real men don’t like skinny


The recent white noise in the blogosphere over american supermodel Kate Upton can be summarised in one word.




One need not shamefacedly peek into an online dictionary at this very moment to prove my point.


As an average male member of the libidinous primate species whose blood-baptised history is ejaculated with copulatory excess, I too enjoy the visual (and empirical) delights of the luminous:



…or the transcendent:



(our evolutionary history must have caused us men to appreciate the lush plump of the female bottom)



As a Singaporean bloke, I am morbidly aware of some of my fellow Singaporean men’s somewhat laddish preference for the gulag-ish female form. I shiver at the paedophilic possibilities.


Our young girls are not spared the ghoulish spectres whose current personifications are the sickly pale teenies in the nightmarish K-pop culture:



I do not wish to peek into my five-year-old daughter’s crystal ball to behold a hellish future of voluntary starvation and a warped perception of beauty.


The pubescent girl’s fantasy of a Auschwitz-earned, guitar-ribbed torso and tummy with airport runway curves is equivalent to her boyish counterpart’s similar fantasy of acquiring handle bar neck muscles, baseball biceps, twitching chest boobs and durian abdominals.


Ladies, if you think “YUCK!” to a beefcake wrestler boyfriend – welcome to the club – we men bemoan the same when we think of barbie-doll supermodels.


Even though I admit to the twitching sexual mores of physical beauty, I cannot imagine Singapore with women who look like this:



It is criminal for the decent rational adult to idle while our young are scammed by the Doublespeak world of global advertising which appear to worship the ghastly beansprout figure of the supermodel:



Laddish men might adore such skeletons and may fantasize having them as “trophy” girlfriends, but the real men will always be content to nurse in the ample bosoms of our wives.


Curves, boobs, backside and all.