To Love or Hate a Bimbo

I have experienced many revelations since becoming a father.  When my first daughter was born I realized that I’d never really known pure, unconditional love before.  When my second daughter was taken to the hospital at six weeks old and was screaming in pain, I realized I’d never felt my fiercest, helpless emotional pain before.  When my kids first marveled at bubbles, rainbows, and butterflies, I realized that I was going to get to relive the wonders of youth through my children.  And now a new revelation is solidifying, even as I beg for it to remain an inconspicuous vapor.  My girls are growing up.  There have been hints of this.  Abandoning shows and toys in favor of ones geared for older kids.  Reasoning intelligently against some comment I’d make that they used to take for fact.  Caring about what their outfits look like.  But recently, one of my daughters said something that really messed with me.  While playing dolls with her sister, Brooke (5) said “I want the one with yellow hair because yellow hair is the prettiest.”  Both of my girls have brown hair.

You look stupid with bangs, Barbie. You bitch.

Brooke loves Barbie.  She loves the toys and the movies.  While I have heard of this type of thing happening before, I never really grasped its significance before.  This didn’t mess with me a little.  It messed with me a lot.  It was like one of those movies where the character comes to realize that everything he’s ever known to be real was a fantasy.  Cue the shattering glass.

You’re probably thinking that I felt this way out of concern for my daughter’s sense of security with her identity, or something.  No.  I felt this way because I was suddenly faced with having to reconcile my innate desire to protect my child from potentially harmful influences with my innate desire to be exposed to buxom blonde bimbos.

Before I continue, perhaps I should properly define a bimbo.  A bimbo is invariably blonde, invariable slutty, and invariably… bimbonic.  And men like to ogle them.

I’m not alone in this desire for bimbo exposure.  This country has been worshipping fair-haired icons for as long as there has been pop culture.  Jean Harlow in the 30’s is perhaps one of the best known earliest bombshells.  Betty Boop would have been if they had hair dye back then.  Since then, there has been a steady stream of blondies making men drool and making women gag.  Marilyn Monroe.  Farrah Fawcet.  Kim Bassinger.  Pamela Anderson.  Britney Spears.  Jessica Simpson, just to name a few…. They don’t stop coming.  I imagine that the first blonde cavewomen (Darryl Hannah?.. anyone seen that one?) were the most frequently clubbed.  Even Michael Jackson, who was accused of everything from being a homosexual to being a pedophile to being black, chose a blonde lady to carry someone’s children for him.

Madonna, your thirst for milk from a platter will always be fondly remembered.

So, to what can we owe this perpetual bimbonic plague?..  Dudes.  Dudes like me.  One of the reasons I’m now torn on this topic is because I believe that blonde bimbos are important.  Blonde bimbos help facilitate a boy’s ascension from boyhood into adolescence.  One moment, you’re a prepubescent, throwing-mud-at-icky-girls girl hater.  And the next thing you know, you see Madonna crawling on the floor like a cat on your TV and you can’t think about anything but “expressing yourself” in a dark closet of shame.  This is an important service.  Who knows what kind of man I’d be today if I had to rely on Debbie Gibson to make my testicles drop.

This coupled with slow motion videography and aerobic activity made this show bearable to watch.

There have been many immortalized moments of filthy blonde sluttitude that have been burned into my brain.  Ones that I’m sure helped other boys become men.  Marilyn Monroe standing over a naughty vent.  Bo Derek emerging from the ocean.  Kim Bassinger enjoying a snack with Mickey Rourke.  Christie Brinkley skinny dipping with everyman Chevi Chase.  Madonna justifying her love.  Pamela Anderson running in slow motion on a Baywatch beach, or participating in home videos featuring Tommie Lee’s tree.  Britney Spears straddling a chair and leaning forward “crazy” nice and low, or performing in a nude-colored body suit.  Christina Aguilera trying to be as “Dirrty” as her bimbo peers, and totally overshooting.  Shakira dancing in any one of her videos… These are just some of the examples I can rattle off.  It’s disturbing to me that I have a whole section of my brain apparently allocated to this.

Oh young Britney, you make a grown man hate himself.

But back to my dilemma.  I consider myself a good father.  It’s important to me what kind of people my children grow up to be.  Part of this, I admit, is my selfish desire for my children to reflect positively the parenting they received.  But more than that, I also have a sincere desire for my children to be important contributors in society.  And while I have made an argument for the importance of bimbos, I hope with all the powers of goodness, evil, or any powers that will listen, that my girls do not become simple, lusted objects.  Chris Rock once made a joke about how being a successful father to a daughter is measured by whether or not you keep her off the stripper pole, haha.  So very true.

So where does all this thinking out loud leave me?.. I was recently faced with a situation that pitted my moral, daughter-loving father half against my disgusting, bimbo-loving dude half.  While flipping through channels on the boob tube (I mean, come on!  They call it a Boob Tube!!), I came upon a music video featuring a blonde bimbo wildly gyrating her pelvis in a most hypnotic fashion.  Transfixed and agape, I noticed an irritating distraction in my periphery.  It was my daughter approaching.  As I mentally came back from the Land of Pelvic Gyration, I could literally hear my brain ripping as I super-rapidly debated whether or not to change the channel.  That I even hesitated demonstrates the power of the blonde bimbo.  I, of course, changed the channel and, for now, prevented the inevitable exposure my daughter will suffer from this self-hate-inducing cultural phenomenon.  A phenomenon that I have enjoyed, but must shield my girls from for as long as I possibly can.  Because if a stupid plastic toy bimbo can plant the seeds of insecurity in my daughter’s head, then god help me when she gets a glimpse of what’s on MTV these days.  Especially if she catches daddy creepily leering at it.

Author’s note:

I actually have no preference for hair color when creepily leering.  I am an equal opportunity leerer.  Thank you.

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