You Have A Bum On Your Chest

I want to share a delicious moment with you.

Imagine a woman -- really just a girl -- who is bossy and brash and bleached blonde and has ya-yas out to there. She calls herself a Feminist while she spends her leisure time having her self-esteem defined by the enthusiasm with which she's humped by lasvicious older gentlemen who can make her feel important without one tenth of the effort they would expend apologizing to their wives.

"I'm smart, which is why people are intimidated by me," she says abrasively. "Men are pigs and in my wide and deep experience they think about nothing but sex!" she reasons, bosoms exploding from her gossamer tank top.

Loud, selfish, ignorant, decisive, proud.

She was a friend of my girlfriend's, many moons ago. She was part of the little Jewess clique in which she'd grown up. They didn't call her Blondesplosion but they probably should have. (We will, in place of her proper name.)

One day my girlfriend was obliged to attend the bar mitzvah of somebody nobody knew, for reasons related to family politics and tracts of land or some such mediaeval boloney. Several of my girlfriend's friends would attend, including Blondesplosion. My girlfriend got all dolled up in her Saturday best and I got all dolled up in my Sunday best as we drove round to pick Blondeplosion up.

She had chosen to dress for the affair like a Montmartre whore.

"Do you like my dress?" she asked excitedly.

"Um," said my girlfriend.

"It's got a certain Dangerous Liasons -- how you say -- je ne sais quoi?" I offered. My girlfriend elbowed me.

Once arrived at the event Blondesplosion seemed oblivious to the agape and agog stares of the other attendees. She was blissfully unaware, or pretended blissful unawareness, in equal part to the frowns of the women and the grins of the men. I saw a thirteen year old boy go white after she leaned down in front of him, and then subsequently cross his legs and hang his head. (Later, he would refuse to dance.)

Watching Blondeplosion move through the room included the phenomenon of the ripple of whispering in her wake. The women at our table asked her whether or not she might like a sweater. The orthodox guests winced and averted their eyes. As time went by her apparent indifference strained credulity, but she'd chosen early on to defend her position by refusing to acknowledge any issue.

What kind of a tit comes to a religious affair with their boobs hanging out? I mean, honestly.

I say this as preface to what happened next. I want you to understand the context of the humiliation to come, in order that it may be appreciated as the earnestly deserved reward it was...

A small child wandered over to our table. He talked to me about robots for a few minutes, and then asked Blondesplosion is he could sit on her lap. Once perched there he looked around and, in a lull in general conversation, happily declared, "You've got a bum on your chest!"

And the room erupted in uncontrollable laughter. Even the rabbi. People thought they were going to puke they were laughing so hard. No one could stop. It was just too much of a relief to hear what we had all been thinking all night, given voice by an innocent.

The bimboo turned red and fled. When she was finally nursed out of the washroom by her friends she wore a cardigan pulled tight around her torso, and sat slouching at her food. She wouldn't talk, her lips pursed like an anus.

I have never had such a good time at a bar mitzvah in all my life.