Speaking of Breasts

It got me thinking of going bra shopping with the Shill when we were in college. Now, neither the Shill nor I are what you’d call flat chested. And so buying bras is not very much fun. If you want a bra that fits right, you have to get something that looks like your grandma would wear it and if you want something cute, you have to just accept that it’s going to be uncomfortable.

For instance, I used to have the cutest bra once, lacy and frilly and white, and one day I was standing in front of the big windows at work and I heard this “pow” and felt this terrible pain in my rib cage right under my left tit and I thought, “holy shit, I’ve been shot! How fucking weird is that?” and I reached under my shirt to feel for a bullet hole only to discover that I was not bleeding as much as someone who’s been shot ought to.

Instead, it was just a little trickle of blood brought on by a snapped underwire jutting into my skin.

So, when we were in college, Victoria’s Secret was really pushing the Wonder Bra and the Shill and I decided that we would go see what the fuss was about. So, we went into the store and each grabbed a bra in our size and headed off to the dressing room.

Now, the point of the Wonder Bra is to take everything you’ve got and hoist it up where everyone can appreciate it (or use it as a place to rest their appetizer tray, depending on your breastly needs). But if you have a lot to hoist, the cups aren’t designed deep enough to give you room to come both up and out.

No, everything just moves up. Fine for folks who aren’t moving that much up. But if you are…

Well, I put it on, looked in the mirror and was immediately reminded of a chicken. My boobs appeared to be coming out of my collar bone and making a soft, shallow couple of hills down the front of my chest. I started to snicker.

And then I heard snickering from the dressing room next to me. And the Shill and I opened our dressing room doors, looked across at each other and started guffawing.

And you know what? They asked us to leave!

Apparently, they don’t like it when you laugh at the miracles rendered by the Wonder Bra.

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The Joy of Fretting

I love to fret. God knows why, because it makes me miserable, but I spend a great deal of time doing it, so I must love it.

Anyway, I’ve got a large all-consuming fret going on right now in anticipation of my weekend, full of new things.

How do you recognize when I’m fretting?

  1. I’m distracted.
  2. I’m burping regularly.
  3. I’m getting some kind of rash on my face (so, egad, ignore my last post, folks. Stare at my boobs! Don’t stare at the rash!).
  4. I’m wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood.
  5. I’m babbling.

Dear Sir:

When you are sitting in a chair and I am standing and you talk so softly that I have to bend over to hear what you’re saying, I know that you’re just being a jackass so that you can look down my shirt. I’ve talked to you many times before and I know you aren’t a quiet person.

I really, really don’t appreciate that and if you weren’t a big wig and I weren’t a lowly person and if your wife weren’t the sweetest person in the room, I’d make a big, embarrassing scene. But, I’m sure you know that and that’s why you did it to me and not, say, my boss.

If I want you to see my tits, I will take my shirt off in front of you or, more likely, I will bend down seductively over the seven layer bars and twist my torso ever so slightly so that I’m sure you get a good view of that cute freckle on the right one as you look up from the carrots.

But rest assured, that day, for you, dear jackass, will never come.

The Butcher’s Cult

Well, one vodka and cranberry on a hot evening and I become all forgetful, and hence, I forgot to tell you guys the funniest thing that happened yesterday.

Some cult tried (or is still trying) to recruit the Butcher!

How hilarious is that? I mean, he doesn’t even have any earthly goods to give up. He’ll have to give up mine or borrow some from the neighbors.

And, and, they want him to read through this book which will show him the path to enlightenment, and so you know I was flipping through that fucker while I was taking a shit this morning.

It appears to be the ramblings of some acid-head yoga-rific quasi-Buddhist, who wants the world to know such things as “The caterpillar does not un-caterpillar. It just is the butterfly in its heart space.”

Also, apparently, I must be prepared for a journey into outer space. I will die when I reach the Allen Belt, but if I propel myself hard enough, some core of me will survive. Yep. Their cult is going to send me into outer space on a suicide mission.

See, this is why so many religions don’t write stuff down. That way when someone says, “Well, Odin says you should always have your sword with you when you’re working in the field” and someone else says “How am I supposed to carry a big heavy sword and plow my field? Can I leave my sword over by the tree and just run to it if I need it?” and the first person says, “Shit, I don’t know. I thought it was symbolic. Let’s ask Sven.” and Sven is like “Dudes, I’m trying to get laid here, can you fuck off?”

And the religions that do write stuff down attribute all the nonsense to their god(s) or some long dead religious leader. That way when someone says “Thou shall not take Lord’s name in vain” and someone else asks “Does that mean I can say ‘God damn it’ if I really do want God to damn it?” the first person can say “It says what it says, jackass, I don’t make the rules.”

But when it’s just some old hippy who used to be named Phil and who is now Swami Rama Lama Ding Dong, it’s just a lot harder to excuse the confusion as a matter of sloppy translation.

Weird Soap

The Butcher has bought this weird new Irish Spring soap that has little rough bits in it, like Lava Soap, but softer.

It foams up so nicely.

But it smells so manly that I feel a little self-conscious. Tonight the Professor and I were at a bigwig shindig and I was afraid I smelled like a linebacker.

A clean linebacker, but a linebacker nevertheless.