We feel the same way about nudists, or we guess the proper term is naturists, as we do about people in open relationships: they're a different breed of being, one more highly evolved than we, who can easily overcome society's mainstream traditions, and who we just don't freakin' get. Okay, on paper they make sense--yay, freedom!--but the real world application of their philosophies blows our minds and, in the case of naturists, ruins our appetites a bit.

Which is why we were so struck by the New York Post's article today on New Yorkers who like to dine at local eateries in the nude. First off, all we could think of after looking at the picture that accompanies the piece is, Honey, put down a towel or even some newspaper--something. Second, you just know the folks showing up for butt-nekkid buffets are more doughy hippie than ripped hottie. Do you really want to eat an egg salad sandwich in the presence of someone who looks like your hairy Uncle Lester, except naked?

And then there's yoga in the nude: at least the organizer mentioned the rule about bringing your own mat (thank heavens). But being in the back of the studio behind some naked person doing the downward facing dog brings new meaning to the term "the third eye." At least with clothed yoga, there's a layer of protective spandex between you and someone's relaxation-induced toots...

Finally, there's naked stand-up comedy--the comedian is naked and half the audience is as well (seems like the other half of the audience got the better end of the deal). You'd have to be some sort of serious masochist to get up in front of people and try to make them laugh at your jokes, not your naughty bits. A good, humiliating spanking by a dominatrix in a dungeon sounds tamer than that, and perhaps more effective at dealing with psychological demons. At least they don't have to imagine the audience naked to calm their nerves.

We know, we know, there go our inner prudes rearing their ugly hatted heads again. But it's not as if we're total strangers to public nudity; we've both done a Spencer Tunick shoot or two. But somehow the rare group disrobing for art seems so much more palatable than the regular undressing for mundane tasks like digestion. There's a reason why all the parties at Yale aren't naked. Once it's ordinary, some of the magic disappears.