The Gremlins in the Recycle Bin are Pervs.

There’s a certain lingerie magazine that I must have unknowingly subscribed to when I made my yearly purchase of bras in Vegas last September.  I perhaps checked yes to the subscription, I don’t know, cause I am notorious for not reading the fine print (see Rogers post).

I received my first edition this month.  Flipped through it. Drooled with jealous envy.  Pondered why fashion models look so much like bobble-heads and lingerie models look so much more portioned minus the implants.  Then hastily discarded it in the blue recycle bin, as I rubbed my recent food baby leftover from Christmas festivities.

The next morning it mysteriously appeared on our kitchen counter, splayed open to a cluster of scantily-clad lingerie models looking all seriously Jersey Shore DTF sexy while I drank my coffee.  Damn, why did I add that teaspoon of sugar.

I texted The Man The Gremlin that I found out his little secret.

I started packing up the kids lunches when Jackson spied the open magazine.

“BOOBS!” screamed my six year old silly boy and as I went to grab the magazine.

My little monkey boy snatched it up before I could.  He then started reciting, “BOOBS!  BOOBS!”  in a lovely sing-song immature classic six year old boy way.

The he ran from me,  giggling hysterically, with the open magazine.  He ran around the kitchen island with me chasing him saying “it’s BREASTS NOT BOOBS!”

“Give me that! NOW!”  I think we ran around the island at least four times.

I finally caught him before both of us peed our pants from laughter.

It’s hard to be all serious and properly lecture about sexuality and not objectifying women, when your six year old is running around screaming boobs at the top of his lungs.

Even Easty had to get in a few “She’s in her underwear! She takes pictures in her UNDERWEAR! BAHAHAHAHA!”

I later gave a more calm explanation about the magazine and why it showed women in the underwear to The Boy and The Girl.  I then told The Man that I really didn’t need a repeat of that first thing in the morning, well not before both of our 12 year old immature inner child-selves laughed about it.

I think I really need to pay attention to the fine print on everything I sign.









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