You Might Want To Take A Seat, We’re Going To Talk About…

Famous philosopher, father, and South Park character, Randy Marsh once said:

“Boobs will come and go, and some day you’ll meet a pair of boobs that you want to marry, and those become the boobs that matter the most.”

Amazingly that was the highest quality video on YouTube.

I’ve been with my pair of boobs now for over 10 years, and I was sufficiently certain that no one would ever love those boobs as much as I do. There has never been a more special pair of boobs in my life, and I am just as fond of them today as I ever was.

I am sure there are many other guys out there who also love their pair of boobs more than anyone else, but I must give fair warning, as that can all change in the blink of an eye. You may think that your world revolves around those boobs, but you don’t even know the meaning of it.

Once your baby is born, they own that shit. Their entire existence depends on those boobs in a way you couldn’t ever imagine. They are telepathically connected to those things. Your baby will cry, from upstairs or the other end of the house, and your wife’s boobs will start leaking like Edward Snowden with Tourettes. They have a longer range than wi-fi.

Breastfeeding is some next level shit. You might think that your adorable little baby is gently suckling on them nips, but let me tell you, they go at those things like a starving bulldog. It’s survival instinct. You know when you go out drinking, and you miss dinner, and then the drunk munchies kick in as you stumble past a kebab shop at 2am? The ravenous fury with which you attack that kebab is how your baby treats your wife’s teats. Stick your pinkie finger in a baby’s mouth the next time you have the chance, it’s like getting it caught in a swimming pool pump.

For a while, you aren’t even going to be able to get near them. Imagine what your nipples would be like if you stuck them in a slimy vacuum cleaner, for half an hour, eight times a day. To cool them down, my wife has been wetting a nappy with water and sticking it in the freezer, or using cold cabbage leaves, and sticking them down her top. Now I’m a fairly open-minded kinda guy, but neither of those are really doing it for me, and I can’t see them appearing in the next Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

It’s also amazing how powerful they can spray, they’re like fuel injectors on a Hemi. Remember when you used to put your thumb on the end of a hose as a kid to spray somebody? There have been moments when Frankie couldn’t even handle it, and she’s pulled out, only to cop it in the face. And then vomit milk up all over herself. All I could think of when looking down at her startled face was this.

And then there is pumping. When she doesn’t have a gummy shark with arms and legs attacking her boobs, she’s got a sucking machine hooked up to it. And just because you’re a parent, it doesn’t mean you can’t still keep a few forties chillin namsayin?

Breastfeeding has been in and out of the media a lot as of late. And so it should be. It’s a physically and emotionally demanding exercise. Boobs are an organic life support machine, that when operable in public, certain prudes interpret as a burlesque show being put on in a cafe. Of all the things in the world to be concerned about, if that is on your list, then you’re a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

It’s an amazing part of life, which requires massive effort, and should be supported by everybody. Especially the fathers of the world.