A few weeks ago my teenaged sons were entertaining a group of friends who just happened to be girls. Traditionally when that happens, the kids start out in the kitchen snacking on bowls of M&M’s or cookies and then they migrate into the bedroom our sons share which is actually a small “suite’, consisting of a study, a bunkroom and a bathroom. PlayStation and their computer are also in there so the taboos that plagued my generation regarding the simple act of bringing the opposite sex into one’s bedroom and “ALL THE PERVERTED THINGS THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO IMPLY” (but didn’t), don’t apply here. That said, I was urging my older sons to put away the enormous basket of clean-and-unfolded clothing so that the room would look less slovenly, lived-in by swine, cluttered.
“Relax, Mom, ” said my 16-year old. “My friends couldn’t care less.”

“What about your underwear? At least stick that in a drawer someplace Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.
“Why should it? My friends know I wear underwear.”

And then it hit me. Of course their friends know they wear underwear. Their friends know. Their teacher knows. Everyone knows because anyone with two functioning eyes can see a good two inches of it above the waist of their pants or shorts. And I’m not talking about gangbanger pants with the crotch that hangs level with the kid’s calves. I’m just talking about regular Levis and a general “unconcern” about whether or not one’s underclothes can be seen from a remote space satellite orbiting the planet.

So, if the kids don’t care about one’s underwear being visible while it’s still on their body, I suppose it makes perfect sense that several pair of “unoccupied” boxers left lying crumpled under a desk chair aren’t going to give any of their friends a big case of the vapors.

Madonna, you may be yesterday’s news and God knows you’ve been replaced by some other morons (K-Fed comes to mind) with similar taste in attire, but the legacy you began by wearing your bra on the outside of your shirt is still gaining momentum. Gee….thanks.

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By now I’m sure you’ve heard some of the most important news to date — news that towers over insignificant “news” like North Korea’s increasing ability to annihilate us within minutes — Madonna has a little African baby to call her own. Refusing to be one upped by her younger, better acting colleague (of course, that’s not saying much), Angelina Jolie, Madonna decided to don her own orphan.

There have been protests from child advocacy agencies in Malawi, where the baby is from, after the bending of rules allowed a non-Malawian person to adopt a Malawian baby. This rule is in place to halt baby trafficking, but Madonna is no baby trafficker, just an untalented publicity whore on a shopping spree for the newest celebrity fad — adopting African babies.

Apparently, the baby’s father did not want to give him up, but after his wife died of disease and both of his other sons were killed while stricken with malaria, he could not afford to keep him and was scared he would fall ill, too. So, instead of adopting a boy whose next of kin doesn’t want the child, she decides to take the one who’s father’s heart breaks, instead of helping to reunite them.

To top it all off, apparently Madonna had 10 orphan babies pre-selected for her (I’m not lying) and walked up and down a line-up while she decided which one to pick. Kind of like choosing between the purple or gold lamé boots. Decisions…decisions…

Rumor has it, the generous blond gave each orphan a copy of her pretentious children’s book, The English Roses, because we all know that the orphan boys in Malawi are so much better off reading about a jealous lot of girls who resent Bina because she is so beautiful.

Can I say it now??…what a fucking asshole! Talk about out of touch.

Oh, but it gets better. E! Online (don’t snicker, they’re right sometimes), reports that Madonna’s new toy flew “home” to Guy Ritchie and Madonna’s house, a completely normal household to be sure, with her entourage and a bunch of babysitters.

Madonna, you brave soul. I’m sure you will make a point of having David, your new orphan son, thank you for all you’re about to grace him with, above all, yourself. She’s our savior. She’s David’s savior!

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