Give him two arms to cling to
And something warm to come to
When nights are cold and lonely
In other words, offer him “plenty to eat at home.” The first lady of Toronto stood stoically by her man on Friday, after Mayor Rob Ford managed to shock a jaded world by spitting out a colloquial term for cunnilingus on live TV. He is Jabba the Hutt in a sweaty ill-fitting suit.
But if you love him,
Oh, be proud of him,
‘Cause after all he’s just a man.
Thank you, Canada! We are not worthy – but you have taken the world’s eye from our own public embarrassments. You, our refined, restrained and gracious neighbor, have taken one for the global team.
Stand by your man
And tell the world you love him
Keep givin’ all the love you can
Ford’s people called a hasty press conference for (yet another) mayoral apology and carted out his reclusive wife for some heartwarming solidarity shots, on sale for the price of personal degradation. We can only hope that she kept her eye on the prize during this debasing spectacle – a lucrative divorce settlement and a big book deal, for starters.
Standing by your man does grim things to you, though: Both Tammy and Renata, here, refuse to meet the camera’s eye. Their painted mouths are downturned, and deep creases reflect years of gritted teeth and tightened lips. Fluffy blond hair can’t offset those expressions of disappointment and loss. You can almost see the thought bubbles: “How in hell did I ever end up saddled with this boob?”
And just how did “boob” become a derogatory term for a big fool who makes stupid embarrassing mistakes? (I did try to research this for you, but met with difficulty. You kids at home, don’t run a Google search on “boob,” especially at work.)
From what I hear, God doesn’t make embarrassing mistakes. He sculpted primeval clay into right nice boobs to plant atop Adam’s extra rib.
We can only assume that Eve had right nice boobs, since God made them—even if they weren’t in His own anatomical image. They were not, at least, the fevered fantasies of a 14-year-old boy, unless we choose to revise the assumed age of our Father. Perhaps that is why the Trinity includes the Son and the Holy Ghost — we have the old man, beyond good and evil, and the testosterone-tortured teen, with the Holy Spirit around to act as guilty conscience: one complete human package.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.
If I can take issue with God, I can take issue with Wordsworth, here, who gets all it wrong. We walk with feet of clay, but lead with boobs of glory. Gentlemen, you, too, have frontal appendages that lead you about on a merry dance. You don’t trail your glories, either (at least until that hot blond at the bar withers you with a glance).
Boobs lifted me from a mirthless slough of despond last week (set these words to that old chestnut hymn, “Love Lifted Me”). The dreary gray beginnings of winter never sit well with me, and this year seemed even more weary, stale, flat and unprofitable than ever.
Ten years ago, a bunch of women from my family got together in Portland, ME, to surprise my cousin on her 35th birthday. My aunt, a rabid dog enthusiast, told my cousin that she was bringing her a very special present with lots of titties, which yapped a lot. My poor cousin thought she was getting a puppy. Cousin did not want a puppy, but couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother so. She drove long hours down from Bar Harbor filled with dread, expecting to be saddled with an unwanted pet, only to find us all waiting to jump out of the hotel shrubbery.
We henceforth became the Yapping Tittie Sisterhood (YTS, to the uninitiated). We all gather in the Old Port every November for a long weekend of laughing and, yes, yapping. Presents and brew-pubs are always involved; the career waitress at Gritty’s actually remembers us and watches for us every fall; she even knows which Tittie is late in arriving. We figure it’s because we’re so swell, but it probably has more to do with the fact that we tip well and make a modest spectacle of ourselves.
The spectacle isn’t always modest. My sister wanted to do something special to commemorate our tenth anniversary. She’s been laid up with a broken ankle, and so had time and (arguably misdirected) energy on her hands. Sister decided, since the Shriners have fancy hats and the Knights of Columbus have fancy swords and the Masons have fancy aprons, that the Sisterhood should have some fancy boobies. She made eight lush sets of them out of pink felt, discreetly stuffed, embellished with nipples of darker fabric and, for the woman who sports a tattoo, an embroidered rose. These boobs will henceforth be worn ceremoniously around the neck during meetings of the Yapping Tittie sorority.
I am forbidden by the rules of the Order (and, more importantly, by my mother) to share the video taken as we unwrapped and modeled our bolt-on boobies. I may only offer this staid group photo and invite you to use your imagination, adding that we laughed so hard and so long that our ribs hurt the next morning.
And I was cured of my melancholy. There is much mirth left to make – even with the person of the vile slug who’s the mayor of Toronto. A month ago, that boob in his ceremonial necklace would have cast me into despair over humanity. Now, I can put on my own ceremonial necklace and laugh as he declares that he is indeed, a fine role model for Canada’s children.
Admit it – have you read anything else lately that quoted Tammy Wynette, Shakespeare, the Blues Brothers and Wordsworth? Life is indeed a tapestry of rich and royal hue (and now you can add Carole King to that list).