On the issue of scantily-clad women and their place in our society, I have recently evolved.
I have two colleagues to thank for this. Jessica Jacobsen and Valerie Gregory-Woolsey graciously got me up to speed on their efforts to raise awareness of the prejudice that scantily-clad women face every day, and also occasionally at night.
I see now that my longtime policy of ignoring Facebook friend requests from half-naked millennials was based on an insidious form of self-hypnosis called "non-naked privilege." Those of you who go around all day wearing clothes all over your body may not be aware of this phenomenon.
Since I have liberalized my policy, the dripping tap of seminude ladies has become a torrent. Emboldened by the rhetoric of my new administration, scantily-clad refugees have set up a kind of shanty town in the vacant lot near my palatial home. Nicknamed "Scanty Town," the modest little encampment boasts a population of nearly one thousand unapologetically busty women with multi-ethnic names like Kukio Rajneesh-O'Reilly, provocatively eating chicken salad and drying their ripped t-shirts and teensy weensy g-strings on clotheslines as thin as dental floss.
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