A Girdle?

I simply adore women. Really, I do. They're so sensible, and level-headed. They smell pretty. They have all kinds of knowledge about removing stubborn stains, and they are wonderful at giving advice about men. Yes, there's not much about women that I could ever find fault with.

Except their underwear.

And I'm not even finding fault with their underwear, I just don't know much about it. The lingerie department always makes me cringy - all those straps and lacy things and doo-dads and gew-gaws. Like Parcheesi, it's just not something I've ever been that interested in.

But even I know enough about "foundation garmets" to know that a sixteen pound girdle would have to be one honking large girdle. But yet that's what the reverend James Dobson waxes nostalgically about in his memoirs.

It really says a lot about why he is the way he is.

Dobson, for those of you who don't know, is the director of "Focus on the Family" - one of those horrible christian retardlian organizations. Reverend Dobson is known for many things, but I think this bit of advice that he gives to parents about how to avoid raising a gay son really sums it up nicely:

Meanwhile, the boy's father has to do his part. He needs to mirror and affirm his son's maleness. He can play rough-and-tumble games with his son, in ways that are decidedly different from the games he would play with a little girl. He can help his son learn to throw and catch a ball. He can teach him to pound a square wooden peg into a square hole in a pegboard. He can even take his son with him into the shower, where the boy cannot help but notice that Dad has a penis, just like his, only bigger.

Maybe I'd feel the same way if my mom had beat me with a girdle....