What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

The Breast Defense

I can be an ornery prick occasionally. This usually occurs when I fall behind people along the path to inebriation. The nice guy thing can only carry me so far. Eventually, I need to let off steam or I’ll become bloated with anger and preoccupied into an all-night ceiling-staring trance while riding my California King.

A fifty-year-old acquaintance threw on a sundress and took her newly lifted breasts for a spin and they landed next to me. I’m OK with that. I get along well with boobs. I’m a fan. Haven’t met one I didn’t like. (The ones on Meatloaf in Fight Club were disturbing, though.) Any-hoot, she was plastered and made the mistake of commenting on the boobs of another.

Now, ordinarily I’ll take a peek, shrug, and move along. This time she tweaked me.

“Jeez, I wonder where she bought those.”
“Probably the same place you bought yours, although, hers are quite exquisite.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“Did I say something was wrong with yours?”
“You implied it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“My boobs are every bit as nice as hers.”
“She’s twenty-five, tops.”
“So?”
“It’s like comparing apples to tube socks with tennis balls.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Why are you comparing boobs with a woman who’s half your age?”
“I’m just saying: Mine are as nice as hers are.”
“Except for the fact that hers are under twenty-five fewer years of sun damage.”
“Asshole!”
“Why such anger? If you tell me our man-fro’d busboy has a nicer cock than I do, I’m not the slightest bit slighted.”
“My boobs are nice. My doctor did a great job. You’re just upset because you don’t get to see them.”
“I’m not upset. I’m simply pointing out the fact that, as far as boobs go, the newer models are typically superior, even after extensive bodywork.”
“It wasn’t extensive. I just went up a few cup sizes.”
“Look, you go ahead and be happy with them. They’re all yours. Now you can sleep on your back and appreciate that you no longer have nipples in your armpits.”
“Asshole.”

What a sensitive lass. When I catch a wayward glimpse of a swinging bratwurst, I don’t get in a huff over it. I tip my cap, golf clap, and close my yap. I don’t get doggie and put down the man’s bender. Whether he’s snipped or not matters not. Whether he gets help from a pill or pump doesn’t concern me. Most importantly, I don’t care if a pink martini-toter finds his cock more appealing than mine. I must be afflicted with penis indifference.

If you run into one of these insecure messes of a woman, please titty-slap some sense into her. Tell her to stop envying others and start appreciating her individuality. If she needs remodeling to make her happy, fine. That happiness should not be affected by other reconstruction projects in the neighborhood. There’s plenty of room in town for more than one pair of fine funbags.

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