I don’t own a TV and this weekend made my conviction to go TV-free through life that much stronger. My husband and I were staying the night in a hotel and indulged in a rare guilty pleasure: channel-hopping while waiting till the next crime series comes on and we can watch hot detectives make out who killed “the vic” by magnifying images by a kabillion in super high-tech labs. So there we were sprawled in a hotel bed in west England waiting to watch Laurence Fishburne witness a gruesome autopsy, when we came across a documentary called “My Big Breasts and Me.” It sounded . . . well . . . a little weird perhaps, but I guess we were hoping for some real analysis and facts since it said it was a documentary. So we stayed and watched and, by golly, there were fumes coming out of my ears for about 95% of the time I was watching the thing.
The “documentary” featured a bunch of “experts” (including a private plastic surgeon who performs breast reduction – conflict of interests, anyone?) who spent their air time telling women that their breasts are a problem that needs fixing and not that the (mostly) men who react inappropriately should change their behaviour. [Read more...]