Of course, they've been threatening to break the Internet ever since the Kardashian brood took over the airwaves. Personally, I'm not sure what the big deal is.
Please do not judge me harshly and think I have anything against a generous helping of buttocks. However, in my defense, note that I grew up in the 1960s, at a time when red-blooded American males drooled over the Brobdingnagian bosoms of Playboy centerfolds. In grade school, my best friend at the time, Danny Stein, and I would sneak into his garage's alcove, where Danny's dad thought he had safely hid a pile of old girlie mags. Not safely enough, it turns out. If anyone ever asks what kids did to amuse themselves in the days before video games, I can tell you.
And then, in a celebration perfectly coincided with, or so it seemed, my Bar Mitzvah, the Hef decided society's mores had shifted sufficiently to allow for full frontal nudity. As a result, a certain ornamental shrubbery was added to the pictorial representation of female pulchritude. Heaven, at least through the eyes of a pimply, scrawny, 13 year-old with braces, could not have been sweeter.
So no, I have nothing against a rump the size of two Christmas hams bound together with twine. But neither does it excite me. Turn Ms. Kardashian (any one of them) around, redo the photo shoot, and then I'll pay attention. Until such event, my Internet remains in sound working order.