The Kennedy Affliction: Part I

I used to work in, where else, but a friendly neighborhood bar/ restaurant. This is of course a prerequisite for any work-seeking artist in today's world of desperation, degradation, and whoredom. After punching in my time for a couple years, management met with me to explore the 2nd-tier in the hierarchy of restaurant-eering: Bar tending.

After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.

"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."

I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.

I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.

More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.

This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?

I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.

I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.