He sat silently in the dimly lit diner, contemplating the nature of his own aimless, transient existence, as well as the consistency of the tepid omelette that lie before him, listless and without any discernible shape or color. It was a metaphor, no doubt. For years he had wandered his way through failed relationships and endeavors, like a lonely hobo hopping one runaway train after the other. His fork would pierce the thin, filmy skin of the embryonic pile of slop that sat, a shuddering mound of disappointment, on his plate; he would first conquer the omelette, then his own failures. He would - wait! What was this? In his periphery he spied a dark and mysterious beauty unveiling her heaving breasts, in what appeared to be an ancient, tribal mating ritual. The dance began. He fixed his gaze upon her as she bore her voluptuous bosom..."
Sexy, right? Steamy as a Polish bath house. I know what you're asking yourself. "What happened next, for God's sake?! What! Happened! Next!" Well, my friends, let me tell you what happened next. The dark, mysterious beauty unleashed her heaving tit and... and... and... crammed it into the tiny mouth of her unsuspecting child, nearly smothering the helpless infant and thoroughly disgusting everyone who had the gross misfortune of looking directly at the fleshy feedbag the woman was so shamelessly flaunting. Not so sexy anymore, is it? IS IT?
I know, I know. I'm a colossal, misogynist windbag from a bygone era, clinging desperately to antiquated notions of societal conventions and an appropriate code of public conduct. Here's what I have to say to that: go fuck yourself. Seriously. Go and have sex with yourself. In the privacy of your own home. The exact same place, in fact, WHERE YOU SHOULD BE BREAST-FEEDING YOUR CHILD. I can hear your condescending rebuttals already.
"It's perfectly natural."
You got me there, doctor. Breast-feeding is a perfectly natural and healthy act. Hey, guess what else is perfectly natural and healthy? A 100% cotton blanket which could easily be draped over yourself and your child during chowtime. I suppose those might be hard to come by, though, what with cotton being in such short supply and all.
"You're just a closed-minded sexist."
Probably true, but that's immaterial. If you want to argue the merits of public breast-feeding, I'm all ears. In no way am I suggesting you deprive your child of much-needed nourishment. Quite the contrary. You feed that whiny little shitfactory to your heart's content. But maybe, just maybe, you ought to consider a little discretion? Don't paint me as some sort of neanderthal because I'd prefer not to be subjected to the sights and sounds of Suppertime in Tit City.
"And you call yourself liberal..."
This might be my favorite. Newsflash gals, if you want to play "Freak Out the Square," you're going to come up with something a little bit better than whipping out your lactose taps and telling junior to belly up to the bar. In fact, odds are you're going to have to reach pretty far to your left to slap me for being such an ignorant Neo-Neo-Con. Breast-feeding is not a matter of public policy or civil rights. Let me repeat that: breast-feeding is not a matter of public policy or civil rights. Nobody is denying you the right to feed your child. But, by doing so brazenly and without any regard for your fellow citizens, you're infringing on my right to a delicious breakfast.
"You're not a mother, you can't possibly understand."
Again, true. I am not a mother. Barring some sort of unforeseen change in genetic makeup, I will never be a mother. So, let's put the shoe on the other foot - or mouth on the other tit, as it were. Let's say I adopt a child. Furthermore, let's say this adorable child has endured such trauma in its brief and tumultuous life that the only way it can bring itself to eat a hearty meal is to do so directly from my belly button. So there you are, enjoying a delicious breakfast of free-range, farm-fresh, organically-grown eggs (with a little tofu and brewer's yeast on the side, of course), when all of a sudden you see and hear my little rugrat, we'll call him Thor Jr., slurping chocolate pudding out of my umbilicus. How's that sound? Pretty damn delightful, right? I FUCKING THOUGHT NOT!
If, after reading through the airtight case I've just presented, you find yourself unconvinced, I have a little experiment for your further consideration. The next time your li'l guy gets a hankerin' for some of mom's famous colostrum smoothie, take him on down to your nearest fratboy hangout (R.P. Billygan's? McGillicutty's? McFadden's? Just find a bar with a subversively bigoted, faux-Irish name and you're in business.) and turn that bad boy loose. You are guaranteed to be met with a bevy of leers, insults, and borderline assaults. Now ask yourself this, if you're whipping out a tit in the middle of a room full of douchebags and not being ogled and groped, you're probably doing something wrong, right? Right.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to fill my belly button with sardines. Little Thor Jr. has a salt craving.
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