Up Front: Boobs!
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A croque monsieur? This thread is just all kinds of dangerous. Carry on.
Or even a coq au vin? Look, it had to get culinary sometime, right?
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It's boobquake every day at my house
I wanted to say this very thing at about three o'clock this morning! But typing a PAS post on an iPhone is quite labour-intensive, particularly while balancing a baby on your lap. (Merely thinking the words 'every day is boobquake day' makes me start mentally singing them to the tune of Morrissey's 'Everyday is Like Sunday'. Which is... incongruous.)
I am also thrilled and flattered that 'Animalistic Penis Brains' has been enshrined in an Emma post! Yay.
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I always think the University of Canterbury crest implies the motto "might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb", which has nicely hedonistic implications, perhaps useful in this case?
Indeed although for really big showy crests, it's probably closer to "might as well be hung like a ram than a lamb".
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(Merely thinking the words 'every day is boobquake day' makes me start mentally singing them to the tune of Morrissey's 'Everyday is Like Sunday'. Which is... incongruous.)
There is nothing incongruous about that.
Every day is a day in which life imitates Morrissey.
@RB Snap. That was my next choice.
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(Merely thinking the words 'every day is boobquake day' makes me start mentally singing them to the tune of Morrissey's 'Everyday is Like Sunday'. Which is... incongruous.)
Indeed. He must have been horrified when half the world thought he was "writing frightening verse/to a buxom girl in Luxembourg".
"Buxom" is just so much more poetic than "buck-toothed".
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I am also thrilled and flattered that 'Animalistic Penis Brains' has been enshrined in an Emma post! Yay.
This you will enjoy: Harvard has convened the gotha of the social sciences and asked them to come up with the great unresolved issues for the coming century. Right in the mix at the moment is the following question: "How do our social relationships influence our genes, and how do our genes influence our relationships?"
I think we have every hope of seeing 'Animalistic Penis Brains' (APB) enshrined as an academic term within the next decade.
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3410,
To the T-shirt printing machine!
So we keep saying. Come on, folks; who will bell the cat?
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Of course, it's one thing to agree that it's okay to proudly carry one's body without being thought a whore.
Tricker, is when/why/for how long it's okay to look.
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Tricker, is when/why/for how long it's okay to look.
If the ground starts shaking, then it counts as ogling.
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So THAT's what they mean when they put out an APB in those American cop shows. They're calling in the animalistic penis brains onto the fugitive.
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If the ground starts shaking, then it counts as ogling.
First time there will be a scientific excuse for it.
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Actually there's too many dicks on this dancefloor. Over and out from me.
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You noticed that too. I was about to quote Blackadder, but that would be offensive to nursie.
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If the ground starts shaking, then it counts as ogling.
Eppur si muove! (famous last words).
"might as well be hung like a ram than a lamb".
Better than "mutton dressed as lamb," which, come to think of it, why is that only ever used for women? No equivalent for blokes, "beef dressed as veal"...
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Tricker, is when/why/for how long it's okay to look.
I try to operate along this line: if the thought "Am I staring?" crosses my mind, it's time to stop. Without a doubt, though, what I was doing to the waitress at the Bicycle Thief on Saturday was ogling. I don't think she noticed.
The waitress at Coney's did notice, but she smiled and indeed winked at me, so I didn't stop.
A tip for rookies, though. My breasts are on the front of my body. So is my face. So if you are staring at my breasts, I can probably see you doing it. Try speaking to me. Say something complimentary but not dickish.
I may not be the best guide, however. I don't mind being whistled at.
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No equivalent for blokes, "beef dressed as veal"
Pork dressed as piglet? Or should it be suckling pig? Doesn't quite have the same 'zing', but now I know what I'm having for dinner.
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Actually, going from memory here, didn't this clown say that it was adultery that caused the earthquakes, and that immodest dressing was a problem inasmuch as it encouraged adultery. In that case you could half the population go topless for the day, and not actually test the specific hypothesis in question, unless they simultaneously adulterated themselves...
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and not actually test the specific hypothesis in question
See:
Now, because this will come up, let's be clear. It's the adultery which causes the earthquakes, but the adultery is caused by the dress choices of women. Men have no free will or control over their own actions in this situation, because of their Animalistic Penis Brains.
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No equivalent for blokes
Not wishing to further any stereotypes, but...
Craig? Is there an equivalent for blokes?
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I try to operate along this line: if the thought "Am I staring?" crosses my mind, it's time to stop.
Quite. I think I've told this story before, but once on a Chills tour, I was part of a group of young New Zealanders who boarded the Paris Metro.
And the women noticed something: men were looking at them. They'd come from a culture (the very PC mid-80s at universty in NZ) where men looking at women was easily misunderstood as leering. (I can actually recall it being compared to rape.)
They actually felt quite liberated by it, because it happened in a very non-Anglo-Saxon context where everyone looked at everyone else. So some cultures do deal with these things in different ways.
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Not wishing to further any stereotypes, but...
Craig? Is there an equivalent for blokes?
I had man-love for Willie Apiata when he walked off that plane on Friday, if that helps.
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a touching matter...
Ah, I remember fondley Miss Higgs Bosons behind the cyclotron shed.
Steampunk'd again! verily, I too miss those halcyon days of the old-school yard (just under a metre now - 0.9144) and magnetic playing fields... and just having "no particle place to be..."
I'll split then...size matters... er, sighs, mutters...
I'm glad women are using boobquake and brainquake together, as that deals to the rather nasty prejudice where large-breasted women are perceived as being stupider than their smaller-chested colleagues. Or my initial thought, that was I being asked yet again to choose between having low-cut tops, or a brain.
A simple evolutionary side step would solve this, with women having their left and right brains divided between their breasts, thus large breasts = large brains - ergo a breast reduction would not be enlightenment and some of our finest female legal minds would correctly be admitted to the bra...
sadly then, flattery would get you nowhere...
inverse - reverse - perverse
(men of course would continue to carry their brains in a tiny sac between their legs - the classic, aforementioned APB - business as usual, there...)Come on, folks; who will bell the cat?
Pavlov's over, Schrödinger's clangour averse,
of course there is a bell at the end of a trumpet
and a belle at the end of the ball...
so cat-campanologists aside
it's clarion regardless...
[An aside on string theory:
You can strum a beat pet
when you use catgut!]You can't beat a strumpet.
In Chch we do things differently - ask the Listener... must be all the coneheads who live here...
(where's my coat gone?)You can't beat a strumpet.
I like these inverted multichoice questions, are there other options?
You
C: ant
B: eat
A: strumpet -
Not wishing to further any stereotypes, but...
Craig? Is there an equivalent for blokes?
Personally, I always go for "mid-life wardrobe crisis" -- because when middle-aged men start dressing like teenagers the automotive strap-on and barely legal mistress never seems to be far behind. Not that I wish to further any stereotypes... :)
(Or put another way: Mesh tank-tops are a fashion crime against humanity. Nobody looks good in the things, and when you're a middle aged man trying to recapture your yoof and fooling nobody its fail with a side of sad.)
I had man-love for Willie Apiata when he walked off that plane on Friday, if that helps.
At the risk of getting icky (being distantly related and all), he's a permanent fire risk. That is all.
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Oh, hang on: I have one.
I went for a spin out to Waitakere's Twin Streams cycleway yesterday, and found the route full of fiftysomething chaps in cycling gear.
Pot bellies and lyrca just don't seem to work together.
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Up to a point, Mr Brown. I'd give them a (bare) pass because while your equation is correct (PB + Lycra/Spandex = OMFG NO!) there is a case for a utilitarian exemption. Still, do go home and change before you go to a cafe and make me think of cheap, over-stuffed sausages that split as soon as you put them in a hot pan. Think of it as a variation on the Undies/Togs event horizon.
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