I like to think I'm a reasonable man. It's not true, particularly, but I like to think that. I like to think a lot of things.


But here's the thing -- if you don't want me to stare at some part of your anatomy, then for the love of frilly whale's tails, don't wear clothing over said parts with writing on it. If you put words in front of me, then I'm probably going to have a good, hard look, and have a go at making some sense out of the damned things. It's a perfectly natural reaction.


Meanwhile, I'm a man. And not a particularly hunky chunk of beeferoni, either.


(No, don't fret; it's okay. I know -- I'm comfortable with it. I'm not the Elephant Man or Louie Anderson or anything; I'm just never going to be mistaken for a boy band alum. Or an ex-soap opera star. Or David Hasselhoff. Or for that matter, David Duchovny. Or even David Hyde Pierce, for what that's worth. And don't get me started on David Alan Grier; I'm not even in the same ballpark.)


And that's all right. I've come to terms with my average, anonymous looks. But the upshot of my undreamyness is that women generally aren't interested in having me peruse their persons, or any parts thereof. I can look 'em in the eyes, and maybe I can get away with the occasional peek at a hand, or an elbow, or the bottom of a foot, but that's about it. Any other sort of extracurricular ogling is going to be met with prejudice. Extreme prejudice.


So you get the idea. As a filthy, dirty man, I'm rather predisposed to notice certain areas of certain bodies. But the brains in charge of those bodies really don't want me perusing their proverbial parking lot, looking at their wheels.


(Much less kicking the tires, or taking anything for a test drive. I'm not gonna be fiddling with the gearbox, putting the top down, or -- heaven help me -- getting my nozzle anywhere near the gas tank.


How's that? Have we beaten this automotive euphemism horse to death yet? I sure as hell hope so -- you don't want me to get out the 'moonroof' references. Trust me on this one.)


The problem is, it's these same certain types of people who are most likely to wear clothing with words covering their chesticles, or their assitalia -- sorry, are the official medical terms confusing? I apologize. I don't want to leave anyone behind here.


The point is, if you wear a pair of tiny little sweat shorts, and I can see 'ABERC' or 'ROMBIE' on the bootycheek closer to me, then you can be certain that I'm going to stretch my neck to find out what the rest of your little ass-puzzle says. Maybe you're a fan of 'Aber Cookies', whatever those are. Or you went to good old 'St. Grombie' college, if such a place exists. I don't know for certain. But if you've intrigued me with the letters on one of your ass-halves, then I'm going to have to try to find out. And if that involves staring glassy-eyed at your rumpterior -- or, in extreme cases, chasing you down and flipping you over so I can see what the hell your pants say -- then I can't see how I'm to blame.


Still, I get some funny looks. 'Funny', dirty, horrified... whatever. I say these ladies are bringing the unwelcome attention on themselves, with all that ill-positioned writing.


(I also say that dammit, it can take me fifteen minutes to read 'B. C.' on a woman's shirt, if I'm having a bad brain day. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)


That's all I'm saying -- you can't have your cake and eat it, too. More specifically, you can pimpslap a guy for getting googly-eyed over your gazoombas, or you can use your chest as a 'boobie billboard', and invite the world to have a look. But you can't do both. It's not fair.


Seriously, you don't see me running around the neighborhood with my fly unzipped and streamers tied to my weenie, and then complaining that people aren't looking me in the eye when they talk to me. Or standing on the sidewalk with my pants around my ankles and 'Leggo My Eggos' written in Sharpie on my bare ass, then geting all huffy when folks concentrate on that instead of whatever jibberish I happen to be spouting. See? It's just ridiculous.


And now I've forgotten what the hell my point was. Suddenly, I'm just hungry for frozen waffles, and I'm wondering whether those streamers would hurt. Eh, never mind the whole thing. I'm gonna find a Sharpie and go have some fun with the neighbors. Happy weekend, all.