The pendulous,
tantalizing heft of the ripe human female breast was not, we are informed
today, designed to aid in the function of suckling our cantankerous,
mewling, thirsty young but, according to certain Evolutionary Biologists,
was in fact molded by a Blind Darwinian Artificer to mimic the fulsomeness
of the human female buttocks. This mutation transpired, we are
told, because our grizzled male forebears needed a whopping good time
each night after returning home to the cave from a hard day at the
hunt club. Such breasts were intended, in effect, to be fondled,
nuzzled, and lavishly praised - as sexual organs, not nurturing ones.
To sprinkle a little spice of specificity on these conjectures, one
ought not forget Pierre Batchef palpating the ample bazoombies of
Simonne Mareuil in Bunuel's Chien Andalou until those luxurious nippled
loaves morphed into the equally splendid globes of her callipygous
derriere.
And I've read on more than one occasion
of late that the scarlet lips and rosy cheeks of a nubile young human
female were in fact selected by some Inscrutable Algorithm of Eros
to mimic her flushed, engorged pudenda, an ensorcelling spectacle
which vanished from view four million years ago at that critical moment
our ancestral hominid Eve first stood up on her hind legs, clamped
her ass shut tight, and adopted a bipedal stance the better to pluck
that glossy vermilion fruit beckoning from its high Miltonic bough.
If this be so, why then, I feel compelled to wonder this evening as
I bask in the incarnadine overtures of a sun setting gloriously into
the topiary shrubs down the street, don't women - at least across
the admittedly limited spectrum of phenotypes I have had the temerity
to approach - sport goatees on their chins?
