2/5/04 - “Fiasco…outrage…debacle”. These are the terms the central Florida AM talk radio announcer used after reporting that our friend Pakistan delivered nuclear secrets to the entire Axis Of Evil, and that our president conceded an investigation was needed regarding WMD that do not exist in Iraq. But he was not talking about those things. No sir. He was talking about a tit, or, as the Brits say, “teat”.

Damn right I was outraged. Every year on this wondrous occasion I start drinking around noon and get myself absolutely blasted by dinner time on can upon can of Miller Lite. By the pregame ceremonies, l’m crooning with a pathetic and elderly Aerosmith: “Dream on, dream on, dream until your dreams come truuuu-uuuu—uuuueee!!!!” When the president speaks, I’m pumping my fist in the air as he discusses the very serious matter of steroid use (take that Sammy Sosa! You’ve got my vote, Mr. President!) Yes indeed - everything was going according to the Grand Plan. Until the tit.

How dare they interrupt my yearly stuporous ritual by defiling it with a full 2 seconds of fleshy female protuberance? RIGHT THERE ON THE FIELD??! I mean, like every good American, I hope to raise my children in a world completely unaware that those fleshy globes of sinful inclusion that adorn every wicked wench on this planet exist. It’s the “right” way to raise a child, without question. What’s seriously disturbing to me is that we men on this planet are outnumbered by these lactating lumps by a margin of more than 2 to 1. It is no wonder we must repent – and repent immediately! That I should be exposed to one on live television without warning is inexcusable. I didn’t even have a tape of Davey & Goliath ready to slam in the VCR. There was just no warning.

This is the problem. While our commander in chief is busy sending warm welcomes to military dictators who sell us out to some jihadic Mohammed-mongering Muslims we’re busy doing what we do best: getting blind drunk and watching large sweaty men pile onto each other in a bacchanalian frenzy that would have had Caligula writhing in delight.

And to think it was completely ruined by that…that TEAT!

I don’t even remember who was playing now, let alone who won the game. And that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I ate the equivalent of 18 avocados of guac or did 7 or 8 funnels of Busch beer in the backyard between plays. That’s totally normal. What wasn’t normal was that breast. My memory is fuzzy and I don’t have TIVO, so the exact nature of that revelation (the revelation that Janet Jackson has a right breast) is a little unclear to me. So unclear, in fact, that I am absolutely in support of a full investigation by the FCC.

With stockpiles of WMD missing (or lied about), nuclear secrets being sold by our allies to Iran, and a bloated federal budget (that doesn’t even include the Afghanistan and Iraq adventures), here are the burning questions I have as an American:

1. How long was the breast exposed, in milliseconds?
2. Supposing the largest consumer television available, how many pixels, or in the case of plasma television, how many square inches could the breast have potentially covered on screen?
3. What is the ratio of nipple to non-nipple breast flesh on this particular breast?
4. Does said breast feature any unnatural augmentations, including – but not limited to - silicone?
5. Did Justin Timberlake actually fondle the breast with his bare hand? Or did he merely brush it ever so briefly with a non-sensitive part of the hand?

Once these questions are answered by a nonpartisan congressional booby...uh...body, I will be appeased.

Thank you, and may God continue to breast America.