Pinko

I don't have breasts.

Well, in a technical sense, I guess I do. There are nipples anyway, although I haven't quite yet figured out what it is I'm supposed to do with them past cover them with Band-Aids should all common sense one day fail me and I find myself running a marathon. As far as I can tell, the whole male breast complex is one more in the long list of anatomical features withered to the purely aesthetical by vestigiality, like my tailbone, my appendix and the part of my brain devoted to remembering the lyrics to songs I hate. None of these things have yet to benefit me in any way, and in the case of the latter, quite the opposite by making me vulnerable to singalongs of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" at sporting events or karaoke nights.

But just because I don't have breasts doesn't mean I don't care about them. As a worst-case Kinsey 2, I appreciate them, of course, the way reproductive evolution has taught me to appreciate them, as my progenitors did: accidentally exposed on websites devoted to celebrity nudity. I also acknowledge their astounding practical gifts to nurse our young, hold up dresses and sell me light beer. And snack food. And muscle cars. And power tools. And America as an idea. And whatever the fuck it is GoDaddy.com does.

I acknowledge that since baby formula has been invented, none of these things are strictly necessary, but that doesn't mean we should reserve our reverence for breasts. They drive American commerce and keep Mardi Gras relevant. The entire economy of New Orleans as a city depends on them. That city has endured enough.

So I hate to see a breast suffer. Few things make me less happy. This is why I was against the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation from the beginning. Once I realized the name meant they were against breast cancer though, I warmed up though.

Today, though, even with a clarifying name change to Susan G. Komen for the Cure, there's still a shitstorm of controversy surrounding the most pro-breast group operating outside of Victoria's Secret and Mötley Crüe.

Yes, apparently the group has decided not to participate in funding Planned Parenthood specifically because of its anti-procreation menu of services. I have to say I saw this coming. I've always warned that nothing good can come of a war between breast and uterus. It's a lose-lose situation for everyone. Plus the issue concerns women almost exclusively and come on, you know how chicks get, man...

Most of this, I think, is the fault of the communists. And by communists of course I specifically mean Susan Sarandon. If she hadn't worn that red ribbon to the 1993 Oscars to protest the existence of Haitian AIDS or whatever it was, we wouldn't have been dragged down this road of ribbons of many colors. Yellow ribbons for soldiers, green ribbons for marijuana legalization, puzzle ribbons for autism, blue ribbons for State Fair champion livestock... The accessorization of pathos has gotten out of control. The Komen people with their pink ribbons and wristbands and T-shirts have simply been the most visible, the largest, the most bloatedly overexposed of all the ribbonated causes.

And in America, there are two things we do instinctively and ruthlessly: 1) hate communists and 2) a public perception backlash. Susan Sarandon stuck that red ribbon up there in the area of her own spectacular and hypnotic breasts and wooed us all down this long road of collectivism and good-feeling. We're only going to do that for so long in this country, comrade. We believe in outrage. We believe in sanctimony. We believe in abortion on demand. And in none of these things will we ever be denied.