I can't believe I have to take up valuable blog time to exonerate myself and my sunglasses in this phantom naked lady story when I could be explaining about all the cool, torture techniques I approved of. (Real quick, French Quartering is making a comeback)

There's no way the image reflected in my sunglasses is a naked lady. Do you realize how small she would have to be? We're talking a couple centimeters. Even dwarves are a few feet. I'll be the first to admit I have an "eccentric" sexual imagination. I'll role play as everything from a Prussian war general to Norman Warlord. But mini-dwarves? Come on now.

Ok, time to explain to you what is reflected in my sweet faux-aviator shades. My spokesperson said it was my arm casting a fishing rod, but we know that my spokespeople are instructed to lie no matter the situation -- even the few times when the truth would clear things up. So it wasn't that.

It's actually a little more complex. It's the pixelated representation of sadness to the person looking into them.

I know that sounds a little confusing, but let me explain. These glasses aren't mirrors into the physical world that I see; they reflect directly into your troubled heart and the demons that dance around your soul.

Go back and look at them again. If you don't have the courage, I understand. They have destroyed many strong men.

Maybe you see a starving refuge? Or your disapproving father?  For some reason the photographer who took this picture saw a naked woman. Perhaps his greatest sadness is a lost lover, or maybe he is a homosexual and the woman represents the easy, normal life he can not have. 

The question, my American populace, isn't what's in my glasses, but why do I possess these sadness glasses, and what kind of metaphysical conundrums does it present?

Yes, that's really my explanation.