In ten days, the game show Wheel of Fortune will be 37 years old. I don’t watch it very often, but when I do, I think of two things. One is the idiot savant I know who can solve any puzzle with or without letters. The first time I saw him do it, there was one letter on the board, and he blurted out “Jim Nabors as Gomer Pyle.” He can do this on command, and they say everyone has a talent, and this is his.

The other thing I think is that this show would be great if at least one of the contestants was always female, had a big rack and had to wear a low-cut top. That way I would always have someone to root for and could look down her shirt every time she bent over to spin the wheel.

I realize I have the Internet and full frontal nudity is available with a few keystrokes, but it’s not the same. There’s something magical about a down-blouse view, and it’s even more special when it’s just some average chick.

I was at the grocery store last week, and a 30-something butterface was dressed to thrill. As luck would have it, we kept “accidentally” ending up in the same aisle, and every time she bent over, my day got a little brighter.

I have to assume Wheel of Fortune regulates what women wear, and some little kill-joy makes women change if they’re in something too revealing. I think this guy should be fired, and they should embrace the cleavage. Better yet, they should hire me. I promise I will embrace the cleavage. I will embrace the living hell out of it.