Breasts

I was thinking of George Carlin's "Seven Dirty Words" the other day when by pure chance I saw the oddest thing on TV. There was a program on The History Channel of all places, about breasts. Not the ones on chickens, but the ones on human females. Boobs, tits, headlights, knockers. You know, those kinds of breasts.

I thought it might bear watching. I mean, after all, when a major educational channel devotes one full hour to breasts, it must be important. I might learn something. So I watched, with great anticipation of enlightenment.

The show was divided up into four equal-length sections: The history of breasts, breasts in art, the support of breasts, and the augmentation of breasts. Now here's the odd thing. In the history section I saw representations of how breasts developed, in size and shape, through successive editions of homo habilis, homo erectus, homo neanderthalensis, and finally to us, homo sapiens sapiens, double-wise man. (Hmmm. Really? And how in the world does anybody know what homo habilis breasts would have looked like? And what are breasts doing on a man?) In the art part, I saw painted and sculpted breasts from Greek, Roman, Mezo-American, classical Indian and modern times. In the support presentation there were thousands of breasts, every one slung, trussed, flattened, pointed, puffed, flattered, fluttered, pushed up, out, in, sideways, and every one in a bra or some such cantilevered contraption. But not once in 45 minutes of watching had I actually seen a photograph or video of a naked breast. But then it happened! In the augmentation discussion. A naked breast, on a woman, well partly on a woman, who was lying on an operating table in a Los Angeles hospital. The surgeon deftly separated the bottom of the breast from its owner, lifted it away from her supine body, and in the resulting gap slipped a pouch that looked something like a sandwich bag filled with Jello. He then patted the breast, which by this time looked something like a bruised breakfast egg, back into place like a teenager out for his first feel, and stitched up the incision. After a quick commercial break, I was treated to before-and-after photos. The "before" photos showed a rather nice looking pair of breasts. Ones that if I were the owner I'm pretty sure wouldn't want to change. They looked like they would do whatever it is they are supposed to do just fine. But then the last "before" photo morphed into the aftermath, or the afterbreast. There was nothing in the history, art, or support sections that could have predicted this, or rather these! I was unprepared. I half expected that little critter from the movie Aliens to pop out. Well, two little critters, just for symmetry's sake. It looked like something was trying to get out! Breast Monsters! These were no longer breasts, they were weapons! Whether you own breasts or not, or in either case even if you're only borrowing someone else's for a little while, you do have certain expectations of curve, softness, texture, temperature, etc. These new fangled additions to this woman's chest looked like they could hurt you; big time. "Hey, what happened to your fingers?" Bashfully: "It's a long story, but...."

So like Carlin's words, words we can only hear after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape, if we can ever hear them at all, we have breasts, which are fun to look at we all agree, but some among us add: "Only after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape."