It's beginning to look a lot less like Titmas

'Twas the Friday before Christmas and all round the house the telly and radio were off to avoid the relentless onslaught of forced jollity preceding the inevitable seasonal anti-climax we call Christmas! So I thought I'd do a round up of the week's news. Then I realised there's only been one story of universal international interest this week and it's this one:

Yup the French chicken fillet scandal variously reported as carcinogenic, explosive and downright ridiculous by the Daily Telegraph, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, etc, etc, etc, you get the picture - it even made it to the BBC six o'clock news just now, so I guess it must be important.

I considered for a while about how to sensitively handle this issue, which must be of grave concern to all those affected. Then I thought, fuck it, they brought it on themselves, so they deserve all the opprobrium I can muster for their stupidity. Here goes...

Breasts! Hur, hur, hur... Forget the notion of humans beings having descended from ape-like ancestors; those ancestors still walk among the population in the form of infantile, mentally under-developed 'men' with barely descended testicles, gurning at the news stands and staring determinedly left-handedly into computer screens at increasingly unnatural and frankly shuddersome norks shouldered (and I use the term advisedly - the sheer weight of those things) by equally under-evolved females of the species.

Well, just as dangling ball-sacks and their attendant plumbing are fine evidence for progressive evolution rather than any creationist intervention, the ugly, over-bearing, over-inflated mammalian gland is hardly proof of intelligent design either. It is said there are 'tit men' and 'arse men' and then again there are 'leg men'. Of the three, it is hardly surprising that the tit men stand out like a dick on a stick. From a line up of all three, would it be an unreasonable assumption that those in the former group can be identified as having never read a book? No, it wouldn't.

A man obsessed by oompas will turn out to be an unreservedly dull and ignorant lummox, from which you will only be able to breed slack-jawed, under-achieving, poorly-focussed spawn incapable of advancing the frontiers of mankind. So the type of woman who would throw herself at such a growling throwback can hardly be said to be from the first rank of our genetic march towards human perfection.

Which begs an unfortunate question for all of us; if so many women are compelled to modify their bodies in order to attract the least intellectually capable ball bags around, what does this say about the likely future of the human race?

So, put 'em away ladies, eh? Think of the real freedom you'll achieve when you cast aside the twin, dangling symbols of subjugation to animal urges that you wear on your chest. Think about releasing yourselves from the cupidity of popular culture. Encourage your slavering mambo-men to set aside their juvenile urges, awake from their lurching enslavement to pink-nosed-puppy peer pressure and emerge into enlightenment.

In short, for the very future of mankind, fling the fillets, chuck the chestnuts and get rid of the grapefruit. Oh and have a happy Christmas. J