Pandora’s Bra

I’ve engaged in a bunch of anti-social behaviors over the years. As a teen, I would make up stories of lovers dying, just to get Casey Kasem to play a song I wanted to tape. When I was 25, I tried to get a Mormon missionary to commit seppuku in my kitchenette. One thing I’ve never done though, is shout “Show me your tits!” to a woman from a moving car.

I really wish that I could say the reason for this is because I want to be good person, but I’m not. I’ve never shouted that for purely pragmatic reasons. Still, the pragmatic approach is by definition, always the best -- because if any new, superior philosophy were to emerge, then pragmatism will just bend itself to meet this. There’s a few reasons why I’ve never shouted at girls like that.

First and foremost, it’d just be a logistical nightmare. I’m not going to lie -- I want to see the tits of every female between the ages of 18 and 34 -- I just do. The only exceptions to this would be if they were covered in purulent boils – or worse yet – silicone implants. (I came of age in the 90’s, so I’ve seen enough grotundous, inorganic inflato-tits for one lifetime, thank you.)  So, if I were to shout “Show me your tits!” every time the thought crossed my mind, that’s all I would ever do. I’d have to holler that, all day, every day -- except when I’m enjoying a quiet night at home, reading a book.

Another reason is that it’s just arrogance to the nth degree. I see punks riding upon a chariot and demanding random maidens disrobe, and they think this to be wise? That plan only works for one man -- Caligula -- and in the end, it still didn’t work. It just made people talk, and then things ended badly for him. The James Bond movies were an integral part of my childhood. Yet, 007 never got women to disrobe that fast. There had to be a chase scene, a dialogue that advances the plot, and one or more well-timed one-liners. Yet these punks, in their maddened Caligulan hubris, forego all this, and think themselves to be more alpha than Bond. Their arrogance can only be the product of the worst of mental defectives; those who are so dense, that they noticeably warp their local spacetime.

What really bothers me though, is the nagging question -- what if I win? I mean, if I shouted “Show me your tits!” out of my window, to some nubile jogger, there always exists some extremely slight, but non-zero chance that she’ll stop and think: “Damn it, he’s right! I really should.” Then she’d flash me -- but since I’m in speeding car, I wouldn’t have a good view. I play the lottery rarely -- only if the jackpot is above $300 million, because I know that it’s silly to think I’ll win the lottery more than once. I need to make the first time count -- and it’s the same deal. If I’m speeding away and miss the show, there ain’t gonna be another. Not ever.

The “I might see me some titties today” wavefunction would instantaneously and permanently collapse, leaving the world a bleak, desolate, and ultimately meaningless place. Realizing that I’d have blown a lifetime’s worth of luck in a fleeting moment, I’d know that nothing good could ever come to me again. I’d realize this and wallow in folly forever, or at least until the camera slowly zooms out, an ominous-sounding narrator says a few lines about morality, and then shows us scenes from next week’s Outer Limits.

So, I make it a point never to shout these things, condemn those who do, and treat titties as being the supermeawesomebonustreat that they are. Do I try to live as a good person? Yes. Do I do it for all of the wrong reasons? Also yes -- but at least I’m trying to live as a good person. I guess the moral of the story is that the ends justify the means -- but if they didn’t, then what would?