The Superfluous Man

Kim du Toit — winner of the most prestigious blogging award ever — has apparently tired of blogging. He muses:

Somebody wrote to me and said, very graciously, that he now knows how people felt when Albert Jay Nock passed away. While that’s all very flattering, I am not fit to fill Nock’s pen, let alone be an heir to his astonishing legacy of thoughtful, philosophical and intellectual discourse. And I suspect that, like Nock, my writings will fade into obscurity, with only occasional memories thereof that might linger in the consciousness of a small few.

Oh, we couldn’t let that happen. Here:

I dunno. Some people are going to say (not in exculpation, but in explanation) that my fascination for bodacious tatas stems from my early adolescence, which, as it happens took place in the 1960s, at the precise moment when women decided that they were going to Burn Their Bras And Let It All Hang Out, Baby. The ghastly coincidence of the arrival of metric tons of teenage hormones along with universally-apparent boobs should not be downplayed.

And I admit that I do sometimes feel ashamed of myself. Really—it’s not some PC-inspired mea culpa here, I genuinely want to beat myself over the head when I discover that my glance has shot unerringly towards, say, someone’s maiden aunt’s topside. The age of the owner, as you may gather, doesn’t seem to matter to my eyeballs (or, more correctly, to my brain’s simian impulse which directs the gaze).

Hell, ”simian” used in that sense is an insult to apes, because they don’t spend most of their waking hours gawking at the herd’s females’ upper danglies.