Haas’ angst no jiggling, er, giggling matter

Mark Haas may not be the lewd boob I took him for.

The Washington State Patrol trooper, who is still on paid administrative leave over a flashing incident that happened during a traffic stop last summer, might actually suffer from a rare condition we medical know-it-alls call PTBS.

“Post Traumatic Breast Syndrome,” to you ignorant laypersons.

PTBS is the only logical diagnosis one can make after digesting the latest news flash (har!) regarding Haas.

To paraphrase: After an internal probe (and I mean this not in the rubber-gloved sense) Haas’ bosses claim their trooper got so flustered by the sight of naked bosom-flesh that he let an unlicensed and legally drunk driver and her passenger drive away without a ticket or arrest.

This information comes from internal affairs investigators who may or may not have been smoking large quantities of hashish when they concluded that Haas did not coerce the women into performing the afore- mentioned auto-erotic peep show.

Haas, remember, still faces a June trial on felonies involving official misconduct and unlawful imprisonment with sexual motivations.

But for now all we have is the word from stoned or non-stoned WSP superiors who say Haas will lose two paid vacation days for his alleged flustered outbreak.

According to my knowledge of anatomy, the punishment breaks down to, um, about a half-day off per breast, depending on what was actually unveiled.

I know. It’s difficult for anyone with an IQ higher than plankton to accept that the mere sight of bare breasts would cause a highway-hardened trooper to tilt like a cartoon pinball machine.

Ah, but such is the insidious nature of PTBS.

Sufferers of this mysterious malady react to breast baring much the same way a normal human would react to an invasion of giant poisonous spiders or Paris Hilton.

Fortunately for Trooper Haas, I have developed a patented program guaranteed to beat breast befuddlement.

This system is scientifically based on the principal that we men must face our fears, especially when it involves heaving female chest orbs.

STEP 1 – Start off easy with a trip to the nearest supermarket meat department. Ask the butcher if you can see some skinless chicken and turkey breasts. Tell the butcher you don’t want to buy them, you just want to fondle and squeeze them. (If the butcher reaches for his cleaver instead of the poultry tray, you probably should take that as your cue to leave.)

STEP 2 – The lingerie department at Macy’s. Ask a sales clerk if she would mind if you undressed a few of the better-looking mannequins and stared at them. When she says no, tell her fine, you’ll settle for examining a selection of lacy bras in varying cup sizes. Show her your badge if she gives you more trouble.

STEP 3 – Next stop: Hooters.

Take a seat. Order some hot wings. Tell the management you want each hot wing brought to your table by a different hot waitress. Take along a paper bag to breathe into when you start hyperventilating.

STEP 4 – Any strip joint.

OK, big boy. You are ready for your biggest challenge. Take a seat a safe distance from the stage. When the disrobing begins, concentrate on the brass pole to desensitize yourself from the gyrating splayed performer.

Feeling flustered? Play the following game to steady your nerves: Try to pick the real ones from the Mammorex.

At some point a buxom stripper will probably offer you a lap dance. Avert your eyes when this happens and repeat after me: “May I see your license and registration, ma’am?”

Well, as usual, I’ve done my part. It’s up to Trooper Haas to follow this simple plan. If he starts right now, he will be completely cured of PTBS.

Just in time for his trial.