This year's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover was revealed this week, to some fanfare and considerably more puerile complaint. The protesting factions are predictable in scope, as there are only two types of people who might have such pressing concern about a prominant bikini photo that they need to come out and say something about it:
1. Women who really wish they could be, or at least look like, the bikini-clad cover model.
2. Men who really wish they could fuck the bikini clad cover model, or at least the kind of women who look like her.
Everyone else either doesn't care about popular bikini photos, or has an appropriate level of appreciation for them.
I do always have to laugh at the indignant women who claim that they would never ever degrade themselves in such a way; that even if they did have that perfect body and that youthful beauty, the last thing they would do is strip down and pose for a magazine.
Bitches, please. It's not like the girl is dancing around a sweaty pole in a dark, smokey dive, wearing only a cheap thong and plastic shoes while plumbers and truck drivers laugh and throw crumpled one dollar bills at her tits.
It's more like she's wearing $900 designer bikinis, frolicking on a tropical beach, and having her picture taken by a sexy European photographer. Between takes, her agent asks her if she'd like an organic salad with mango dressing for lunch, and she replies that hell no, she wants a bacon cheeseburger, and then tells everyone on set about how hard it is having such a fast metabolism. She gets paid a ton of money for smiling and rolling around in the sand on a gorgeous warm sunny day, and when the all expenses paid tropical vacation photo shoot is over, she flies home to her Hollywood boy toy, pricey urban loft, designer wardroble, and red carpet social calendar. In a few years, she'll retire from modeling with millions, and marry a billionaire.
The self-righteous ladies need to admit it; they're just jealous they can't get a piece of that kind of degradation.