Janet’s Breasts

Shirking these, our given norms of

a both polite and restrained society,

it remains to be said that, yes,

Janet had breasts.

‘Breasts’ being the adjacent

sensuous synonym to that of the ever

wholesome and homogenized

mammary gland in situ pluralistic.

This, a term of which men are genetically

disinclined to udder, er,

utter, er, articulate.

Oh, and how did I know

that Janet had breasts?

Well, on February 1st, there

in the year of our Lord 2004,

one Justin Timberlake ripped away at

a certain Janet Jackson’s bodice to

there expose exactly one bare breast

with an equally singular pierced nipple.

And this…

This

was most certainly not that

of any mere mammalian

mammary madonna!

No.

Oh…

Uh oh.

For what was this if not a national outrage?

Janet and Justin in said udder adulteration.

They of untethered titillation.

They toot-root in cahoot.

Just one single breast,

here in jest, transgressed, and this…

This our once prissily puritan nation

wouldst ever now never be the same.

Yet I herewith submit that

though one half of Janet’s virtue

had been wantonly debauched,

the other breast remained as yet un-ravaged,

And thus such bust absent lust,

would exist ever autonomous,

free of lewd and lascivious conquest.

No matter such blather,

for in the eyes of the world,

what had become of America

but udder depravity?

What with its torrid taint

o’ titillated turpitude.

This, our United States o’ Sodom;

aghast and alas,

now a Go-Go Gomorrah.

Lo but two years later,

the US military decides to

once again send me to the

Sanctified State of Saudi Arabia.

And this time…

This time, the flight is commercial;

This time, I pass through an airport terminal;

This time, I pass a magazine kiosk and

there pick up some cultural elucidation.

And here you unduly presume

I in some sordid solicit search of

that one Mister Hefner’s

much renowned magazine o’

mammary masticate elation.

Au contraire mon frère.

Just such seen uber-boobed ‘zine

is not in actuality about the

quality of its discerning literature.

Indeed, the US Military officially advised us

that just such a titular rag is to be considered

alas…. pornography.

Oh, and the Nation of Islam,

aka, Saudi Arabia,

absolutely will not permit the import

of a woman’s bare breasts.

So okay.

Duly noted.

No Playboy.

Sure. Sure.

But howza ‘bout a music magazine?

No sex;

No drugs;

but some Rock n’

Rolling Stone.

Upon arrival in Riyadh,

the Saudi Arabian Mutawa,

aka, religious police

are there to perform an act of

moral custom inspection.

The presumed inference being that

Americans as a whole are

inherently corrupt of mind and

possessed of such craven desire

as to be unholy wholly decadent.

And okay…

As this professed inquisition

makes its way down the

long line of suitcases

in search of innate

American depravity,

I can certainly see how all those

other military member’s members

might now amass alas

emasculated.

And I?     I?

What am I if not in manner

mostly immaculate?

There in 2006, that

September issue of The Rolling Stone

featured Janet Jackson on its cover.

Both Janet and her

husband’s wanton hands.

Oh, and in a million years,

I bet you’ll never guess what those

scurrilous hands were doing.

Lo, but in a second, some multitude

of other Saudi Mutawa

surge to surround both I and

he who holds Janet’s breasts to my face.

And yet a moment later,

we are joined by a couple of

aghast American officers with

disgust-doped demeanors

upon their rankled faces.

Oh, and I?   Oh I…    I?

Dumb-foundedly found dumb.

I now surly cowed, what

with neutered nipple dummy,

yum yum,

made udderly mum

of mouth.

c 2026 Jack David Hubbell