Ogling? Oops. Down, retro-primate, down.

But I wonder. Why would a diaphanous sylph like The Heids saddle her upper half with a couple of humonga-gazongas when she looked just fine in the before shot? Especially since anyone with retinas can deduce that her neo-knockers are mostly liquid sand. How does knowing that others know that boost your self-esteem?

Are they really intended to inspire and empower other women? Hmmm. From what little I know of intimate female discourse, the owners of über-boobs are assumed to be—how to put this delicately?—morons. The thinking seems to be that even God-given 38Ds were fashioned at the expense of cerebro-cortical mass; wit and tit are inversely proportional.

Is it just possible that über-boobs are . . . for the lads? Other rumored recipients tend to bear out this wild hypothesis. Take the speculation, based on a flattering photograph that circulated on the Internet, that Ann Coulter had gotten implants. It would make sense, right? If she's to maintain her role as the reigning Fox News fox, the ultimate eye candy of the loony right, she has to take her job seriously. A cold-blooded Cretaceous reptile must at least look like she can suckle her young.

Or take Posh Beckham, whose über-boobs, in shape and consistency, closely resemble two halves of a fully inflated soccer ball. Obviously those babies are for Becks, who must like the familiar feel.

Which raises the question: How do they feel? Marriage has limited my ability to conduct large-scale tests, but I do recall that awful moment when you plunge happily into soft pink abundance and come across something like one of those tiny helmets Hell's Angels wear on their bald spots. Detumescence, thy name is silicone.

As for saline liquid, it's alarmingly . . . liquid. It sloshes about. Few men—or women—are turned on by #252;ber-boobs that change shape as often as a minor Harry Potter character. Salty über-boobs do have one thing going for them, though: When you hold them up to your ear, you can hear the sea.

In a sermon several years ago—one he quoted again in October at Larry King's behest—evangelist Joel Osteen urged the ewes of his flock to shop at Victoria's Secret. The reason for this apparent lapse from the Christian right's typical white-lipped terror of sex? Flirty underwear helps wives better please their scripturally mandated lords and masters.

Once you get past the pseudo-feminist claptrap, women who boost their boobs don't seem a whole lot different from Joel's ewes. Heidi, et al., are the real boobs, obediently conforming to some caricature of beauty fantasized by traveling-salesman types. Face it, O lovely woman: That shiny new bosom was fashioned by, and for, men. And you will wear it in public as long as men approve. You could say über-boobs are Western Civ's equivalent of. . . a burka.