By Gazonga Gal

To quote Felix Unger as portrayed by Tony Randall on the TV version of Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple, “Never assume because when you do, you make an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ ” And as persnickety, annoying and perpetually anal as that character may have been, in this instance, he happened to be right, for nowhere are more asses made of “u” and “me” than when it comes to the assumptions people make about breasts and the women who own them. Here are the big three:

Assumption the First: The bigger the breasts, the smaller the I.Q.

While it’s true that some women with big breasts are not the brightest bulbs on the chandelier, to mix metaphors yet again, one cannot judge an entire population of fish by those that swim in shallow waters.

Lots of busty babes are also exceptionally bright. Golda Meir—though I doubt anyone was looking at her bosom, with perhaps the exception of her husband—had a brilliant political mind. Voluptuous film star Mae West was applauded equally for her quick wit and shrewd business acumen, as she was her manifest libido. Even stacked women who play dumb, such as Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield, were not the simpletons they made careers out of making themselves out to be. Although West was the only one of this blonde trifecta credited with brains as big as her boobs, take my word for it, pretending to be jejune is a mental tightrope walk that few can master as well as Monroe and Mansfield did, and neither was lacking in the smarts department (although being intelligent does not preclude one from making poor decisions, nor protect one from sheer bad luck).

Assumption the Second: The bigger the breasts, the easier to bed.

Well, I just don’t know where to begin with this one. Let’s see, I have big breasts so that naturally must mean I want to sleep with every Tom, Dick or Mary on the planet? I’m gonna go with the automobile analogy here. Say I have a Lamborghini. It’s fully loaded. (No rack and pinion jokes, please.) This baby can go from zero to 100 in the time it takes your jaw to hit the floor. It hugs the road like liquid Velcro and handles like nothing you’ve ever felt. So, do you think I’m gonna let just any Sunday boob enthusiast drive it? That would be a “Hell, no!”

Just because we have the equipment doesn’t mean we’re going to let a procession of inept grease monkeys hop into the seat and take us for a spin. Unless you know what you’re doing, you might strip the gears, and that, my friend, would be more than a shame, it would be a crime—and one for which you would surely be made to pay.

Assumption the Third: Big breasts require big fondling.

Breasts don’t need fondling; people need fondling.

If you’re just in it for Mutt and Jeff, there ain’t nothing in it for me, and if there ain’t nothing in it for me, then I’d say, “You’re outta here!” but, trust me, you wouldn’t even be in it in the first place. I’ve talked about this before, but breasts don’t exist in a vacuum for the amusement of others, except the two-dimensional variety in magazines and on the Internet, the three-dimensional mock-tits that are manufactured by men and machines, or the ones that belong to strippers that you can look at and drool over, but not bring home, except in fantasyland, no matter how many Andrew Jackson’s you stuff into her G-string. Real breasts are attached to real women (not that strippers aren’t real women, but what they do in their private lives and what they do onstage to earn a living are rarely the same), and big or small, you need to pay attention to us and our needs, or we will never gift you with the powerful magic of our wondrous orbs.

My motto: Give me a foot-rub, and I will follow you anywhere. Grab my tits and I’ll show you the door. (Oh, and by the way, knowing my eye color is a big plus, too.)