My Lovely Little Lady Lumps

My boobs have been the focus of much conversation lately.

The other day, I wore my "Irish Girls Rule" t shirt which has a shamrock strategically placed on each ta ta. Upon my entering the restaurant for dinner, the hostess said, "I like your shirt!" and she said it all solicitously while staring at my melons. Then the waitress said the same thing, also very lesbian-toned, while also staring at my knockers.

Jake asked if he could touch my shamrocks.

Today we have a team presentation for our research project, which was for an organization with a lesbian director, who (not because she is a lesbian, just because) is a total biotch. So, without consulting one another, Whit and I both ended up deciding to wear low-cut shirts today to accentuate our Pointer Sisters so that we could get on the Director's good side.

Whitney says she sweats in her cleavage and I said that I do not. She said that's because her muffins touch each other, and everyone else who was around the computer lab agreed that they sweat in their cleavage because their bra buddies also touch. It appears that mine are the only bazongas that do not. So I flashed all the girls in the lab and asked them if my snuggle pups were weird. They said no but I don't believe them.

Then we went to Starbuck's for coffee and as I took the first sip of my blackberry green tea frappuccino, I spilled frappuccino down my chest and (because of the low-cut cami) right between my dueling banjos so I was forced to grab a napkin and essentially maul my own milk wagons in public.

So that is the story of my nippers, my ear muffs, my sweet rolls, my paw patties. And now I must go give my presentation with my big boppers on display.