Dear Pam,

I read with interest your entry on sports bras for the, um, chestally blessed on Friday. I found it very entertaining, despite screaming at the computer, “Pam, Oprah is not the boss of you!” But more disappointing than that was the fact that you neglected what might be the most interesting aspect of the Enell Sports Bra website. Despite their slogan, “Any Woman, Any Lifestyle!”, the good folks at Enell have expanded their product line beyond the torture device of your jogging nightmares.

I’m talking about the Enell Male Support Vest. From the website: “Many men have the need for a good support vest. If you are visiting this page, you may be one of them.”

I am not. I swear. My man chest is self-supporting, thank you very much (I know protesting makes it seem worse, like, “I just read it for the articles,” or “Some of my best friends are black!” but I want to be clear on this point). After careful consideration, I have decided this is the worst product in history to ever to need. Worse than adult diapers. Worse than headgear. Why? When you ladies head to the gym and strap yourself into the Enell, you can look at the small chested girls who hold, from a practical standpoint, a momentary advantage over you and say, “Yeah, you’re more comfortable now, but as soon as I get out of here I’ll once again unleash these puppies on the world, twisting the minds of weak-minded men like Obi-Wan on Moss Isley.”

Should I, or any other man, ever be caught wearing a vest designed to minimize my “bounce,” it would be bullet in the brain time. You’re done. Finished. Locker room towel snaps to the ass and furious wedgies would be the least of your problems. That it’s available in three fashionable colors and is made from a high tech wicking fabric doesn’t change that.

So maybe you should consider yourself lucky that all you did from wearing your Enell is nearly suffocate to death (which, by the way, would have made me quite sad and inspired feelings of guilt for not promptly returning your copy of “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”). At least you weren’t committing social suicide. Remember, Pam, silver lining.

And Oprah is not the boss of you.


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