2004-12-29
"Touch me Touch me!" they seem to say.
I've just had a "Brutus" (aka, "gigundous") Miller Lite at a local franchise ("RoundRedFruit/HoneyMakingInsects"), accompanied by their World Renowned Absolutely Shittiest Riblette Platter, (hard little cartilage and bone pieces included at no extra cost), so I am full (brap) and tired (yawn).
So, back to the riblettes. Why do I order those things? WHY? There must be some very naive, hopeful, PollyAnna corner of my mind -- the one that claps to keep Tinkerbell alive -- that thinks that someone in the vast chain of Abblepees "chefs" has figured out that these things totally suck butt and a Riblette Performance Improvmement Plan might actually increase sales, or at least reduce dental lawsuits. Come on, people. Perky wait staff do not mask the fact that your riblettes suck the wazool.
And what part of the beast is the "riblette" from anyway? The neck? The tail? Euuuuw. I SO do not want to know. Cuz it ain't ribs, let's be honest, here.
It's the day before "Not Really New Years Eve But I'm Still Only Working 1/2 a Day, Dammit," and I am ruminating over the collective productiveness of MyCompany in general and my staff in particular. CYNG is over there surfing the web looking for horrific pictures of people walking through sliding glass doors ("ooooooh! Babs! check THIS one out!"), Veteran guy is sleeping in a closet somewhere; FunReceptionistDrinkingPal sounds like she might actually be doing REAL work; and HardWorkingMaintenanceDude is off doing something maintenancy. I am working on the covers to my TPS reports and am very very busy and important. Clickity click click clack THWAP (enter) ("shit") click click CLICK CLICK thwack (mutter) click CLICK CLICK CLACK (period). (re-read, rub chin, say "hmmmmmmmmmmmm")
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This morning I had a Mammogram. This afternoon I went to lunch. I figure between the two events I can honestly clock about 7 minutes of real work. Making coffee for the masses is work, right? Right. Do you suppose my timseheet will accept .001458 for hours worked? Bet not. Bet I should just round that up to 8 to be safe.
So, back to the Mammogram. For the record, and please, Ladies, don't innundate me with hate mail, Mammograms are not that bad. Granted, I have rather large, fleshy, "maliable" (no, I did NOT say droopy, shut UP) breasts and they are easily moved and manipulated to and fro as the nice lady with warm hands gets them situated in the plexiglass squeeze-o-meter. Once she has your poor breast "just so" (and I strongly recommend that you do not LOOK at how your breast looks all splayed out between two clear plexiglass panels, because it's even worse than the oh-so-attractive shape our breasts take during doggy style sex -- c'mon, ladies -- we've all looked down and thought "MOO!"), she presses on a foot pedal which begins the compression process. As soon as your boob looks like roadkill she goes away and presses a button, and voila! Your breast is sprung free. Then on to the next boob.
A couple of technicalities about this process. First, the whole bit about just standing there in your jeans and no top or bra on and your boobs just all... OUT there... is... well... disconcerting. Having never been one of those people that can just stand around naked or takes advantage of topless beaches, it's kinda weird.
"Hi! My name is Shirley and I'll be your technician today!!!"
"Hi! My name is Babs and I'm standing here with my boobs all in your face! Try not to notice, okay?"
Second, the unfortunate fact about boobs is that when manipulated -- whether by a hot young Brad-Pytt-lookalike-Doctor with strong, firm hands and manicured nails, or Beuhlah, a 300 lb x-ray technician with bad breath and Lee-Press-On Nails (tm), your nipples get hard.
Yep, there just ain't two ways about it. Boobs are a little like Mr. Happy when it comes to touch -- they just aren't all that picky. "Touch me Touch me!" they seem to say. This goes for a manual breast exam, too, folks, even though those actually hurt sometimes. The boob is relentless and doesn't care. "I like it when you touch me. See? LOOKIT my nipple! See how much I like it?! Touch me MORE!"
If Nipples could talk they'd make tiny little "hooo? hoo? hoo?" noises during any physical contact -- exams, mammograms, running into a door jam, a blast of cold air, etc. You get my drift. They are wanton, slutty, ever-ready little mounds of flesh just waiting to flaunt their state of arousal at every turn.
THAT is why we love Vlctoria's Secret bras. Those bastards are so padded that your boobs could be in the throws of booby-orgasm and the world would never know the better.
Thank God.
I don't really know how I got from riblettes to boobs, but here we are. I've finally succombed to the fact that The Diaryland Boys just want to hear about our boobs. Seriously. Don't you.
I see it is nearly "L'heure de joie-de-vivre", or in English, "Time for another Miller Lite".
Have a good night, kiddilies. Ladies, keep those boobies under wraps.
xoxoxoxoxo
xquzme at sometime today