I’ve often wondered what my great-grandparents would think of our fast-paced, techno-overloaded, in your face society with its no-holds-barred attitude.
Take television, for instance.
Do ANY of us really care to hear former Dallas Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson discuss his, um, johnson and shill for an E.D. drug company? If by some stretch you don’t know what E.D. is, please Google it as the mere thought of him and it gives me the
willies dry heaves. Do moms want their sons to be regaled with horror stories of dryness/wetness/itch/odor south of the belt? I haven’t yet had THE TALK with my son, but thanks to House Hunters, I had the joy of explaining that yes, indeed, my son, those two men do sleep in the same bed and no, they aren’t brothers. I don’t want to know you spent twelve hours in the Emergency Department because your little blue pill worked so well that you’re now blind, deaf and mute from lack of oxygen to your brain; that your ‘plumbing’ leaks; or that it’s now so much more comfortable for you to do number two.
I can just see them, these two simple country folks, spinning in the grave while the evening news anchor gushes like a pre-teen girl at a Justin Bieber concert, delivering his salacious bounty of all things related to cigars, stains that just won’t come out and an Arkansas Willy that simply wouldn’t be contained.
While I give a nod to the irony that, by blogging, I too, add my bit of poo to the pile, I’d like to think that even I have my limits and that some things are better left unsaid and unseen.
Which brings me to my next rant: VISIBLE UNDERGARMENTS.
I am not talking about pantylines, as those are forgiveable, especially if you’ve chowed down a few too many donuts and lattes and have to squeeze yourself into your skinny jeans ’cause the others are at the dry cleaners. I’m talking visible to my eyes, proudly displayed for all and sundry to enjoy, your Victoria’s Secret unmentionables. I have not a care for your choice (or lack thereof) of derriere covering: bikini, granny-panty, thong, commando? My policy is don’t ask, don’t tell. And, no, Mr. President, I for one do not care if it’s boxers or briefs.
However, I must tell you, and please have someone standing by to hold your hand and the smelling salts because the shock may be too much for you to bear all by your lonesome, visible butt-floss IS! NOT! A! FASHION! STATEMENT! It is a flashing-neon, high-wattage, Vegas-style shout out to every human with a pulse in your immediate vicinity that you, my friend, are bona fide trash with a capital T.
As the mother of a tween boy, my message for you is simple…
PULL UP YOUR FRIGGIN’ PANTS, SLUT PUPPY!