The man to the left has grown weary of signing cleavage all the time.
Originally printed a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Na. The college years...dedicated to my old roommates: Screech, Fonzie, and who could forget...oh, the one with the overbite and a collection of model airplanes.
When I gaze out into the vast crowd of Advance-Titan readers before me—it's astounding—there are no uglies in the entire bunch. I see some new faces, mostly freshmen, that have never toured my Wacky Factory. Due to woeful MTV programming such as Baby's First Cell Phone and Sluts on a Bus, these youngsters may very well be burdened by attention spans shorter than a Sally Struthers hunger strike. I've got to win over the freshmen immediately if I expect them to read on. The following joke ought to do the trick.
I was at the grocery store the other day.* By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.
Holy Ka-blamo! You've just been bit by the silly snake, freshmen. Its venom is now coursing through your veins and you won't be relieved by the antidote until I start running out of ideas in a few weeks.
Now that we're all on the winning team—aside from that prudish PETA advocate who didn't laugh—let it be stated that the following column may test your tolerance of deadpan delusions of grandeur. It features some boastful fibbing, some bawdy bluster about boobs (or hooters, to be more refined). For the record, I don't advocate sexism, but I do advocate jokes. OK?
I am frequently asked (no...begged) by my female fans to sign their cleavage with a Sharpie marker. Is the request flattering and deliciously appealing? Oh, you bet. Get right out of town if you thought I was going to say no. Truly, signing cleavage gets me closer to God. Anyone who claims that God is a man has obviously never signed 40 eager chests in one night outside of an IHOP.
But ladies, please understand, as of now, I will only sign cleavage in moderation. If you approach me and request a cleavage-signing—Golly, as awful as this seems—I may have to turn you down. And furthermore, your chances diminish when you ask me to sign the words, “BREAST wishes—Nick Olig.” This pun has become trite and it cheapens what is already a fairly cheap practice.
Now, I don't want to be branded as “unkind” or “uptight” or “latently homosexual.” It's just that I have to scale back in order to save my sanity. Sometimes it takes me half-an-hour to walk a short distance—from Reeve Union to the library, for instance—because I'm constantly getting swarmed by screeching ladies with Sharpies. For God's sake, it's like an R-rated version of A Hard Day's Night. And when I'm backed against the wall, surrounded by fawning females, it takes a great deal of will power to declare, “No, I will NOT sign your cleavages! Now please allow me safe passage to my destination.”
When I say no, I feel like a pizza boy snubbing a small village of starving Ethiopians. Yes, cleavage-signing is to horny fans as pizza is to Ethiopians. It's what the pros call an airtight analogy, freshmen.
Those throngs of Sharpie-waving women will always tempt me, but they have become stoplights that impede my busy schedule. It won't be easy, but there comes a time in every handsome celebrity's life when he must ask himself, “Which is more important: signing cleavage or punctuality?”
I'm also cutting back because I believe in the virtues of fidelity. My heart belongs to just one lady, and signing random breast—however thrilling it may be—is an act of false advertising. You're no doubt thinking, “Who is this lucky lady who basks in reciprocated love with this undersized weirdo we have all grown to tolerate from time-to-time?” Bombshell revelation: It's Scarlett Johansson—the poster, not the actual woman. But once the actual Scarlett sees how much I adore her wall-adorning counterpart, she will become wooed past the point of brain damage. As testament to my adoration for MISS (unmarried, jackpot on the horizon) Johansson's poster, I sign the image of her deceptively flat cleavage with an erasable marker every night.
Outside flirting occurs in just about every relationship, and so the occasional cleavage-signing can be tolerated. But true commitment to a poster entails sacrifice. Therefore, my strict policy is as follows: Two cleavage-signings per week is my new limit. If this policy causes some petty heartaches, that is unfortunate, but ladies, I won't apologize.
Just to clarify, the two cleavage-signings per week excludes the ones I contribute to charity. If such philanthropy strikes you as objectionable, relax, it's not like I donate cleavage-signings to the Boys and Girls' Club. I am a devout contributor to “Cleavage-Signings for a Less-Sucky Tomorrow.” On behalf of this noble group, I routinely write inspiring messages on swooning bosoms. (Editor's note: Did you just use the word “bosoms”?) These messages include include: “Nobody Likes a Tattletale" and “Help Stop Sexism.” The autographed women then carouse about town to spread the word, one tavern at a time.
But enough about one of the many ways I help to make a difference. It's embarrassing!
In closing, I'd like to reaffirm the continuation of my ass-signing policy. I still do that without qualms.
* Even the setup is a laugh riot!
