By Gazonga Gal

Sometimes, mostly late at night, I imagine that Mutt and Jeff have tiny minds, and tiny high-pitched voices of their own.

I don’t think they mean for me to hear their whispered conversations, punctuated by the occasional snort or nipple giggle. And as much as I wish I could report that their discourse is stellar and intellectually evolved, it never rises about a certain tawdry, bourgeois level hardly approaching sophistication. They are, after all, only boobs.

Mutt and Jeff are obsessed with the effects of gravity, and the necessary evils of underwire. They argue the merits of push-ups versus minimizers ad nauseum. When it comes to sizing themselves up against the perceived competition, they are at turns condescending and insecure. Jeff, for example, is hypersensitive regarding his two errant tit whiskers, about which Mutt consistently torments him (or should that be her?) as only a sibling can. Of course, Jeff being the not all that much perceptibly larger of the two takes great glee in taunting Mutt with the derisive nickname, “Dinky-D”.

They can be a bit catty—bitchy even—at one moment, and in the next breath, filled with internal loathing and self-doubt. But arguably, the most disconcerting aspect of this fantasy is that the voices of my Bra-bdingnagians (to interpolate my Swift with my Baum) are definitely male, and akin in timbre to two out of three representatives of The Lollypop Guild…or perhaps a pair of bickering, elfin drag queens on helium.

I do feel obliged to mention that Mutt and Jeff are slightly mad. Cracked eggs. Escapees from the booby hatch, perhaps? I believe their eccentricity to be the direct result of a conflux of deviant wiring and having been raised in the constant tutelage of a not altogether normal or respectable governess—namely, me.

Over the wiring issues, I have no control. Mutt and Jeff are cursed with a faulty motherboard. Their “ignition” switch works in a contrary fashion to most reasonably accepted and expected standards of titillation. Neither a flirty flick of the finger, a subtle slip of the lip, nor the blithe application of even the most practiced tongue will start their motors running. In fact, as those insistent on pursuing this course of action can give testimony to, it will actually flood the engines and leave you in a dead stall. And that is because—and for the love of God, I have no idea why—the actual switch is located in the back, along the spinal column, just north of Butt Crack, Montana. Mutt and Jeff are not configured as warm-up engines, they are after-burners. Go figure.

Of their upbringing, I must accept responsibility. One minute, they are being thrust proudly into the limelight to garner the attentions of all and sundry; the next, pulled out of play, as their distrustful duenna weighs the intentions of those who might, if given the chance, shower them with their affections. “Does he like me for me, or is he only interested in (to mangle my Spanish with my French) a tête-à-tit with Mutt and Jeff?” These mixed signals have led to more than a few head-on calamities, and rendered my chest charges somewhat schizophrenic, as last night’s conversation will attest:

Jeff: She likes me more than she likes you.
Mutt: No she doesn’t. I’m her favorite.
Jeff: I have proof.
Mutt: No, you haven’t… have you?
Jeff: Yes. I overheard her talking to a producer on The Maury Pauvich Show. She’s been cheating on you. She wants to confess it on national TV. She’s found a new tit she likes better, and she is giving you the old heave ho.
Mutt: You’re a liar. Besides, if she’s cheating on me, she’s cheating on you, too.
Jeff: Not necessarily.
Mutt: C’mon. I’m right here. It’s not like you can hide something from me.
Jeff: Oh, can’t I? You are fairly obtuse.
Mutt: Obtuse! Obtuse! How dare you call me that? I may be obtuse, but you are delusional!
Jeff: You’re out of here. She thinks you’re ugly and useless.
Mutt: Does not! Does not! Does not! You take that back!
Jeff: Pack up your nipple and areola and hit the road, Baby.
Mutt: If I’m going, you’re going with me! I caught her online, looking at the breast lift before and after photos. If you don’t watch your step, you’re gonna wake up one morning with more stitches in your ass than a three-piece tailored suit, and a bird’s eye view of her chin.
Jeff: Yeah, what is up with that? Doesn’t she see that big, black whisker?
Mutt: You’re a fine one to talk.
Jeff: I do not have whiskers… I have tit tresses.
Mutt: Whatever…. Uh, oh… Shhhh. Be quiet.
Jeff: Why? It’s a free country. I can talk if I wanna.
Mutt: Now you’ve done it.
Jeff: Done what? Why is it always my fault?
Mutt: Shhhh! Oh, great.
Jeff: (Singing loudly) Be kind to your web-footed friends, ’cause a duck could be somebody’s mother! Be kind to your friends in the swamp, where the weather is cold and damp.
Mutt: Here we go; she’s rolling over…
Jeff: You may think that this is the end. Well, mrphurfphizsh…..