Stephen Hunter, one of my favorite old writers from growing up with the Washington Post, went out on a (seriously tweaked-out) limb yesterday, outing himself as a member of a Generation Of Pervs that hates it when summer ends because all their boyhood lives they walked around staring at girls whose asses โ€” and their fantasies โ€” were severely inhibited by Spanx, and ever since they have been making up for lost time by staring lecherously at girls in sundresses and Havaianas.

Brother, sister, child and pet, do I mean the taut glory of the outer thigh? Do I mean the curves where it's all streamline and suggestion, where the promise is the faintest vapor on the air...and what about that meadowlike expanse across the back, from the shoulder line down, with its muscular tides, its shallows, its occasional pools of limpid viscosity.

Anyway, all you guys seem to think this is really creepy. I, for my part, am torn.

On one had, what's he smoking? On the other hand, Stephen Hunter is a pretty good critic and people should be honest about this shit. On the other hand, I used to work with a guy who wrote kind of like him and this one time his honesty compelled him to write a column in a major men's magazine about his long-running unrequited crush on a female co-worker who learned about it, like, the day it hit newsstands. On the other hand, that's a lot worse than this. On the other hand, I tried penning some sort of "answer" to Hunter's ode to the exposed ladyflesh of summer, and this was about as good as I could do:

Winter is coming, and I will not miss the torment of not knowing whether the scent of his patchouli drowning out his ball cheese/body odor is drowning out the scent of my Fracas drowning out the Issey Miyake I worried was doing an insufficient job at drowning out my sweat/miscellaneous vaginal discharges. Also I am excited about everyone's fingers shrinking down to a normal size. I am hoping the change of seasons will get me laid more and not less, although I can't speak for the woman who sells me batteries.

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Farewell To Arms [Washington Post]