“Boobs. I’d like to say that again. Boobs.”
I laugh every time I think about this scene in Beavis and Butthead Do America:
Beavis and Butthead are about to be eighty-sixed by a dangerous criminal, and when asked if he has any last words, his response is not about his mom, not about regrets about things he wished he’d done. It is, instead, about ‘that softening, o’erpowe’ring knell, the tocsin of the soul…’ majesitcal chesticles.
That his dying words are a monosyllabic expression of love for the female form is flattering. Considering that there are literally hundreds of euphamisms for mammaries in the English language, it also speaks to the (ahem) weight they carry in our culture. Pain, pleasure, comfort, food, life, death; we hold the survival of the human race not in our hands, but at the breast.
So call ’em what you like–titties, chichis, sweater meat, milk bags, jugs, and all the rest–but respect the power they wield. They are, after all, nothing short of amazing.
Even a goober like Beavis figured that one out.