Saw an interesting license plate the other day: ILUVPITS. My first thought, in spite of the dog paw stickers on the trunk, was armpits. Clearly it was a reference to pit bulls, but I couldn’t help but think, “who loves armpits?”  Even when you’re right out of the shower, they’re still, well, pits. I know there are pit fetishists, and I’m sure my lovely wife will be googling it as soon as she reads this post. Sure she writes about the lovely nose of the better vintages at Celebrate Wine, but here she’ll no doubt be waxing poetic with comments about armpit squirters the world around.

And talk about a French connection, eh? Between pits and wine I mean.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I love the French. Bill O’Reilly is an idiot. Boycotting France is stupid. They are the only world power that had the balls to tell Bush to shove it when he couldn’t prove that Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. Maybe that’s why O’Fuckly was so loud about it. Let’s be so busy hating the people who refused to go to war without reason that we forget about the big fucking lie our president told the entire world…and us, the American people. The Evil Blimp (Rush Limbaugh – that’s from a mid-90’s song, by the way) was shouting that we should hate the French because they don’t thank us enough for helping out in WWII and I kept asking if anyone remembered Grammar School Social Studies when we learned that France was a primary backer of the American Revolution. Oh yeah, but what have they done for us lately. Besides inventing the blow job.

But I digress…my point is that I love the French. I love their culture, I love their art, I love their music (Serge Gainsbourg, Telephone, MC Solaar…aural ecstasy!), I love their wine, and I love their stinky pits. Well, not literally. Personally, I’m kind of into deodorant, and I’m not saying that the French are pit fetishists. I think they, like many Europeans, just don’t care. They’d rather musk it up naturally than try to cover it with floral aromas. Hell, I remember when a good friend in college, a native Frenchman, started using deodorant, and his roommate threw a party. Though I was happy for all involved, I recall a sense of loss. We had Americanized my friend. We had taught him that Quarter Pounders and Big Gulps were good, and stinky pits were bad. We had taken something natural and made it, somehow, unclean.

 Oh well.

Then again, maybe the plate had nothing to do with pit bulls. Maybe the driver is just a big fan of Angelina and Brad, and all their little adopted babies. How do you think their pits smell? I mean Pitt’s pits and Jolie’s pits, not the baby pits. I think Brad’s smell like nutmeg and clover honey and Angelina’s smell like purple ditto ink. I bet I’m right.