Don’t look dear. Those are breasts and you’ll never have them. Not as long as I’m your mother….
Rebecca Hagelin has a “Ravish me, Mandingo” moment:
There we were, my precious 11-year-old daughter and I, curled up on the couch, anxiously awaiting the Super Bowl halftime extravaganza. Let’s be clear about this: We weren’t watching the game â€“ not a single minute of it. Nope, we were having a girls’ fun night running back and forth between decorating her room and trying to catch the much-awaited halftime spectacle. And boy, what a spectacle it was. Janet “Flashing” Jackson and all.
Halftime had already started before we realized it, so we quickly scrambled to catch the rest of the show. Big mistake. I should have known better when I saw the cast of shady characters gyrating across the stage to chaotic music and words I couldn’t quite understand. But I’m an optimist, so as we snuggled close and threw the blanket over our legs, I just knew the show would get better. “Besides,” I thought, “millions upon millions of families are gathered around their television sets across America to watch the biggest game of the year â€“ we can’t all be wrong.” At that precise moment, I became a very dumb blonde, as I sat uncomfortably glued to the tube along with the rest of America and my trusting, vulnerable little girl.
Hypnotized and stupid, Hagelin couldn’t tear her eyes away from the lithe sweating bodies, the pulsing jungle rythyms
By the time Justin Timberlake ripped off half of Janet’s bra to reveal her bare breast like some cheap lap dancer, it was too late.