When You Take The Fun Out, They're Just Bags

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Memo to TheFerrett: BE A BETTER NERD.

I gotta say this about nerds. They're ingenious little bastards. Out of the core raw ingredients of desperation, fetishism, and limited worldview, they are able to create completely new and innovative areas of Dumb. They are the MacGyvers of stupidity. They are, quite literally, idiot savants.

At this point, it's almost kicking a guy when he's down to talk about the Open Source Boob Project. Since it appeared on LiveJournal* exactly one week ago, the Internet furor has run its course, with the hue and the cry heard both far and wide. And just so you know, in a move I actually admire, TheFerrett has recognized his bonehead move, retracted it, left it out there for the world to see, and removed himself voluntarily from the society his awful idea would have negatively impacted.

Most of the time, the nerd's overdeveloped sense of honor, gleaned from Klingon role-playing and samurai movies, is an irritating affectation. But it can actually seem refreshing in the accountability-free times in which we live, especially when the punishment is deserved. And in the case of the Open Source Boob Project, boy howdy, is it deserved.

It started, as so many horrific things do, with misguided idealism. ACTUAL QUOTE TIME!

"'This should be a better world,' a friend of mine said. 'A more honest one, where sex isn't shameful or degrading. I wish this was the kind of world where say, "Wow, I'd like to touch your breasts," and people would understand that it's not a way of reducing you to a set of nipples and ignoring the rest of you, but rather a way of saying that I may not yet know your mind, but your body is beautiful.'"

Already, we're deep into the Bad Nerd mind. Now, I'm no fan of society's fucked-up, quasi-Puritanical attitude towards sex. And I blame it for a lot of things. But I don't blame it for the fact that walking up to a complete stranger and asking to cop a feel is universally icky. That's not me being "sex-negative". It's not shameful because it's sexual, it's shameful because it leapfrogs about fifteen levels of intimacy in a single bound.

Also, like fuck it's not reducing women to their mammaries in exclusion to the rest. If you want to say that you don't know their mind, but their body is beautiful, evolution gave you a LARYNX. And since this all took place at ConFusion, it wouldn't even rank in the bottom fifty percent of pickup lines offered that weekend. That you don't feel comfortable saying it, and saying all the other things that make another person comfortable enough to let you rub their boobs, is NOT society's problem.

So anyway, apparently this conversation actually occurred, and was overheard by one of THOSE nerdgirls. You know what I'm talking about. And if you don't, here's an invaluable resource. And this nerdgirl agreed to be fondled by this friend and his nerdpack. Leading to a description that will chill your soul:

"We all reached out in the hallway, hands and fingers extended, to get a handful. And lo, we touched her breasts - taking turns to put our hands on the creamy tops exposed through the sheer top she wore, cupping our palms to touch the clothed swell underneath, exploring thoroughly but briefly lest we cross the line from 'touching' to 'unwanted heavy petting.' They were awesome breasts, worthy of being touched. And life seemed so much simpler."

I'm sure it did. Which is why he went one step further, and like any good scientist, tried to replicate the success of his experiment via the Open Source Boob Project. Which basically consisted of... actually, let the creepy guy describe it. I want it to have its full nausea-inducing impact.

"At Penguicon, we had buttons to give away. There were two small buttons, one for each camp: A green button that said, "YES, you may" and a red button that said "NO, you may not." And anyone who had those buttons on, whether you knew them or not, was someone you could approach and ask: 'Excuse me, but may I touch your breasts?'"

I will give Mr. The Ferrett the benefit of the doubt and assume that the red buttons meant you could not ask, and the green button meant you could ask, and that his poor wording was the effect of the cumulative loss of blood from still sporting the four-inch boner he's had since Penguicon. See? He's replaced society's restrictive and impenetrable system of rules and codes ruling who you can walk up to and ask for a grope with an entirely new system of rules and codes that, um, let him walk up to people and ask for a grope. VIVA LA REVOLUTION.

Or, in the English, FUCK THAT NOISE. You can rationalize it all you want. You can wrap it in technological buzzwords like "Open Source", you can impose structure, give shape, and elevate yourself into the role of Great Social Experimenter until the cows, and their teats, come home. But when you write what you wrote above, and follow it up with sentences like:

"And my God! We all reached out like zombies trying to break through a door to get to those breasts. And it wasn't getting any worse! We weren't degenerating into an orgy, but rather exploring the amazement of how beautiful this body was and how wonderful it was to have access to them.", or:

"For a moment, everything that was awkward about high school would fade away and you could just say what was on your mind. It was as though parts of me were being healed whenever I did it, and I touched at least fifteen sets of boobs at Penguicon. It never got old, surprisingly."

WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. Whether you admit it or not. You want what you can't have, and deep down, you think you're entitled to it. But fixing what keeps you from having it is too much goddamned work, so you look for a shortcut and tell yourself you're boldly shattering excessively restrictive societal norms. But the fact is, you're titty-obsessed and desperate, and this is why you have to go to special club meetings in hotel conference rooms just to find other people who are willing to tolerate your shit for a weekend.

You cannot slaver respectfully. You cannot drool in an empowering fashion. And most importantly, you cannot turn your fetish into a public party game, even in the rarefied world of SF con-dom, and not get called out on it by hordes of better nerds who wish to inquire in more detail regarding your major fucking malfunction. As you learned to your dismay.

*Of course it came from LiveJournal. In retrospect, it could not have come from anywhere else.