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Humans will never build perfect robots because of our own pre-programmed flaw, that one inapplicable question we can’t help but always ask - man or woman?
“You know, you could kill a rhincerous with your breasts.”
I guarantee, all fascination with titties exhibited today on this blog would evaporate immediately if the tits in question were attached to one’s very own chest, and one were then forced to drive to a mall, hunt/gather at a lingerie department, get measured by a bored clerk, and squeeze into a dozen different brassieres while viewing one’s cellulite in a dressing-room mirror.
I’m so ultra-rich it’s not even funny, but try telling that to a rhinoceros, [or my] 4th wife, a vacuous, less-than-useless 30-year-old [with] breasts you could kill [for].
Okay, men, let me send a message over the gulf: your own breasts lose their exotic quality very quickly, particularly when they become utilitarian nozzles good for placating a squalling child, but this isn’t to say that I don’t envy Catherine Zeta-Jones’ perkiness and wonder what they would be like, you know, up close.
Some of the consolations she’d found were difficult to explain to others, such as the shape of trees and their constant vigilance over night, day, traffic, holidays, over any and all things that came their way while they stood rooted sentinal with the kind of loyalty so extremely rare in people; specifically, she thought, that waitress she had come to know who had the biggest chest she’d ever experienced, and while this was not necessarily a good thing and she felt sorry for the way the waitress had become not so much a person with wants, needs, desires, hopes and fears, but rather a walking rack for Large Breasts in the abstract sense, that waitress who was the most loyal friend she’d ever had up to and including the day she’d finally pulled the automatic weapon from its spot nestled between the hills of her prodigious pearl-white breatal zone, when she snapped and finally, it seemed, the years of sheet-folding and drink-hauling, all the leering glances and insensitive comments, all of it conspired in a whirling fog until her anger pierced redhot and fullblown over the top; despite all that loyalty, thought the treelover, that waitress was not as steadfast as even the smallest whippet of a tree, whose commitment to the seasons and attempts at movement and life had to be among the most incredible phenomena on this earth, though among the most common.
Is it really so much to ask that after having fun at Coney Island all day- after riding the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone, drinking beer, eating hotdogs, listening to the Scissor Sisters and The Stills, dancing for three hours- that I should be able to get onto the F train and not be laughed at to my face for ten minutes just because there is absolutely no way in hell you will ever see the living definition of perfection which is my breasts?
Although it’s a mild form of vandalism, Norman took great pleasure in going into the Fantasy section of book stores and adding a strategically placed ‘r’ to the word ‘Beast’ in all of the titles.
‘He held aloft El Pollo Del Destino and cried out, “DONDE ESTA EL BANYO!?”, and suddenly, inexplicably, all the breasts throughout the land hastened to his side.’
....and I have NO idea how to tag these b[r]easts….
Boobs are fun, there’s no denying it.
“All afternoon I’ve been floating inside; those breasts were a minor miracle in the midst of this gray, cold week.”
“Oh, and you can play with my boobs, too.”
Devon kissed the tops of Jenny’s exposed breasts with gentle aplomb and walked out the door.
Darren adamantly defended himself before the Board of Regents – let’s face it, sexual harassment is specious in most case – explaining that is quite possible to accidently trip and land face first in a comely coed’s breasts.
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