The Gumzter demanded a post on BPU, which apparently stands for "boob processing unit". Either this is part of a boob-awareness programme that nobody told me about (see Me And The Devil Blues for more on boobs and monkeys) or, as Gumz himself suggested, perhaps "dirty minds think alike".
"Boob processing unit" is of course a neologism. It is clearly derived by way of analogy with CPU, which begs the question; is it a boob unit that processes or a unit that processes boobs? A (boob (processing unit)) or a ((boob processing) unit)? The latter, I imagine, is quite easy to understand; the BPU would be a sub-unit of the complex informational lattice we facetiously call our "minds". I think it's unlikely to be located in a specific area of the brain; more likely to be represented in software than hardware. The BPU, in other words, is the program that runs when you ogle -and here I include women who check out other women, for whatever reason, and therefore am using "ogle" in a not-necessarily-sexual sense. See, compare, match against your own fine-tuned preferences in gravitational resistance, aerodynamic curvature, aesthetic preference, past sexual history, and just generally run through the index of preconceived notions, misinformation, fetishes, neuroses, psychoses and outright delusions that constitute your glorious and unique-beautiful-snowflake of being. Quite straightforward, really.
But wait, I hear you cry, have you not thought of the other possibility? No, I have not forgotten. Shed no tears. The other possibility, darker and more dangerous; not the unit that processes boobs, but the boob unit that processes. Are we talking about a sentient breast that ogles you back? Which is creepy. I once saw a vaguely soft-porn flick called Killer Tongue; a radioactive meteorite transforms some random woman into a latex-wearing porn star with a giant, sentient tongue. The tongue can stretch out to be many metres long, and it talks, has sex with people (including its owner) and, yes, eventually kills people. It's not as if I need to draw you a picture here. Oh, and her four poodles turn into drag queens. Damn those meteorites! Damn them! What if a meteorite turned some hapless woman's boob into a BPU, a coldly calculating Spock-like boob, or "Spoob"? It would watch and wait, in all likelihood unknown to the host, gathering data, processing, analysing. And it would be haunted by the constant presence of its silent twin, its human half. Ah, the tragedy. Would it be driven to action someday, or would it drive itself quietly insane? Could this already have happened to you and yours? Boob-bearers be warned! Think of your loved ones! The fate of humanity may rest upon your shoulders!
Well, on your chest. But that's just a technicality.
Beware, ladies. It's eight-fifty, do you know where your tits are?
You have been reading a Special Guest Edition of Six O'Clock. All Rights Ridiculed.
urped by gumz @ 9:24 PM
