Erick Erickson and Melissa Clouthier have stirred up a hornets’ nest by criticizing the sartorial choices of women at CPAC, and the rampant drunken hookuppery that takes place there. Joy has written about it at Little Miss Attila, and Stacy’s written at substantial length about it, too, because . . . just don’t get him started on the HHS abortifacient mandate. Among the culpable is Tina Korbe, the blond conservette for whose writerly services and glamor Hot Air went through a certain amount of equal opportunity kabuki. And, hey . . . Stacy’s alright with that, in a Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Pharsin way. Photographic evidence suggests that all of these writers are correct when they say that Tina Korbe’s skirt was remarkably short, though I’m not sure it’s correct to say that it offered a straight-line view of her hoo-ha, for those properly positioned.
None of these otherwise very astute people seems to understand the point of Tina Korbe’s short skirt, because they underestimate the degree to which a woman’s couture can express her politics. Sure, a woman’s clothing can suggest, among many other things, that she’s available and randy as a goat. Other clues would consist of, ahem, boink-me stilettos and the unmistakable scent of Paris Hilton’s signature fragrance, Skank (by Paris Hilton). In this case, though, you have to consider the context. Here is Tina Korbe on stage interviewing notorious social conservative Rick Santorum. Will notorious social conservative Rick Santorum try to sneak a peek at her hoo-ha? Wouldn’t that be hypocritical?
Goodness knows, I’ve been tested by cleavage, and I’ve discovered that no matter how prominently displayed (and it acts as a sort of cosmosexual black hole, sucking the gaze into its relentless maw), women still prefer that one address himself to the face, which in many cases requires effort almost preternatural. Women wear tight skirts (I think I’ve mentioned this in relation to Norah O’Donnell before) and it’s as though they’re emblazoned with the flashing caption: “Stop looking at my bum!” We are trapped; we are tortured. Fifteen minutes after initiating a conversation with an intelligent, beautiful woman displaying a chasm of cleavage, dots of perspiration begin to appear on our brows. Twenty minutes in, it materializes on our upper lip. At twenty-five, small rivulets of sweat begin to trickle through the backs of our collars, and finally we resort to desperate measures to extricate ourselves from this nightmare of self-control by muttering something about an emergency phone call, so that we can go outside into the soothing air and have a smoke.
Meanwhile, inside the male brain:
This is why, at the McCain-Collins Institute for Therapeutic Breast Staring, we don’t just hire any doxy off the street. These must be women who are happy to have their breasts stared straight at for times ranging from 5 minutes to 30 minutes, while in that entire time maintaining a neutral if not pleasant facial aspect, because many of these men—and you ladies may not even be aware of this—suffer from a form of PTSD that the afore-described exertions have brought on them. Nothing substitutes for such meat-space therapy sessions, but many men attempt to self-medicate by gazing on pictures of women, and many of them are doomed to failure because they choose pictures of persnickety waifs whose corrugated brows denote unhappiness with this visual violation.
No, no, what these poor men need is copia and compassion—abbondanza, if you will. Cultures of yore understood this well. Take a look at some of the classics of nude painting converted by the magic of Photoshop to the proportions now in vogue:
[See also Enoch's theorizing on the subject]
Ladies! We cry you mercy! We also surreptitiously snap a cell phone picture of your cleavage so that we can gaze at it in peace while we have that cigarette.
And NEVER let anyone photograph you eating a corn dog.