The other day, The Daily Mail interviewed "Mad Men" bombshell and noted "good figure haver" Christina Hendrick and asked her about her breasts, as, let's face it, they're pretty much contractually obligated to do.
And then people were like, "Why is everybody always asking Christina Hendricks about her chest?" and "Hey, teacher, leave them boobs alone." For her part, Christina seems perplexed that anyone would think her breasts are fake more than confused as to why the topic always comes up. Forgive us, Christina, we seek only to understand their bounty.
Look, of course people are going to ask Christina Hendricks questions about her boobs. I don't think she's surprised by that; she's had them her whole life, she knows their power. The woman's body is a weapon of mass destruction -- it could start wars, take out a third-world country. She is a bullet in lady form. (See also Sofia Vergara. See also Kim Kardashian.)
It would be like not asking the drummer from Def Leppard about his arm, or doing that thing where you describe someone in 5,000 less obvious ways because you're afraid to just say they're black.
She is a scientific anomaly, one DNA tweak away from a two-headed baby or something. In all the random assortments of combinations of traits, she somehow came up with three cherries. People are going to have questions, and possibly confetti. No one means to offend. We just want to grasp it in our hands for a second, to feel the singularity of the genetic moment, to understand for one fleeting moment what it means to be human.
And frankly, I think we're asking the wrong questions anyway. Are they real? Try, have they been sent here to destroy us? I mean, they're works of art, the Van Goghs of the chest. If I were an alien civilization bent on conquest, I would come in a Christina -Hendricks-shaped package.
Think about it.