Jamie Reidy wonders how little is too little when it comes to bikinis and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.
I want to get to the bottom of Kate Upton’s bottoms.
And not just because her cover of the “Sports Illustrated” swimsuit issue makes me feel funny where my swimsuit covers.
Are women around the world gonna run out and buy this suit? It just does not seem to be a very functional piece of clothing. The lower half looks like it might slip off when slipping into the bathtub. She’s certainly not playing any beach volleyball in those bottoms.
Not that I’m complaining, but I’ve seen Croakies (those strings/cords that keep you from losing your sunglasses; I had to google it) with more material.
Never in my life have I vetoed an outfit, but I would not let my girlfriend wear that swimsuit to the beach. And, yes, I realize that 1950 is calling and wants its chauvinistic attitude back. I don’t care. My pals don’t need my gal’s swimwear answering their landscaping questions.
Speaking of girlfriends, I haven’t paid this much attention to a magazine cover since early 1996. Jennifer Anniston graced the front of “Rolling Stone,” wearing nothing atop a mattress. My then-girlfriend saw that issue on my coffee table and rolled her eyes at the image.
I casually commented, “At least now we know that ‘Rachel’ tans in a thong.” (Note: I no longer make thong-centric observations about women who are not my girlfriends to my girlfriends.) “How do we know that?” she asked with some annoyance.
Ignoring the warning sirens in my brain, I replied, “It’s pretty obvious.” She brought the magazine two inches from her eyes and squinted like a jeweler. “You must’ve stared at that for a long time to figure that out, Jamie.”
We did not enjoy sexual relations that day.
Speaking of sexual relations, I’m late for a date with Kate Upton…
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