Are Those Melons Ripe?

I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, but I crossed paths with her while exiting the neighborhood grocery store. Both of her.

"Whaddya think?" She threw her shoulders back and thrust ‘em at me. Big, honkin’, fake tits.

The infestation of these disfigurements in my town has reached epidemic proportions. Or should I say epidemic disproportion? What are the criteria for selecting the gauge of this torso artillery? Hat size? Are these women being told they will grow into them? Are plastic surgeons offering volume discounts? Supersize it for an extra buck?

Many of these women were fine looking specimens before the surgical devastation; they had lean, proportionate and athletic physiques. Now they look like Ferraris with ’63 Cadillac hood ornaments.

I doubt that the surgeons are providing live display models for inspection by their potential vanity-surgery customers. If the intended victims, and their unassuming significant others, were given the opportunity to "get the feel" of these things, plastic surgeons would take a hit to their wallets. Any guy with hands-on experience knows the cold, hard, lifeless nature of breast implants. Wifey is now a blow-up doll with PMS. And you can’t hose her off, deflate her, and put her in the closet until the next need arises.

I was drafted into action. The Psyche Assassinator centered his prey in the crosshairs and went to work. "Nice tits. Is it okay if I call them tits? Or are they reservoirs? Camelbacks? Sew-ins? Ballast? Back breakers? Bimbo bait? Saline sundaes with a nipple topping?

"It’s called breast enhancement."

"Wow. That’s a mouthful, so to speak. I prefer to conserve syllables and just call them tits. So, has the burdensome cloud of self-doubt given way to sunshine?"

Had I been intent on staring at her new appendages, I would have missed the confused look on her face. She was baffled by my allegory, which came as no surprise to me. She is probably also baffled by the board game Allegory, and clearly prefers to play Operation. I needed a visual aid. I reached into my grocery bag, pulled out a cucumber, and shoved it down the front of my shorts.

She was mortified. "Stop that! Get that out of there!"

"Since I had my genitalia enlarged to cartoonish proportions, my self-esteem has skyrocketed. There’s no thrill that matches the attention of gaping, giggling onlookers as their eyes are enviously riveted on my grotesquely enormous package."

Now she gets it. But she still doesn’t get it. All she understood was her embarrassment at my behavior, and I give her credit for that. Here we were, two adults with voting privileges and driver’s licenses, standing in front of the grocery store with mammoth external organs.

For purposes of agitation, I had to ask her the question I ask of all of my Barbie Doll acquaintances with store-bought blouse-fillers. "Why did you subject yourself to this voluntary physical mutilation?"

"Clothes."

Now I was confused. "You’re not going to wear clothes anymore?"

"No, asshole. Clothes look better on me now, and I get to buy new ones."

"Then it’s a good thing those puppies don’t wear shoes. It could take years to amass another 200 pair. And just who do you think will notice your new clothes? If people aren’t staring directly at your tits, they will nervously look you straight in the eye while pretending they don’t notice your tits. Either way, they will have no recollection of the clothes you were wearing."

I leaned in and looked her square in the eye, then dropped my hands to my knees, stooped over and stared at her bloated funbags. "They will recall that one tit is lower than the other and, by the way, so is one eye."

As she critically surveyed her image in the reflection of the store’s plate glass window, I continued the assault.

"You’d think the oversized rack would make your ass look smaller."

Whoa! Better step back out of left hook range. Perhaps this was an opportune time to change the subject. Nah.

"Have your daughters accepted the fact that mommy’s sense of self-worth resides in her tits?"

"My daughters are just fine with it. I explained to them that I had a medical procedure to correct the damage caused by nursing them when they were babies."

"Good idea. Blame it on the kids. Give their self-esteem a nudge. Have you started tit funds for them? Now that you have shown them that it’s not enough to be smart, funny and interesting, don’t you think it’s only fair that you give your children a fighting chance at a full and bulbous life?"

I guess the conversation was over, because she shook her head, turned on her heel and headed into the store. I removed the cucumber from my pants and returned to invisibility. She enjoyed no such luxury. Her surgical wounds weren’t yet healed, and I reveled in the glory of having inflicted upon her the festering wounds of self-consciousness. Tough. Maybe she should spend a few more dollars to drain the saline, then go to work on the injured soul that led her to do such a stupid thing in the first place. Invest a little time and effort in the smart, funny and interesting route. And maybe drop a few pounds from that double-D ass.

After that, the crooked eye thing won’t really be noticeable.