A mammary-based theory of gender relations

Boobs: ingeniously designed glandular dispenser of nutritious and immune-bolstering infant formula, or insidious device of male enslavement and genital inflation?! Tonight, we investigate!

All of human history and endeavor, it seems, revolves centrally around the boob. As far back as the Renaissance, the entire art world, it seemed, was boob-obsessed. Sure...art historians will tell you that the Renaissance marked a departure from an obsession with the imagery of the divine and other-worldly to a more human-centric iconography, quintessentially represented by the study of the human form in art and sculpture. But we all know, I think, that the great Renaissance masters just wanted themselves some titties.

Oh yes, my friends...they were men, and as such, they were titty fiends. They may have explained it away as a high-minded artistic exploration, but after the long Dark Ages, we finally slipped out from under the thumb of the Church (who, incidentally, controlled the populace primarily by controlling social mores that dictated the rules of marrige and tata-access), and the artists wanted them some sweater-meat. After all, what better way to get nubile young women to pose for you than to tell them you need them for an enduring work of art? Not only that, you have a perfect excuse to turn away the fuglies!

Yes, my friends, our story starts in the Renaissance, but there it does not end. Why do you think Chris Columbus set out on a perilous voyage on rickety ships into the unknown (ships, I might add, that ostensibly had few if any chicks)? That "economic incentive to find alternate routes to the spice islands" argument is horse shit. I think we all know Mr. Columbus had gotten his hands on a National Geographic, and he wanted himself some Indian bazooms. Forehead-dot Indians or teepee Indians, it didn't so much matter...just so long as he found himself some unshirted knockers. And it was his discovery (possibly with the help of Norse explorers, who liked to carve women with big-ass wooden chesticles on the front of their boats, let's remember) that ultimately led to the creation of our great, sex-obsessed modern culture. And we have simple, eternal hoo-has to thank for it. I hope you're properly grateful.

Industrial Revolution? Guys wanted machines to do their work for them so they could spend more time at the titty bar. World War I? Archduke Ferdinand told a friend he was thinking of mandating breast reductions. World War II? A poorly crafted World War I armistice left Germans malnourished and German love melons dangerously small. (The Jewish thing? Jewish jubblies are notoriously resilient, even in the face of minimal caloric intake. Like the jews themselves, jewish butter bags hoard their fat. (ed. Yes, I'm going to hell)) It all comes back to those delicious prisoners of the playtex penitentiary.

So what is it, then, that makes us so obsessed with what are simply modified sweat glands? Why is it about decolletage that leaves us drooling...well, boobs? I don't know. It's wired very deep, whatever it is. All I know is I like me some gazongas, and judging by the existence of Vegas and the internet, I ain't alone.