Crone

Crone: (n) a withered, witchlike old woman.

An obsession with attributing certain characteristics to either the male or the female is one of the surest ways to showcase misogyny.

It’s not bad enough that we believe that women like gardening and nurturing things, whereas men are hunters and gatherers. The fact that there are thousands—perhaps millions—of examples to the contrary does not seem to deter people from “genderizing” activities.

For instance, for years hurricanes were designated by only using women’s names because “they’re so unpredictable.”

Of course, we grew out of this because we know that men are just as unpredictable as women.

But when it comes to the word “crone,” we are pretty sure that such a disfigured, frustrated, bitchy and aggravated person could only have breasts and a vagina.

Fascinating, huh?

After all, we’ve never seen old men who are nasty, backbiting gossipers, who can’t find a good word to say about anything.

Although Charles Dickens did give us that great crone with Ebenezer Scrooge.

Do you think it would have been even more popular if it had been Abigail Scrooge?

Then we could have eased the common misconception of the masses—that vitriol is normally passed along by the chicks.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C


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Conceive

Conceive: (v) to form or devise a plan

“The imaginations of a man’s heart are evil continually from his youth.”

Rather than considering this a degrading statement from the Good Book, we should understand that it is the working climate and funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
environment that exists in the interactions of human beings, as we attempt to move forward beyond our jungle roots to a lifestyle with a higher sensitivity.

What we’re working on is how we conceive things.

If every woman is just a storage house for a pair of breasts and a vagina, and every man has to be concerned about the length of his penis, as every country contends that it is the first and the best, and all religions struggle for supernal supremacy, it is a good idea to slow down and realize that since we normally conceive things in wickedness, it might be healthy to saturate ourselves in contentment and find deeper and purer motives for our actions.

We don’t have to.

We can become defensive and think that since everybody else is so rudely constructed, we must maintain our lack of civility if we want to survive.

Yet in a rock fight, the only people who escape injury are those who refuse to throw rocks, but instead, retreat to contemplate richer and more enlightened solutions.

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Comely

Comely: (adj) typically of a woman) pleasant to look at; attractive.

If you just sit down (or stand, if you like) and think about it, the human race is pretty damn shallow. That’s why you have to be careful, if you’re studying, not to dive in. It’s just not deep enough and you’ll probably end up breaking your neck.

There are basically three things overall that make a woman comely: face, breasts and smell.

Also there are three things that allegedly make a man equally as comely: hair, muscles and confidence.

Now, you can see immediately that after the initial admiration, appreciation and enjoyment of a pretty face, a nice rack of boobs and an adequate sniff, it still comes down to dinner and conversation.

If that is awkward, “comely” quickly becomes “go-ly.”

And if the woman is sitting with a man who has thick hair, muscles and tons of stories to confirm why he is confident of his superiority, after indulging in the
pleasures of his particular prowess for a brief season, she basically ends up with a cab driver who can’t carry his share of dialogue.

For you see, there is what makes us come, and then there is what makes us stay.

And although I must admit, it is delightful to be comely, what you want is to develop the character, the humor and the gentleness to make someone want to remain in your presence for more than just overnight.

 

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Cleavage

Cleavage: (n) the hollow between a woman’s breasts

Jimmy was my friend. This was back in the day when the name “Jimmy” did not elicit laughter.

He was one year older than me. I was eleven. (You can do the math.)

Jimmy had a mom. I had a mom, too, but she was a mother. Jimmy’s mom was young and had the largest breasts I had ever seen. I was only
eleven, so I hadn’t thought that much about breasts. Most of the ones I had spied belonged to my aging relatives, and they were similar to the appearance and texture of an avocado.

Not Jimmy’s mom.

Even though we lived in a time when the “prude laws of behavior” were held supreme, Jimmy’s mom walked around the yard in a bikini, watering the plants. There was a tree not more than twenty paces from where she did her work, and I situated myself so I could stare at her as she gracefully bent over with her hose.

The bikini was so small that I could almost see all the way down to her nipples. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever beheld (and I had a Viewmaster with pictures of the Grand Canyon).

She was so …

I don’t know. I guess the word is “sexy,” even though I didn’t know there was such a thing as sex.

All I knew was that every time I stared at her ample cleavage, I got warm, I tingled and the lower parts of my body ached. It was like there was something they thought they should be doing, and they were being deprived of it, but since I was so ignorant, all I could do was quietly writhe between pain and pleasure.

One day I thought she saw me, so in the most clumsy way possible I ran across the street, back into my garage, finding it difficult to do so because, for some reason, my pee-pee hole had grown, making it cumbersome to speed away.

I’ve never shared this before and perhaps will never share it again.

But it was definitely my sexual awakening–and even though I did not know what the hell was going on, I was very grateful to Jimmy’s mom for owning a bikini and being brave enough to wear it.

Cleavage is a reminder to men that women are the only humans on Earth that are truly beautiful when unclothed.

 

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Buxom

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Buxom: (adj) a woman with large breasts.

Prude or rude?

These appear to be the two choices offered to me every day.

I can take a path of believing that anything that sounds sexual or stimulates my temptations should be ignored or relegated to a private corner.

Or I can just pop off and use all the vernacular of present day society, acting like the free spirit, uninhibited to speak my mind.

We just don’t seem to have the ability to find better ways to share our thoughts.

So we end up looking on buxom women as if they are motherly, or else we proclaim them to have “big tits.”

Somewhere along the line we have completely lost the evolutionary meaning of women’s breasts. So some folks refuse to talk about them and other people giggle and ogle them.

What is the correct procedure?

It’s simple: it’s up to the person who has them.

If a woman is proud of her breasts, wants to talk about them and feels uplifted, so to speak, by others appreciating them, I think that’s just jim dandy.

If she’s embarrassed, tentative and uncertain about her bosom, I have absolutely no problem remaining silent and diverting my eyes.

Being a prude or being rude is a decision to make a decision for someone else. You are either communicating that they should be embarrassed by their buxom condition, or that they should be prepared to be leered at by every fellow who passes by.

We have no right to make decisions for other people.

It is our job to bounce off the desires that each person we meet may express, and honor his or her wishes.

In doing so, we actually begin to approach maturity.

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Bust

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Bust: there are many definitions, but everybody always thinks about breasts.

“Mixed company.”

It was a phrase I heard when I was a kid–always in reference to what you were able to talk about.

In other words, if the room were filled with men, certain subjects were available. Yet if one single woman appeared, the topic–especially the approach–had to be changed.

I completely understand this.

People have certainly learned it’s not good to do jokes about Mohammed in front of the Muslims. They don’t have a sense of humor on the subject.

Even though you may want to come off as relaxed when visiting your friend in the hospital, referring to cancer as the “Big C” is probably not the best selection.

And many men and women are quite uncomfortable discussing female breasts.

This is confirmed by how carefully we avoid using the word “boobs.” Yet even women call them boobs. Most ladies don’t particularly favor tits, but there are so many names for them that it would be impossible for me to go into the full extent of the vocabulary in this brief essay.

So even though the word “bust” is a generally acceptable term for, as we say, mixed company, it is not very good for romantic encounters. In the heat and passion of seduction, stopping to say “bust” might even tamp down the moment.

Now, I don’t know exactly what you can garner from my little observations, except to know that since America seemingly is in the midst of an emotional migraine–where people are pained by everything–it might be better just to avoid using any term whatsoever … and point.

 

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Bra

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Bra: (n) an undergarment worn by women to support the breasts

When I look in the mirror I see some wrinkles.

But also, I peer at the countenance of experience.

I have people who call me Dad and also Grandpa.

After years and years of relationship, there are souls who come to me for counsel.Dictionary B

I have even been referred to as “wise.”

I have awards which proclaim that I am a creature of merit.

But still–when I see a bra, I get giggly

There is a little boy inside me who has a childish view of a garment.

I could pretend that I don’t.

I could force myself to look at a bra and think it was similar to a t-shirt. But I would be lying.

I think it is fruitless to pretend that we ever escape the first inclinations of our youthful lust, but instead, just gain the insight to run away from them … before they take us down tawdry paths.

 

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Blouse

Blouse: (n) a woman’s loose upper garment resembling a shirt

Dictionary B

“Change the language and you can change the world.”

With a few exceptions, I totally believe this.

I’ve tried to put this into practice in my life by being equally complimentary to both men and women. It might sound strange, but normally, our species does not do that.

Two guys meeting to go out to a ballgame don’t usually comment on each other’s outfits. Even if we think a friend is wearing a great-looking jersey, we button our lips for fear of coming across gay.

But if they run across a woman they think is fairly attractive, they just might compliment her on what she’s wearing so as to communicate that they think she is sexually viable and place themselves for consideration.

This is perhaps one of the greatest proofs of chauvinism–“just part of the jungle game.”

Do I think it’s dangerous?

Do I think it’s hypocritical?

What I think is that I choose not to participate.

If my buddy has a nice haircut and doesn’t smell like crap, I will probably go ahead and tell him. If he thinks I’m a homosexual for doing so, I just figure the problem is not mine, but his.

And if I see a woman dressed in a stunning blouse, I will tell her how attractive I think it is, without staring at her breasts while doing so. I also will not stand around and wait for her to compliment me in turn.

A blouse is a blouse is a blouse.

It is a female shirt.

As a shirt, it carries no sexuality and truthfully, is androgynous–open to commentary.

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Bikini

Bikini: (n) a very brief two-piece swimsuit for women.

Dictionary B

I grew up in a time when seeing a woman in a bikini at the swimming pool was like looking at pornography.

Since we didn’t have dirty pictures on the Internet, the only time there was an opportunity to view partially exposed breasts and the majority of a female torso was at the local pool.

When bikinis became popular, girls immediately started wearing them because they thought they were “cute.”

I think deep in their consciousness, these young ladies were aware that they were torturing the boys by displaying the fruits of the flesh without offering them a chance to take a bite.

I vividly recall the first time I saw a girl in a bikini. I spontaneously had an orgasm. It wasn’t planned. It’s probably not something I should even share. But I do so because it always reminds me of the sense of humor our Creator had in constructing human beings–and also our timetable.

At the moment in life when we have the most sexual prowess, we also have the least control. And later on, when viewing a bikini is still pleasurable but no longer eruptive, our plumbing seems to be a bit clogged.

I am sure the heavens find this to be hilarious. I know God must be a gentle trickster–because He does fool us into believing that we are much more powerful than we actually are.

And then, when we scatter our efforts and end up with futility, He is there as a kindly Father, to retrieve our egos and allow us to live another day.

I will always like bikinis, but there is nothing at all as powerful and poignant as the first one I viewed at the local swimming hole…when I practically lost my head.

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Avert

Avert: (v) turn away one’s eyes or thoughts.

I like breasts.dictionary with letter A

I’m not talking about those that are dipped in egg and fried in a skillet which come from the hen-house. They have their appeal.

I’m talking about the breasts on the female of our species.

I suppose sharing that out loud makes one seem a little perverted or at least overly vulnerable. I don’t care. To deny it would make me a moralistic liar.

I especially enjoyed breasts in my twenties.

Matter of fact, I was traveling with a young lady who had a pair which particularly piqued my intrigue.

I tried to take the normal path that might lead one to revelation. In other words, I expressed interest in her, hoping that such a courtesy would eventually lead to full disclosure. But it didn’t.

She cursedly liked me “as a friend.” Friends don’t usually share their bosoms. (Just something I’ve discovered.)

So if I was going to feed the lustful monster which habitated somewhere deep in the cellar of my thoughts, it became necessary for me to come up with an angle from which to view the breasts of this young girl without going through medical school and becoming her gynecologist.

We were staying at a motel. Motels have a very sneaky system. The mirror that is on the wall–usually directly behind the television set–just happens to give you an excellent viewing angle into the nearby bathroom.

Now, I’m not certain if my friend, who happened to be a girl, was just naive, or if she was a little vixen who knew how to quickly escape into her foxhole. But one night she took a shower and decided not to close the bathroom door all the way. So sitting on my bed and gazing into that magical mirror, I was able to catch a vision of her womanhood.

At first it was hazy from the shower steam. But I persisted–and gradually, there they were.

Her breasts. They were beautiful.

She lingered and I joined her.

I became so excited that I nearly felt the need to take the situation in hand. But I maintained my dignity just in case she would emerge and catch me.

It was amazing.

I did not avert my glance.

I do not know what I would have been, to be so responsible. But whoever that person was, I personally was not acquainted with him.

I still like breasts. I am no longer a Peeping Tom, nor do I look for magical ways to see them, but I’m sure there are other things that I should avoid seeing … but I fail to avert my eyes.

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