Bras are for boobs, ladies.

 
 Not cell phones.
 
 I’m sorry I have to mention this. In a more civil society it would not be necessary. But I have seen so many misshapen mammaries of late that I can no longer be silent.
 
 Clearly, you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.
 
 We have here the convergence of two things.
 
 Ok, three things.
 
 Boobs and cell phones.
 
 Boobs have been around for a long time.
 
 Sometimes they are big and around.
 
 That’s the kind I like.
 
 But that’s a tangent.
 
 Boobs have been, as far as we know, hanging around since humankind crawled out of the primordial ooze. Cell phones, in the other hand, are relatively new.
 
 Each, in its sphere, is fine. Boobs are good. Cell phones are good.
 
 Cell-phone pictures of boobs are good, as Congressman Weiner can attest.
 
 But boobs and cell phones don’t mix.
 
 The modern bra, no matter how reinforced, is not a purse. It may, by some women, be stuffed, but never with electronic equipment.
 
 Sure, Grama, in her day, stuffed a lot of things down there. The random handkerchief or Kleenex, maybe a pacifier – that seems redundant – or the grocery money, sometimes a pack of cigarettes or her dentures or – at the Renaissance fair – a tankard of beer. But it creeped us out.
 
 Except at the Renaissance fair, where the word “wench” is roughly translated to mean, “Dang, woman, how much cleavage DO you have?”
 
 Basically, if a woman pulls anything other than a boob out of a bra, it gives men the heebie jeebies. It’s like keeping pigs in the church.
 
 But social decorum means nothing anymore. First it was Tasmanian Devil tattoos, now it’s cell phones in the bra.
 
 I believe this is exactly what led to the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.
 
 Anyway, the point I want to make is this: Nothing says “baby mama” quite like a cell phone down your bra.
 
 For crying out loud, do you think you need ANOTHER antenna down there?
 
 Maybe it’s from watching too much reality TV, or a desire to be pleasantly amused by the vibrate mode, but the rising crop of women seems uncomfortably comfortable with parking their phone in the Valley of Love.
 
 We’re supposed to pretend that we don’t notice your breasts, that we can’t see your cleavage, and then you go and stick something down there that has flashing lights and makes a loud noise.
 
 Further, do any of you women know that sweat and electrical circuits do not mix? Do you think you can stick any old Android in any old Playtex and not run the risk, especially in the summer, of shorting out a circuit?
 
 Think silicon, ladies, not just silicone.
 
 More to the point, do you know how jarring it is to have what looks like the imprint of a deck of cards on the side of every passing boob? It calls into question basic human anatomy.
 
 Answer me this: Have you ever seen the Goodyear blimp with some big blocky thing tacked on the side?
 
 Your response: No, sir, Mr. Lonsberry, sir.
 
 Good. Let that be a lesson to you.
 
 Sure, the Goodyear blimp does have gondola thing hanging off the bottom. If you want to install such a gondola to hold your cell phone, be my guest.
 
 Perhaps you might want to include the propellers, to maximize the affect.
 
 A long time ago, some guy invented pockets. Use them.
 
 Those dweeb pouches you can put on your belt, to carry your phone and identify you as a loser. Use them.
 
 A purse, to carry whatever grotesqueries you women cram in there. Use it.
 
 Basically, what I’m saying is: No more cell phones in bras.
 
 Especially if you use the speakerphone.
 
 Or have some odd sounding ring tone.
 
 Yes, I’ve heard breasts calling my name once or twice over the years, but it was more metaphorical. The literal emanation of words from your bosom is, at best, disconcerting.
 
 Ditto for “Who Let the Dogs Out.”
 
 You could give a guy a heart attack.