Friday, March 31, 2006

Blathering Fools

CeeElCee called yesterday saying he had tickets to a high-falutin' charity wine tasting event last night, would I like to go? (He is giving blood today. Check it out.) Although I don't often seek out events that require me to wear slacks and a shirt that have been to the dry cleaner, the siren call of free alcohol trumps any inconvenient dress code. I clean up pretty well. So we went.

These things are all the same. We walked in and heard that there was live jazz. Of course. There was a leggy blonde walking around wearing a crown. Miss Something-or-other. There was a chocolate fountain. There was an omlette station. There were folks carrying trays with appetizers that involved cucumbers, bruchetta, caviar, cream cheese, and other assorted high-falutin' finger foods. The lines at every wine station were 20 or 30 people deep. It took each person 2 or 3 minutes to get their miniscule serving, because it was a high-falutin' wine tasting, so everyone felt compelled to inquire as to the varietal and region of the nine-dollar-a-bottle crappy Spanish wine being served. There was a silent auction. Money was being raised for a good cause.

We bailed after 30 minutes.

But there is one thing you can always count on at those type of events.

Cleavage.

It was a heavenly sea of cleavage. If there is an event that requires me to wear pants not crafted from denim, the implicit dress code for women is to choose from one of the following dress styles: low-cut, V-neck, scoop-neck, or plunging. Add various push-up undergarments and it is enough to make a grown man weep.

Ladies, I honestly don't know how much thought you put into your breasts. I know that you are aware of the power of your cleavage. I know you use it to your advantage on occasion, like getting out of speeding tickets, because we turn into blathering idiots at the sight of a well presented set of feminity. They turn us into fools. I often wonder about the male opinion of tits in cultures where they are out all the time, like in the mountains of New Guinea.

I can't wait 'till Steeplechase. It's the sun dress boob-fest of the year.

2 Comments:

At 11:32 AM , Anonymous Sarcastro said...

That's what makes spring fever, all the chests blossom.

Check out this pic from last year's Steeplechase:
http://sarcastro.squarespace.com/journal/2005/5/20/atomic-duffel-bags.html

 
At 11:42 AM , Blogger ceeelcee said...

Now THAT's the old KnuckleHead we know and love.

re: Sarcastro's picture of Holly Thompson, I have to say that the first thing I noticed was that she isn't her normal peculiar shade of orange. Maybe natural light is a good thing for her.

Oh yeah, and her boobs.

 

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