Woody Cavenaugh

Warning: If you are easily offended please read on, I don't want to miss anyone.

Its Summer at The University, it is Tarzan Hot and some of the students are back on campus being trained for their new on campus jobs. It is Tarzan Hot, there are students. Bless each and every nearly naked one of them, I am glad they do while they can, and while they should. Good times....

Today I'm having lunch with The Wife and I see a tank top with writing on it in big letters. I am more or less literate so when I see words I make an effort to read them. But what I was seeing wasn't making much sense, I ran it through my dyslexic filter twice and what I was getting was something like "brown tits" but I knew that wasn't right. There was more to it than that. I stared harder, and she was still walking in my direction so eventually I picked out "Your Favorite Brown Tits". But I knew that wasn't right. Being dyslexic I get a particular feeling when my mind doesn't get the whole translation and fills in the gaps to make words. She sat down facing me, and like a pig, an illiterate, or an illiterate pig, there I am still full on stairing at her very large chest with the tight tank top wrapped around it. Once she stopped moving I was able to finally figure out what this shirt was trying to despretly to tell me. "Your Favorite Brunnette"

The problem for me was being dyslexic, looking at words that are moving both forward and up and down, while the words themselves are wrapped around a surface made of one concave, and two convex shape. I've never figured out a single "Magic Eye" poster. Many can, I can't, I rack it up on the way I'm wired. The relief I experienced when I finally figured out what her shirt said was the same relief I see of the faces of those people who stair at "Magic Eye" puzzles for ten minutes and finally see the sailboat. Only their sense of relief doesn't come with the guilt associated with stairing long and hard at some other girls chest when your wife is sitting next to you.

One day I know something like this is going to happen and the owner of the boobillusion is going to come over and demand to know what I am stairing at. I only hope my wife will be standing there to tell her, "Its ok, he's not a pervert, he's retarded." Somehow I think if I were to try to explain that I wouldn't be believed.