War Heads

I think I'm most proud to be an American when the country rises up as one to defeat a common enemy. No one matches the righteous anger and brave determination of the United States when it comes to doggedly pursuing a threat to what we hold most precious, regardless of how it makes us look to our so-called allies in the rest of the world. As you well know, we have once again been faced with this challenge and once again fought back without flinching. Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness—none of these will be ours until we vanquish Janet Jackson's boob.

I've been frightened by both of Janet's knockers since at least as far back as the spring of 1998, when it became clear to me that they were unusually pointed and surly. It was around that time that she released her "I Get Lonely" video and I first noticed that she had been insidiously inflated. She seemed to be wearing some sort of corset or other nefarious push-up device to give her bosom further prominence; I don't think a pair of hooters has ever so genuinely upset me. "I get so lonely," she sang. "Can't let/Just anybody hold me/You are the one/That lives in me, my dear/I want no one but you/Gonna break it down/Break it down/Break it down." It was clear these boobies meant business and would not rest until they had complete dominion over every last man, woman, and child on the planet.

I also somehow knew that the right bazooka was the aggressive one, a fact verified once and for all by its pernicious appearance during the MTV-produced halftime horror on CBS's Super Bowl broadcast.

"I am outraged at what I saw," said Michael Powell, chairman of the Federal Communications Commission, in response to Jackson's nanosecond breast baring. "Like millions of Americans, my family and I gathered around the television for a celebration. Instead, that celebration was tainted by a classless, crass, and deplorable stunt. I have instructed the commission to open an immediate investigation into the broadcast. It will be thorough and swift."

Thank God for valiant citizens like Michael Powell, a man with priorities who understands the sanctity of the Super Bowl. Janet's classless, crass, and deplorable tetons have no place during a sacred day on which people drink beer, eat buffalo wings, and follow a football game sandwiched between two-minute American Express commercials. And the heavens be thanked for CBS, which flew immediately into defensive action and announced it would institute a five-minute tape delay during the Grammy Awards telecast, allowing the network to effectively censor anything that might offend the sensibilities of the toddlers and elderly nuns gathered to watch 50 Cent pick up a statuette for "P.I.M.P."

But we cannot stop there. Janet's jugs have agents everywhere, influential friends and followers who will not rest until the very foundation on which this country stands has crumbled into nothingness. No more can we sit idly by, complacently assuming that just because the average American has survived weekly broadcasts of Becker for the past several years that it will be easy to withstand the onslaught of malicious mammaries. This means diligence on the part of every last television network. I'd suggest ABC, for instance, keep close tabs on The View—I've caught a glimmer in Barbara Walters' eye lately that suggests she's just itching to show tit.


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