Webmaster's note:  the following column was intended for inclusion in Brutarian, and written before Stately joined the expanding list of former contributors to said zine.  As you can tell by the introductory paragraphs, friction was already in place before the wheels fell entirely off.

I had considered dedicating this column to detailing what a sheer delight it is to toil in Zineland, where editors rave about how immensely invaluable you are, then fail to even bother mailing you the current issue.  Where mea culpas follow--and you still never receive said issue...or the next one.

Turnabout being touche', it was also v-e-r-y tempting to promise delivery of a column manuscript only to renege with the same nonchalance.  But upon further consideration, it just didn't seem fair to readers, the "innocent bystanders" here, particularly those who consider O-M-M one of the zine's key attractions.  Consequently, this issue I'll be extrapolating on a subject of immense importance to the entire fabric of the universe, a topic torn from today's headlines:  Britney Spears, Christina Aguliera and their respective breasts.

As a holder of a doctorate in Tenderoniology, I was thoroughly appalled when the flitty fan-boys of pop music "journalism"--i.e. guys who wouldn't know the first thing about getting to first base--without so much as an atom of evidence, declared Ms. Spears had her mammaries surgically stuffed.

It should be pointed out that the closest the standard accusatory gadfly comes to the term "macho man" is belonging to the same after-hours club as two of the original Village People.  Lending any credence to what he hisses about blossoming babe bods is as absurd as asking an Eskimo to recommend a good nudist camp.

True to form, their anatomically feminine counterparts, catty and jealous from head to paw, sat back and delighted as the boys buried Brit, not a single one of the women lifting a pencil to come to the defense of the maturing Mouseketeer.  So much for "sisters" sticking together.

Here's what went down circa 2000-2002.

A gawky sixteen-tear-old Brit dressed way down in a schoolgirl uniform for her first video.  Nearing nineteen--gasp!--her breasts appeared larger.  Never mind the fact she had filled out (well) all over, was wearing clingy clothing and was THE EXACT AGE THIS SORT OF DEVELOPMENT OCCURS:  "She must have gotten a boob job,' concluded the clucking clueless.

For the record, when it comes to visually differentiating real deals from the dreaded false fronts, your narrator's accuracy percentage is in the high nineties.  And although I haven't had the pleasure of, er, "manually examining" the treasure's chest, I'm willing to bet your last dollar Spears' spheres are the work of Mother Nature, not Doctor Newman.

Christian Aguilera?  Well, that's another story.  Actually, it's another two stories.  And yet again, jealousy and bitchiness have come a-callin'.

When Christina first broke, I couldn't help but notice there was something suspect about her pectoral package.  (After all, it is my sworn duty to thoroughly check out chickadees.)  Thus, when the know-nothings started brutalizing Britney, I couldn't grasp why Christina was getting a free pass.  At least I didn't comprende right away.

Flash forward to the beginning of this year, and suddenly CA is on the receiving end of more arrows that Robin Hood's effigy of the King.  Wha hoppen?

The initial immunity and the later lynching are both the result of a single denominator:  Chris' last name.

Aguilera's personal particulars were a mystery to most when her debut CD "dropped."  Knowing mine enemy, I can guarantee you this was the prevalent mindset of the trend-lemmings:  "Hmm, Aguilera, eh?  Must be an urban Hispanic.  Well, between Ricky and Carlos, we're going through our big "Everything Latin is wonderful" phase, so there's no way we're going to burst the bubble with anything that isn't pro-Christina.  Besides, you know how those people are hot-tempered and carry knives."

The booming blonde, her small-town Pennsylvania/Mickey Mouse Club background now public knowledge, decides on an image change, and the pouting prats pounce, claws freshly sharpened for the occasion.  Not about to admit they duped themselves with the barrio chica assumption, too late to bring up the questionable cleavage, and the Hype The Hispanic bandwagon close to deserted, the girly men and manly girls of gossip gushed with glee when Christina's new look provided just the excuse they needed to bring on the backlash.

Let's see.  I'm Christina.  I could remain a "teenybopper sensation" and tread water until that notoriously fickle audience abandons me like they did Debbie Gibson, Tiffany and every other girl who came before me.  Or I could present myself as an adult woman--which is what I am--flash a little flesh and extend my career as a professional entertainer another thirty years a la Cher.

Hmm.  Gee whiz, if I do the latter, some E! Network correspondent might call me "slutty-looking."  I better go that other route and become a has-been before I'm even old enough to buy the trailer home they'll eventually find my decomposing corpse in when the postman delivering my welfare check smells "something funny."

 I think CA looks fantastic in the chaps-and-g-string gear...even if she does have     plastic pecs.  And here's another revelation for those dumping on similarly suited                                                       senoritas.  Although your whipped wisp of a boyfriend won't admit it in front of you, a WHOLE LOT of men dig the daylights out of "slutty-looking."  In fact, we're so susceptible to the siren call of slutwear, even a frustrated Frigidaire like you might turn a few temples in some finery from Frederick's.

Unlikely, sure.  But yo mama managed to lure the village idiot inside to conceive you, so anything's possible.

HUBBA HUBBA HONEYS:  If aging-disgracefully Mamie Van Doren was the junkfilm spin-off of Marilyn Monroe, Allison Hayes deserves consideration as the Jane Russell counterpart.  Unlike Ms. VD, however, Allison had immense talent (a symphony concert pianist before turning actress), and, sad to say, died of blood poisoning at age 47.

Buxom brunette Hayes not only "looked the part" in frequent portrayals of temptresses or villainesses, she also came across as someone genuinely enjoying the roles.  This wasn't a lust-blinded producer's starry-eyed girlfriend stinking up the set; when you could tear your eyes away from Allison's ultra-phenomenal frame, you'd realize she was a damn fine performer with a very expressive face.

Miss Hayes has something of a "cult icon" status due to her title role in The Attack Of The 50 Ft. Woman (with the 30-foot bust line), Godzillafying her hometown in search of cheating hubby Harry.  She was also in a more obscure cultpic-connoisseur favorite, The Hypnotic Eye, well worth hunting down on tape.  But if you want to see Hayes stand out in all senses of the phrase, keep a hypnotic eye out for Zombies Of Mora Tau and especially The Undead and TheUnearthly.

It's a double drag Allison passed away at a relatively early age and, to this day, has failed to gain the recognition due her.  If only she had posed in a chaps-and-g-string ensemble.