OH MY GOD, royal breasts have landed on a French terrace. Alert Interpol, Scotland Yard, George Lucas, and Hustler Magazine! Gather the women and children, slam shut the shutters, and gas up the car. Then head straight to the North Pole, where boob sightings only happen between snuggling Eskimos. If, in your puritanical tither, you become confused and drive toward the equator instead, hold onto your bible as tight as you can. Boobs abound at zero latitude and no doubt nipples will peek at you from behind every palm tree.
Outrageous, I say, the very audacity of Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, to think she has the right to privacy. What’s next? Paparazzi drones, spy cameras pointed downward, circling her night and day? Give the girl a break. Sun on the breasts feels good, and if she wants to get totally naked that’s cool, too. Psssst . . . I bet she even has sex, and I’ll double down on that and say she loves it. Okay, I doubt she dances naked around pool tables during wild parties like Prince Harry, but there’s something behind that quiet smile of hers, something that hints of a special talent for pleasing her man.
The French paparazzi, of course, the same contingent that chased Princess Diana to her death, will never leave Kate alone. There’s too much money to be made selling racy photos for this madness to stop.
