I Dislike Your Favorite Team

Truth be told, I haven't had anything to say about sports in some time. The only sport I can give my heart to is professional football, and it fucked me in my prognosticoidal mortal coil. Forever I shall stand firm that neither the Colts nor the Bears QBs deserve to win this XLI Superbowl. And yet here we are. Horseface versus Captain Boner.

I'll get back to that, at some point (June, probably, when even this crap-flavored ice cream cone of a Superbowl will provoke me). But the point of this post is to discuss the term "Junkers" as a euphemism for women's breasts.

Before we get to it, as a graduate of a liberal arts college, the Harvard of the Mississippi (as stated by their promotional literature), I feel like I need to preverificate something. My mom has a PhD. And I am a leg man.

But that doesn't mean that I don't love women's breasts (oh, and their personalities and stuff). Here's the glorious truth about breasts: straight men love breasts, gay men love breasts, all women love breasts, children love breasts. It's pretty unanimous (except for the whacky Muslims and kooky Christians) that all humans love them boobies.

For the entirety of our mammalian heritage, breasts have provided the antibiotic, energetic, nutritional and emotional needs of every living mammal. During the 20th century, they invented Formula, and somehow convinced Americans that breast feeding is dirty. Because they want you to buy Formula. If you want to learn more about the incredibly obvious (and free) nourishment option of breastfeeding (practiced around the world since true mammals arrived in the early Triassic [following pre-apocalypto dinosauar-laden Jurassic & Cretaceous] which was about 225 million years ago), please go here and check out fellow blogspotters Breasts Not Bombs.

The point I'm belaboring is that the Christians and the Muslims are wrong, but they'll keep fighting over it. Breasts are great and universally beloved. While it's true that they have sometimes caused me to make decisions in my private life that were ill-conceived (yet brilliantly executed), each and every breast is a wonderous example of the truth that, with nature bestowing such beautiful virtue, who needs some cranky God casting lightning and molesting altar boys? Prove me wrong, God-folk: what color are that young woman's eyes? Or are you too enamored of your God's creation: glorious Junkers.

Sometimes I am inspired. Like tonight, commiserating about Team Madrid's loss in basketball (I was your #4, 1-3 from 3 point land ... sweet), I came up with "pork tourniquet" to describe, well you know.

But I was much more fiercely inspired when I came up with "Junkers." That word, derived from the Nazi airplane manufacturer, is welcomely pronounced in English or the German ("Yunkers") variant.

This photo is of the famous Junkers 87 "Stuka" dive bomber, equipped with screaming sirens to strike fear into the about-to-be-dive-bombed. It worked very well against the Polish. By the time the Battle of Britain rolled around, not so much. The Hawker Hurricane sent many Stukas, with full bomb-loads, into the Channel during that summer. Stukas remained fearsome in the African tank campaigns until 1943 or so.

I don't know about you, but I've known ladies with huge Junkers. And while things didn't work out, by god, there's more Junkers in the sea.