Enough Already With the Fake Tits

Women are getting FDA-approved breast implants in droves, but the truth is, no man wants to wrestle with two bloated bags of silicone.

Boobs are busting out all over. In the year since the Food and Drug Administration approved the use of silicone breast implants (do breasts go under Food or Drugs?), one million shiny new ber-boobs have overflowed welcoming bras like rising dough foaming over bread pans, or strained provocatively against satin blouses and wet T-shirts, pert nipples on red alert. An estimated 500,000 American women have joined the approximately 4.5 million who already had chest extensions, waving good-bye to their S-class-driving nip-and-tuckers with a joyful "Thanks for the mammaries!"

To give you an idea of just how many perky new ber-boobs that is: If you laid them end to end they would stretch from Clifton, New Jersey, to Columbus, Ohio!

We've got ourselves an ber-boob explosion!

Actually, ber-boobs can, in theory, explode. Under the right circumstances, lasers can ignite the hydrogen locked up in fresh silicone and it's boobs away! The CIA is probably picking up the intensified chatter on Al Qaeda sites: Next spring break the bastards aim to infiltrate beaches from Key West to Cancun with undercover Islamo-maniacs carrying handheld lasers. A quick zap where bikini top meets armpit and Great Satan's milk wagons go kablooey.

Freud famously asked, "What do women want?" He never got around to asking, "Why do women want boobs that feel like Porsche hubcaps?" Before I try to answer that question, a robust caveat: When handling the whole area of boobs, men—even feminist men like myself—tend to be insensitive. We hairy retro-primates assume that the self-sacrifice women endure to enlarge themselves has male pleasure as its only goal. Bigger funbags equals bigger fun, right? Not necessarily. Before we dive headlong into the Valley of Silicone, we must establish whom ber-boobs are intended for.

Consider the harrowing tale of poor little Heidi Montag, who graces the insect-brained MTV series The Hills. The nightmare, the unending torment Heidi had to endure from puberty on, is just agonizing to hear about: She was "too flat." "Mean boys" would say, "If you nailed two nails in a board, they'd be bigger than you are [hahahahahahahaha!!!]." Can you imagine?

Her courage in escaping that nightmare is as inspiring as it is empowering. She risked death. "Right before I went in, I was like, What if I don't wake up?" she told US Weekly. Good question. What if? Her struggle is up there with suffragettes being beaten to a bloody pulp as they marched for the vote, or the long battle against brutal male chauvinism waged by Friedan, Steinem, and their sisters. What Heidi went through to get from A to C? MTV ought to spin it off. Call it Heidi's Hills.

She did it for herself, okay? For her own self-esteem. It had nothing to do with Spencer or the Mean Boys or that slut Lauren (who, incidentally, hasn't yet gone under the knife and boosted her acne bumps into something worth ogling).

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 ber-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 ber-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 ber-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 ber-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 ber-boobs are Western Civ's equivalent of. . . a burka.

Want to defend $10,000 DDs (and the women who get them) or burst the silicone bubble? Tell us your position in the comment section.

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