Those cialis people are hard up...

It takes a village to raise a binky.

For the edification and approval of the loyal viewers, readers and critics of http://www.jodiverse.com, I pose this to you.

Jodi, in the way she can only command, had told us that she is, in fact, NOT responsible of our binky. Now, I ask you is this our collective binky? Have we been so collectively lax as to neglect that little detail in the grand scheme? Now we find ourselves with an uncared for binky, possibly one with all sorts of debris coating the soft, pliable rubber tip we do so love to flick at with the end of our tounges. Perhaps this binky has been well and truly lost to the ages, buried under a half read Weekly World News.

I can see perfectly now why Jodi was so alarmed. It appears as though our collective suckling needs, having been denied the binky that had sated us so long, have driven us to slowly raise Jodi's shirt and make us fight to wrap our warm, wet lips around her perfectly erect nipples. Nipping now and then, we fight to keep it in our mouth, hoping that, by the very sheer force of will, we can escape the inevitable eviction from that solemn place at her teat. Her poor body must be quivering with deep seated need after feeling the continuous assault on her erogenously oriented paps, her hips grinding into thin air, aching for release.

So I take it upon myself to lower my head between those aforementioned hips and suckle directly from her throbbing, glistening source of need.

I just had to get that off her chest... MY chest... Get her off... IT off... my chest... yes... my chest...

From the moment we enter this world as males of the species, we are trained to have a fascination with the female breast. Within minutes of leaving the womb, we are guided to the nipple, where we instinctively latch on and begin suckling away at our mother’s teat. For the next six months, it is the end-all-be-all of our existence, providing sustenance, warmth, and a familiar point of flesh-to-flesh bonding with another human being.

As we get older, we are “weaned”… offered oral substitutions for our actual Oedipus-induced glandular infatuation - these faux female fleshy parts including pacifiers, binkies, nub-nubs and wubbies. But they are merely pale shadows of that which we have been taught to crave.

Now, as a man I am taught to be ashamed to look at the female form in all its magnificent beauty. I am taught not to leer, sneer, or utter guttural musings or wolf whistles as a magnificent pair of jiggling jugs bounces past me on the sidewalk. I’m chided if I reach out and tease the protruding nipple of a stranger, her tight cotton sweater hugging every inch of her taught titties. I am not allowed to refer to these glorious glandular globes as “hooters”, “Winnebago’s”, “headlights”, or “fun bags”. I’m even looked down upon if I try to separate them from the person, saying, “My, that’s a nice set you’ve got there.”

Is it any wonder the male of the species is confused? Is it any wonder we’re repressed? I say enough is enough!! Give us our nipples, our areolas, our mammary glands! Give us our binkies and our passies and our wub-wubs, for we are men, and as men we are instinctually drawn to that which brings us life.

So for men everywhere, I raise my fist in the air, open my eyes wide, and shout from the highest rooftop:

Show us your tits!!!!!

In the interim, however, there are a few things you are in charge of. One of which includes a very unhappy and somewhat neglected blog.
Jodi! A snap to action!
I'm afraid of what the alternative is.

I have no use for a binky at the moment... but if I did, and I needed to keep track of my own... (because it's been announced that Jodi would NOT be in charge of said binky - thank you for that Jodi.. I was wondering!!!) I'd have to go this route:

Binky with Swarovski Crystal tether

yep. bling for my binky. delightful.

Jodi has clearly been captivated by the "Harry Potter" series, and is referring to Binky, Lavender Brown's pet rabbit. She is channeling Ron Weasley, who after a bitter argument in the Gryffindor commons with his sometime paramour Lavender, uttered these fateful words in the fan fiction short story, "Lavender Brown's Lament," by Becky Thorston, age 12, of Willamette, OR.

Either that, or she has gone bat-shit crazy.

Somebody's got to take care of them:

BINKY is the spawn of four women who have been playing various forms of hardcore music with their roots firmly in old school punk. They form a bridge to a new variety of post-industrial thrash.

BINKY drives home their message with sheer aggression, not stopping to dirge and mourn society's fate, but forging ahead with a wall of heavy metal sound that purges the soul of urban and suburban angst.

BINKY is a band of daunting intensity. Their music has been described as carnival-deathmetal. And it will hurt you.

Isn't each man (or woman!) responsible, at the very least, for his or her own, if not someone else's?

If not you, then who?