Thighs Deserve an Iconic Pop Song, by Evan Waite

thighs
Thighs are the best. But you sure wouldn’t know it from listening to pop music these days.

No disrespect to booties, but they’ve had more than enough classic jams. And breasts have had their time to shine musically. Yet thighs don’t merit even one iconic hit single that celebrates their contributions to the zeitgeist?

Unacceptable.

Not all body parts deserve chart-topping tunes. Armpits are an abomination, nostrils are grimy booger caves, and if anything, cocky collarbones could stand to be humbled by a blistering anti-collarbone diss track. But surely you concede that, aesthetically, thighs get the job done.

Functionally, they deliver too. They’re the bridge between calf and hip. That’s an important job. The most important job. Thighs deserve our respect, goddamn it. Our musical respect.

If we don’t speak up for thighs, who will?

So we’re clear, songs about legs don’t count. Thighs are one specific part of the leg. I would be just as upset if someone wrote a song about areolas and tried to pass it off as a tribute to the chest. At the very least, you have to mention the nipple. That’s basic songwriting.

Also, one line about thighs in a song that’s not completely about thighs doesn’t cut it, so spare me your throwaway nod to “American thighs” in “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Not making the whole song about thighs is a slap in the face to thighs.

To any songwriters out there who’d like to help, here are some thigh-related song titles to get you started:

“Thighs Make Me High”

“Thick Thigh Guy”

“Mid-Leg Meat”

“Ass Pedestal”

“Thigh Cherie Amour”

You’re free to use any of those. All I ask is a writing credit and 40% cut of royalties.

If I ever have a baby, I hope it has thighs. At least one, but preferably two. Three is too many.

Sometimes on a clear night, I gaze up at the night sky, wondering if there’s life out there, and if so, what their thighs look like. Are they cylindrical? Do they have scales? Will they let us give them a squeeze if we promise not to get fresh? We may never know unless aliens agree to take their space-pants down for us, at least to below the Martian equivalent of the knee. For science. It’s not sexual.

I’m not some thigh-obsessed creep. Just a red-blooded American who wants to drink cold beer and rock out to catchy thigh numbers with my boys while cruising in my yellow Jeep.

If you’ve got a problem with thighs, you’ve got a problem with me.

I’m willing to die for this.

Evan Waite is a contributor at The Onion, ClickHole, Mad, Someecards, and is a staff writer at United Stations Radio Networks.

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