ARMPITS ARE THE PITS

Armpits are the pits, but they're a part of the anatomy of you and me and everybody in town that has arms hanging down. Hands at the other end are your best friend. They, with fingers, ten in all, can be used to catch a ball, halt a fall. scrawl an autograph, break bagels in half, scratch a head to understand what an egghead said.

But armpits are out of it. They can't stand and they can't sit, they can't spit a pit, flit fleas or bees or say their A-B-C's. Pits don't have rosy cheeks, they can't take a peek or make a leak or play hide and seek and, just think, even washed they have a stink worse than the smell of a devil shoveling coal in hell.

Armpits are always pale and white because they only get sunlight when a robber at the beach says: "Reach! Stick 'em up!" or the pits' owner lifts his cup to "bottoms up" to toast the host of a weenie roast.

You meet a gal you desire who sets your heart on fire. You admire her posterior and most of her exterior but don't you ever wonder, are her pits inferior, hanging there beneath kinky, stinky hair? If you've got to stare somewhere. let it be her darrier. If you dare.