Random Thoughts

Have you ever noticed that female gymnasts never get camel toe? Or nuclear wedgies; either the leotards are specially engineered not to crawl into moist places, or the girls themselves are neuters. (I'm more inclined to believe the former.) They're all compact, boyish hipped waifs, looking slightly anorexic with chalk covered hip bones and breasts.. where are their breasts?? Can you imagine if the women's gymnastics team was comprised of big, voluptuous earth mamas with huge tits and errant pubic hairs? It would be a lot more fun to watch.

With all this talk of breasts, I hope I don't cause this blog to resemble some kind of supergirly knitting-and-dildos site. (You know the kind; some stitch witch in Olympia, Washington makes homemade kneesocks and beeswax lotion and quotes "Ice Cream" by Sarah McLachlan when describing her love for her five kids, all fathered by different turkey basters? Yeah, that. There are enough blogs like that.) However, I have this to say: Why, when women get fake breasts, do they so often go for subtlety? If you've ever trolled the before-and-after pics on plastic surgery sites, you'll see that lots of girls opt for the tasteful C. I say, if you're going to drop $3,000 on a pair of Dow Corning funbags, you might as well go hard or go home. Get the EEs, buy a copy of Dolly Parton's "White Limozeen" and be secure in the knowledge that you will provoke disapproving stares from every mammogram technician you encounter for the rest of your life. I'll bet they hate that. They get you between those steel plates and glance up at the monitor only to see that all your breast tissue has been obscured by the five million CCs of glittery snow globe fluid, complete with charming Christmas village.

HA HA HA That kills me.