For whatever reason of over-the-hill desperation I’ve just paid $10.95 for a copy of Flaunt, this month featuring on its cover the talented buns of actor James Franco. No doubt without question a publishing first.
I might not have paid the price of admission were its cover and pages not strategically cellophane wrapped, and captioned intriguingly: “Butt, how will people know this is James Franco?” How indeed.
As buns go, Mr. Franco’s are prime grade, but hardly memorable. There’s nothing that sets them apart from countless other sets I have been privy to in my long life; and I fancy I once had a pair of similar comely solicitude before the inroads of gravity, use, and circulation took their collective toll.
I like to think that Flaunt’s daring first will occasion other magazines to follow suit, with other famous celebs going fully glory, gluteus maximus. I’m sure Time, for example, would do the American backside anatomy full justice by running as cover the buns of political candidates, say under headings like, “Republican Ass of the Year.”
Whether Gov. Perry would garner category votes is debatable. He certainly qualifies for the title. Buns in tandem for him would, I’m certain, go over big. Especially if his running mate is female, with any visible tattooed embellishment limited to a short Bible verse, a simple cross, a lone star. Better still: “Remember the Alamo.”
Most certainly, women should not be excluded from publication, and should an LGBT person run for governor, senate, congress, he or she, hopefully would be extended the courtesy at least to be asked if their butts were up to the popularity standard of an aspirant to high office.
As long as buns are displayed without intent to provoke, to shock, to cajole, or to convey to the viewer or viewers a kiss-mine attitude — strict modesty in cover publication presentation is the rule — the editorializing act of mooning is avoided. It’s left to the reader to appreciate the muscular nuances of one of evolution’s greatest gifts to dining alfresco. Or, channeling intestinal wind.
When it comes to mooning I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been mooned. For a while I thought it was just me, that I was somehow at fault, somehow lacking in social standing or financial status, to merit this form of time-honored salutation, second only to a hug, a handshake, a football fanny whack.
Come to find out, few of my true friends have been mooned. (No one at church I know, especially not during the usually sparsely attended 9 o’clock service.) So, I don’t feel so bad. Maybe it’s an age thing. For those of my under 35 readers, please keep us seniors in mind, if and when the mooning urge hits you.
By the way, it’s been determined that the act of mooning as political statement or commentary is a fully protected constitutional right. In 2006, the Maryland circuit court ruled that said anatomical display is a form of artistic expression protected by the United States Constitution. Artistic expression!
The Maryland court ruled that indecent exposure applies only to genitals. Commenting, in part: “If exposure of half of the buttocks constituted indecent exposure, any woman wearing a thong at the beach in Ocean City would be guilty.” (How she displays half a buttock, and which half, is not clarified judicially. Sorta, half-assed, er, assessed.)
Mooning is an annual group sporting event in Laguna Niguel, Orange County, Calif. Each July since 2008, thousands of mooners gather along the Amtrak route to spend the day mooning. Those who enjoy looking at buttocks galore, book club car tickets to moon back. 8000 mooned initially.
Other cities have likewise collectively dropped their drawers. Let’s moon Snyder come spring. (Artistically speaking.)