wearily I dragged my ass out of the somewhat confining space and, after brushing the dirt off my clothes, went and turned on the television.
Nothing. The screen was black. Every channel. I switched the radio on. It was making that funny emergency test noise they make every once in a while. Except this time it was interrupted by some broadcaster screaming over and over, “I saw it! I saw it!”
What the fuck!? I went outside. My neighbor Amalia was lying in her driveway. I ran over, “Are you alright!” I shouted. “No, no!” she moaned. “I’m blinded, I’m blinded!”
From a nearby house loud screams could be heard. My phone rang again. It was Mark. “Homer, did you see it?” he shrieked. “See what?” I asked. “Janet Jackson’s NIPPLE!!!! Ohmigod, I think I saw it. Or maybe I saw a sun-shaped nipple guard! I dunno, but I’m suddenly different, suddenly changed. Homer, I’ve become a raving heterosexual!!!” He hung up abruptly after telling me of his sudden desire to go to Hooters.
I called Panchesco back. “Umm, apparently there was some kind of wardrobe malfunction at the Stupor Bowl halftime show.” I said. “Don’t tell me that there was nipple exposure!” he shouted back. “Yes, apparently that was the case.” Panchesco was quiet, maybe he whimpered a little. Finally he softly whispered, “Oh the humanity! Nothing will ever be the same again!”
And he was so right. The following day only a handful of people showed up at work. Several of the women came out as lesbians. A number of young men damaged themselves through excessive masturbation. I heard that many, many children asked their mothers what a nipple was used for. Many other kids suddenly became very afraid of the sun. Worse yet, thousands of homosexuals, a few of whom I had had carnal relations with, were suddenly converted to heterosexuality. This caused innumerable problems since those women not converted to dykedom decided to divorce their husbands and marry the fabulous ex-gays, who dressed better, gave consistently better cunnilingus, and brought flowers home for unexpected reasons.
After a while I got tired of the endless telethons to help homeless sport fans. I stopped keeping abreast of the issue. I even stopped watching the boob tube because of the endless coverage of the issue. I couldn’t even watch the Oscars because Whitney Houston was a shoo-in to win Best Supporting Bra Actress for her role as LaToya Jackson in the Mammarian Candidate. Nowadays I callously drive by the orphaned children begging in the streets. I find myself ignoring the billboards with litigation lawyers asking “Was your life ruined by Janet and Justin, call now for your settlement!”
Sometimes Panchesco and I get together and get a little drunk remembering the good old days, back before Janet Jackson’s right nipple destroyed life as we knew it.
