Sorry about the headline… if you’re expecting something about women’s breasts in this column you’ve been misled. This is about the most nutritious part of the chicken. White meat is lower in fat; higher in protein.

         Okay, I just said that to get those of prurient interests to move on to the next page. We don’t need those perverts around for this: A serious, contemplative, and sensitive discussion about bazoombas.

         I was a little reluctant to take this subject on, thinking it might be considered off-color. Then I looked at the national magazines at the checkout stand at the supermarket and couldn’t find any without a breast-related story: Whose are real? Top ten size enhancing exercises. Which bathing suits flatter them most? Survey: Would a third breast attract 50% more men?

         You can probably pinpoint my age when I say that the first breast I obsessed over was on the famous poster of Farrah Fawcett in a red bathing suit. From then on it was the usual progression, from the soft-core Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue to various movie starlets to that one girl in school who dressed a certain way and got in trouble a lot. I’ve said ta-ta to a lot of breasts since then, but I still find them mysterious.

         Have you ever seen an otherwise proud feline stripped of his dignity by a catnip toy? His legendary cool, destroyed by powers beyond his control. He twitches and rolls around, alternately biting the toy and leaping away. He looks up at you between spasms, his eyes begging, “Please help me! I can’t stop myself!”

         So it is with men and breasts. More bad decisions have been made on account of these moons of Venus than any other body part. And for what? Men somehow get convinced that getting past that bra is the most important thing in the world. They flirt and flatter and throw around money and say things they might not really mean and forget about other breasts readily available at home. And when they finally get them, they blink and look around and say, “Where am I?” In one unfortunate case, the answer was “The White House.”

         The funny thing is that guys go nuts to fondle these things, which is pleasant for everybody but generally more so for the woman. Check it out! A trace of altruism in the wiring of the adult male.

         They’re powerful things, those breasts. Beautiful, hypnotic, mysterious, comforting, humorous. America loves ‘em, unless we see them at the Super Bowl. “Nipplegate” is almost a year old, but it’s still a great illustration of the classic American principle “Violence good, sex bad.”

         It’s funny to think of people happily watching sexy pop singers doing sexy choreography while performing a sexy song called Rock Your Body, and suddenly the Jackson tit makes its brief wide-shot appearance and it’s “OH MY GOD HAROLD LOCK THE CHILDREN IN THE BASEMENT WHILE I PLUCK OUT MY EYES!”

         Give me a break. You see a hundred times the breast mojo on the red carpet at the Oscars, or even on the Super Bowl commercials.

         Maybe the tension of having breasts plentiful (half the population, after all) yet just out of reach keeps our culture in balance somehow. Or maybe it’s just a fatty gland and we should chill out about it. Wait, don’t they have something to do with babies too?

         I had braces for two years when I was a kid. My father would sometimes call me over to show them to his friends. “Here’s my Porsche,” he’d say. It made an impression. Did he own my teeth now? To this day I’m careful to call him on his birthday.

         I know of a woman who got her boyfriend to pay for a breast enhancement. She got the lift and they separated shortly thereafter. He tried to sue her for the cost. He failed.

         Given our interest in perfect breasts, not to mention shows like The Swan and Nip and Tuck, I’m not surprised to hear that lots of women are having theirs altered. And they’re so open about it! I overheard some women at the Palomar bar loudly toasting the fact that one of them had finally paid her implants off (do they have repo men for that?). I tried really hard not to look. I failed.

         Most men manage to have an opinion about augmented breasts even if they’ve never actually encountered them in the wild. Many don’t like them, but the women don’t seem to care. Of the ten or so women I’ve spoken to about their surgery, all say that they did it for themselves, not for men, and I believe them. And there’s something about the surgery process that transforms their bashful boobs into proud possessions. “Want to feel them?” they say, as if the implants were installed where their modesty used to be. It would be rude to say no, of course.

         But I still feel like I’m cheating on Farrah.