I’ve written elsewhere about the death of the thong in our college classrooms. Time was–and it wasn’t long ago–when we could count on on our undergrad co-eds to enliven and enrich our teaching by flouting their so-called undergarments. We relied upon those lacy secrets. They told us that there was life somewhere on the other side of campus–somewhere we will never again go. So many ass cracks; so little time.
The Grumpy Academic has wondered not so much about where the thongs repaired, but what would replace them. And this year he has been struck with a thought: Cleavage is In! Now The Grumpy Academic has never been a fan of cleavage. It’s so disastrously overt, so in-your-face with its bulbous thrustings, as if signifying a punch thrown with no warning. When done by our undergrads, cleavage is monstrosity unfettered: a blow to the gut. It has no redeeming value, and in fact it says a lot about the Iraq war. Bomb ‘em until they come round.
I can’t figure the sudden appearance of these low cut knit shirts, these little doilies abortively covering all but the these young mams. Why? I ask. Wherefore? And whence?
