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DEAR JON LETTERS
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I See Paris, I See France, I See A Lingerie League Receiver's Touchdown Dance

by Dear Jon
October 13, 2009

Dear Jon

Where can a real man put down his Maxim magazine and find an establishment that gets the television feed for Lingerie Football? At a Hooter's Restaurant? And are the games over before the weekly time-slot for Comedy Central's new fall show, Secret Girlfriend?

Sincerely,

I've Got Hair on MY Chest.

Dear Chest,

And you just discovered it last week, is that right? Before you know it that little fuzz on your top lip will become a mustache, and Daddy will have to teach you how to shave. Isn't that exciting?

This is a word to the comedians now on the air on cable and on prime time, and working the clubs. It is time to stop hyper-sexualizing your acts. It is time to START making fun of the dateless twits that are fueling an entertainment industry which is devoted to 1) demeaning women  2)adding to the lie that presenting women this way is funny or cool and 3) encouraging the arrested development of men carrying their puberty with them into their thirties.

Who is Maxim for? Men not intelligent enough to read Playboy? Actually, these Maxim-reading, Secret Girlfriend watching, hot-wings eating Lingerie Football fans are keeping a dirty secret within themselves. The secret is not that these guys are creeps and freaks: That might only be a secret to themselves, but it is a well-known fact to their sisters and mothers that have seen the magazines lying around, know about the bachelor party at the lingerie football game, and are frankly a little bit worried that these grown men are still living in a Peter Pan world.

The dirty secret is that these man-boys are cheap-skates and cowards.

"Let's eat at Hooters, ha ha! Grrr!" (Because I'm afraid if I ever darken the door of an actual strip-joint or Gentleman's Club, I might see someone I know, and be seen.)

"I'll read Maxim" (because I don't want anyone to hear me ask the 7-11 clerk for Hustler.)

"Secret Girlfriend is in my basic cable package. " (I don't want to pay-per-view for actual skin flicks. And there is NO WAY I'm going to be caught at a video store renting or buying a skin-flick, or ordering them by mail so that the carrier know, or getting that stuff on the computer and then my nephew suddenly hacks into it next time my sister brings him over.)

And now Lingerie Football has invaded the scene. Frankly, THIS is the last straw.

Don't get Dear Jon wrong. First of all, as I have written in previous sorts, pornography is a destructive and damaging industry, and second, the women to be found stripping and so on at Gentlemen's Clubs are generally not the free nymphomanic agents that they are presented as being. There is a far cry from the exploitation that occurs in the sex industry and the titillation that million-dollar actresses and super-models are willing to excite by appearing topless with their back turned in a "general interest" magazine. Those who run establishments that present waitresses in tight t-shirts and short shorts with no hint of a promise of anything further, are not in the business of pimping. I understand that.

Since they are NOT trapping women into selling copulation, these industries have a veneer of acceptability. And this is the problem for our culture. (I respect the First Amendment too much to call Maxim a "danger to society." It is dangerous in the same way that french fries are dangerous, and not the way that terrorists seeking WMD's are dangerous.)

The problem for our culture is that these businesses appeal to that same dementia in the male half of the species where the appetite for promiscuous, demeaning sexuality is centered. This is the dementia that says that women a) want "it" all the time (this demented lie fuels pornography and prostitution) and thus  b) "flirt" all the time, even waitresses and football players simply by donning a uniform. Therefore women can be treated as c) objects for the titillation of males, not only on a runway or in a rented room, but also on a football field and in a restaurant.

Guys, guys, guys. Beach Volleyball  is a legitimate sport. What in the sam hill are you thinking, going to an arena to watch girls wearing MORE clothes than that? But this is the dirty secret, isn't it? You know that women compete legitimately in beach volleyball, and somehow that takes (most of the) attraction out of the typical woman's beach volleyball uniform. This is what makes Women Beach Volleyball grist for real comedy. The joke is not on the athletes --it's on the men who can't get past the bikinis.

So now you have forced me to explain my Beach Volleyball humor, and now I can never go back to it again. You juvenile males are really crimping my style.

A woman dressed in underwear playing tackle football is not funny. That is just stupid. The sheer stupidity confirms something that you have wanted to believe about women since you were around 12 years old. (Women WANT to play boy's sports! Women WANT to show you their underwear! Women WANT to be stupid!)

In the movie Splash, an early Ron Howard movie starring Tom Hanks and Darrel Hannah, John Candy plays the kind of guy who would be all into lingerie football. His character has been trying to find ways to sneak peeks at women's underwear since he was in puberty.

When do we grow up? Apparently enough men are out there that shell out their money to see girls in their underwear provided there is some other kind of pretext: She's serving me my cheese-burger, she's washing my car, she's the quarterback, whatever.

Calling all comics! Larry the Cable Guy, you get what I'm saying, don't you? Can't you and the Blue Collar guys set these twits straight? Larry, Bill, Ron, Mr. Foxworthy, please, do NOT agree to plug lingerie football. I don't care what else you do. Trumpet your NASCAR fetish all you want and have Danica Patrick jump out of a cake at your next joke-writing party, I don't care. But PLEASE, start making fun of the nerds and twits and creeps that have never gotten past "I see Paris, I see France...."

This is what I would like to do: I would like to field a team in the Lingerie League. Only here is my strategy; I want the women on my team to stomp their way to the championship. I want the women on my interior line to be-- I will be delicate since I am speaking of ladies-- hefty. Their lingerie is going to be what they wear to bed, in other words, sweat pants.  I will recruit the skill positions and defensive backs from real athletes, maybe beach volleyball players and out-of-work Olympic soft-ball players, and my kicker and my punter will be off-season professional soccer players.

I will recruit my defensive corners and wide-receivers from the Olympic sprinting teams of Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. Their lingerie features ankle-length pants. But they're silk, fellahs! Woo Hoo! Face-shields on their helmets can function as burkhas.

I want the league's commissioners to try, to JUST TRY, to tell me that we can't have Islamic women in the Lingerie Football League. I relish the law-suit!

With both sides of the line of scrimmage dominated by my sweat-pants wearing 230- pound-plus ends and tackles, we will show this cream-puff league and the twits watching it that real women can play REAL football. If the dolls on the other team DON'T want to get trampled to the point that they are breaking nails and getting their mascara ruined, they had better suit up in real football gear: Jersies, pants, and everything.

How about a name for our team? I like "The PO'd Buglies" Presented by Dear Jon. Or I would be willing to have them called "The Blue Collar Buglies" Presented by Jeff Foxworthy, depending on sponshorship and ownership stakes. (Rush Limbaugh can shop for his football team somewhere else.)

Maybe we can get Mike Ditka to toss the coin at our first game. He showed up at the first game of the Chicago Bliss. But this is my condition, he has to take this bet with me: Bliss beats Buglies, I will host all Partial Observer writers for a top-ticket VIP party at his restaurant and write and say nothing bad about the Chicago Bears ever again. My Buglies win, and Ditka gets a melted cheese pie in the face thrown by my team captain.

Lingerie Football? A word to juvenile men everywhere: Don't you think it might be time to grow up now?

 

 

 

 

 

 




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