WHY DOES YOUR NERDY SISTER SMELL LIKE HAVANA CIGARS?

Years ago, at the Indian Restaurant where I worked, the big Punjabi headwaiter and the girl who had breasts like ripe mangoes were an item.
I did not envy him. Not only where those ripe mangoes the dominant part of her personality -- probably the most intelligent part of her anatomy, too -- but I could tell that she would turn out like her sister. Whose husband I knew from somewhere else. A very patient man.  I am sorry that his children are half her.
But I hope they take after him.

If not, they'll have the intellectual capacity of a basket of ripe mangoes.

America is a society obsessed with breasts. Understandable, but what is truly baffling is the size factor. Bigger is, in the eyes of the average male, better. No matter the actual shape or structural design, irrespective of colour, tensile quality, or texture.

The only thing that rivals big boobies as an American male attention grabber is blonde hair.


Having grown up in the Netherlands, where blonde is a dime a dozen, that particular hair colour does not particularly excite me. Here in San Francisco, seeing through the buttery fluff to the shallow sneering "I'm so special" attitude underneath is an easy thing.
Most Americans fail to understand that blonde is the result of a certain level of inbreeding. Especially in the United States, where outside of certain areas populated mostly by Scandinavians and Dutch people, it takes several generations of constantly crossing genetic strains to maintain blonde.
It is quite possible that being related to yourself several different ways through both sides of the family also causes a crappy attitude -- are horrid personalities hereditary? -- but be that as it may, the average American Wasp seems to think the sun shines out of her cavities.
And if she has big breasts too, all is lost.



Quite conceivably, the attraction to big breasts is a mother-complex. If so, it is one of immense proportion. It suggests that many men have unresolved issues, and may very well be self-conscious, weak-spined, and infantile. As well as hugely insecure. That would also explain why despite the nasty attitude problems they are attracted to the undesirable element among the females. There is naught there to challenge them, and consequently they feel safe and acquire a sense of achievement.
"Hah", they will say, "I may be lower than dog vomit, and have nothing to boast about, but I have scored a prize heifer!" And they will think themselves mighty fine specimens of humanity in consequence.
Their wives will moo approvingly.

Both elements in that pairing will naturally feel threatened by a woman who shows signs of great intelligence. The husband because it suggests that despite his trophy he is still dumber than a box of rocks, and his darling wife because even though she cannot understand half of what comes out of the other woman's mouth, she feels outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and outclassed.
Intelligence is naturally more competitive.

In the struggle for men or food, the brainiac has advantages.

If at this point you remember the last time some pouty dingbat showed cleavage to here and jiggled her titties, you probably realize that there was an intelligent woman nearby at the time. The wattle-heifer felt threatened, and consequently displayed her battle flag.
Ruffled her neck-feathers, so to speak.
Not a challenge, but a hissy fit.
Expressed by boobies.


It is Saturday night in the city. The carnivores are out, searching for mates. Plumage is being fanned, nipples are being hardened, and flavoured vodka is being drunk. At the cigar-bar in the deserted financial district, mature individuals are hiding out, avoiding the fray. We do not require the titty wave, we don't feel that anything needs to be proven. Yes, there are some yobbos here too. That's inevitable.
Even the meatballs smoke cigars and pipes.
But they will soon depart.
Booty calls.



Unintelligent women seldom smoke cigars or pipes.
All things considered, that's just as well.




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