THE BLOG
03/03/2013 04:35 pm ET Updated May 03, 2013

Oscars Busted

It would have been better if I got the boob song out of my mind before today. Ignoring the way it busted in on me would be the higher wisdom. Plus, its days later, and its cup size in the average person's hands has gone from a D to a Double A. The titters are over.

Since I can't get it out of my mind, I thought I would put it into your mind. That way we can be bosom buddies in some cyber space. Some of you are already hooting. No, not more anti-sexual humorless prudery from yet another woman with a mastectomy! Why don't women have more of a sense of humor, especially when grown men are just being boys, telling the facsimile of a fart joke to each other? You hooters can stop reading now. You can just pull up your bra or jock straps and get back to humor filled, light stylish lives, drenched in cynicism but at least not dappling in despair. Boys will be boys. Boobs will be boobs. Boys will want to see boobs. The girls who let them will be whores. Size C story over. You are not the type who needs to bear a chest. So long, till we meet again at a cocktail party for cultural creatives. I'll be wearing the strapless gown with the black lace mastectomy bra with the ever so hidden falsie safely within it. I also have hand knit falsies for my empty cup: one a watermelon, the other a casaba. Don't worry: I will neither wear either to the party, nor "make" you see it.

Maybe next year, you'll sing , "I see your falsie." "I see your falsie." Me, I just see your falseness. I know you will cry at your mother's funeral and beat your breast if your lover gets breast cancer. You will foam at the mouth of something happens to prostrate you. I know you have feelings. I just wish they would mature into something really funny instead of something boyish, and not in the endearing way.

Read on, if, like me, a certain beat in a certain march keeps lurking around in your bra drawer, and you can't stop singing, "We saw your Boobs." Come along, you who can't get the song out of your head, and let me tell you something boys might not know about women and boobs. Men know these things, boys don't.

Many of us wear our bras way too long. They become rags. We are so convinced no one will ever see us -- as in really see us -- that we just forget to lay out the astronomical amounts of money required to keep sag in bag. Most of the women at the Oscars weren't wearing bras at all, owing to the new emphasis on the arm and the shoulder, brought on by the First Lady, who mercifully was not exposed by the Los Angeles Gay Men's Chorus rousing march about boobs. Boys love to dis women and girls. Men don't. Men get it -- and usually men who sing in gay choruses get it. This time even they missed the beat and only got their marching orders.

Another thing about boobs you may have forgotten - Hollywood helps us forget so much - is how useful boobs are. I am not just thinking of that awesome woman at Starbucks yesterday who was nursing her happy baby. She also fended off an older woman's complaint. "We see her boobs," said the old lady. "So what?" said the younger one. Quiet controversy ensued among the frappes.

You may also wonder how much a mastectomy bra costs. You can buy falsies for a mere $125. If you are lucky. My new insurance no longer pays for them. Code pink? I wonder how the boob song sounded to those of us with breast cancer. But forgive me for being maudlin in the face of such dangerously innocent fun. You can take the boob out of the matron but not the matron out of the boob.

Some of my friends turned the TV off after the boob song sung. Others of my friends ignored it, noting that they didn't expect much but misogyny so were not surprised. I so wish I had their cynicism. That way my heart wouldn't bother to hurt at how much fun some people seem able to make of something useful, beautiful, missing or beloved by so many men.

I am working now on my song for next year's Oscar. It should be sung by Charlize Theron, the only woman with the sense, when exposed, to be pissed off, or Janet Jackson, whose boob's appearance caused the nation apoplexy. Men can do what they want with women's boobs but women can't do what women want with women's boobs. What a concept. I see a back up band of everyone whose boob was bamboozled by this year's song. They should all be wearing turtle necks - or better yet - bikinis. Whatever they want. Perhaps pink ribbons would work as a theme?

I don't know who should rival the Los Angeles Gay Men's Chorus as the back up band. Perhaps their song is "I saw your butt. I saw your butt." I just know what the women's song should say, "We saw your dick." We saw your dick. We saw your dick. We saw you dick around with us. And compared to the beauty of a breast, and its usefulness, what we saw fails to measure, much less measure up. The sponsor of this song would be Viagra.

Those are your choices. Forget the apology, although one would be mightily warranted, the kind Janet Jackson had to make for her wardrobe malfunction. Most women have heard way too many apologies. Consider writing a song about yourselves and perform it widely, if you can ever get another gig. It does seem sad to pile on one more story about how un funny Seth MacFarlane and his boy band were. Like I said, I just can't help myself. We saw ourselves. We saw ourselves.