News arrives of a German bus driver who refused to be deflected from his duty by a pair of bouncing bosoms. These belonged to a 23-year-old female passenger, riding in a seat that made her cleavage visible in the rear-view mirror. A lesser man might have ogled the boobies intently at traffic lights and bus stops, trusting to his self-discipline when the vehicle was in motion. In my view that would have been a gross dereliction of duty. Full marks to the fellow for stopping the bus and ordering the woman to change her seat or leave. Safety must always take precedence over a woman’s right to have her titties admired.
What a pity that the young lady made a fuss and complained to the bus company. Those familiar with the game of cricket know that there is no excuse for walking across the batsman’s eye-line when the bowler is about to deliver. Had her brain not been scrambled by misguided feminist doctrines, she would have surely taken the bus driver’s concerns for the compliment they undoubtedly were. Would she really prefer to have breasts that a man would ignore if they appeared in his rear-view mirror? If so, she should have replaced her low-cut T-shirt with some variety of billowy garment popularised by the women of Arabia.
Female bus drivers should have similar rights, of course. A bare-chested labourer returning from work might well have a malign influence on their manipulation of the gear stick. What’s sauce for the goose is chutney for the chipmunk. If a lady bus driver catches sight of a male passenger flexing his pectoral muscles or suggestively wiggling his tongue, she should stop the vehicle immediately and confront him with a set of non-negotiable demands. In the business of public transport, it is always the driver who wears the trousers and the passenger who squirms submissively inside the petticoat.
These anatomical dilemmas were common in my circus days. I shall never forget Zelda the trapeze artist, whose lithe body caused male necks to twist and strain wherever she went. She had a superb bottom, perfectly pert and as firm as a freshly-picked tomato. I once discussed the question of rump maintenance with her in an analytical way, and she told me that bicycles and balletic exercises were the secret of her well-preserved posterior. Who was I to doubt her?
Unfortunately, her peachy adornment was distracting the male members of her team, who were finding it difficult to concentrate on her hands during mid-air somersaults. The remedy conceived was a radical one. Zelda allowed the men a half-hour session before each performance for studying her buttocks at close range, discussing its finer points and probing its contours with their hands. This repeated scrutiny soon diminished its fascination, allowing the men to accomplish their aeronautic feats without diversion. You can only listen to your favourite pop song so many times before it becomes mundane.
Does this circus anecdote suggest a possible course of action for women who are tired of men leering at their bosoms? I’m not one to belabour a point, so I’ll let you work it out for yourselves.
What a pity that the young lady made a fuss and complained to the bus company. Those familiar with the game of cricket know that there is no excuse for walking across the batsman’s eye-line when the bowler is about to deliver. Had her brain not been scrambled by misguided feminist doctrines, she would have surely taken the bus driver’s concerns for the compliment they undoubtedly were. Would she really prefer to have breasts that a man would ignore if they appeared in his rear-view mirror? If so, she should have replaced her low-cut T-shirt with some variety of billowy garment popularised by the women of Arabia.
Female bus drivers should have similar rights, of course. A bare-chested labourer returning from work might well have a malign influence on their manipulation of the gear stick. What’s sauce for the goose is chutney for the chipmunk. If a lady bus driver catches sight of a male passenger flexing his pectoral muscles or suggestively wiggling his tongue, she should stop the vehicle immediately and confront him with a set of non-negotiable demands. In the business of public transport, it is always the driver who wears the trousers and the passenger who squirms submissively inside the petticoat.
These anatomical dilemmas were common in my circus days. I shall never forget Zelda the trapeze artist, whose lithe body caused male necks to twist and strain wherever she went. She had a superb bottom, perfectly pert and as firm as a freshly-picked tomato. I once discussed the question of rump maintenance with her in an analytical way, and she told me that bicycles and balletic exercises were the secret of her well-preserved posterior. Who was I to doubt her?
Unfortunately, her peachy adornment was distracting the male members of her team, who were finding it difficult to concentrate on her hands during mid-air somersaults. The remedy conceived was a radical one. Zelda allowed the men a half-hour session before each performance for studying her buttocks at close range, discussing its finer points and probing its contours with their hands. This repeated scrutiny soon diminished its fascination, allowing the men to accomplish their aeronautic feats without diversion. You can only listen to your favourite pop song so many times before it becomes mundane.
Does this circus anecdote suggest a possible course of action for women who are tired of men leering at their bosoms? I’m not one to belabour a point, so I’ll let you work it out for yourselves.
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