saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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boobtalk.diaryland.com
One of the DJs at a local radio station announced on the air a couple of weeks ago that she was taking time off to get a breast augmentation. She said she was making a point of talking about it because she is sick of the stigma attached to the idea of boob jobs.
"I would be willing to bet," she said, "that at least three out of five women you interact with on a daily basis have had a breast augmentation, and the surgery has come so far over the past few years that the results are much more natural. You can't even tell when a woman has had them done!"
I would like to say, for the record, as a female in possession of boobs (a set of them, even), and also as a person who is certifiably cranky (but only a little bit, really), and also as a person who places quite a bit of value in intelligence and kindness over appearance:
I could not possibly give less of a shit about breast augmentation. Rip those babies open and cram 'em full off rice pudding for all I care. Just please. Oh, please. Shut up about them already. Because you may think I haven't noticed, but you are talking about your tit job just to get people to notice your tits. Kind of counterproductive to making your augmentation less noticeable, innit?
So, yeah. Fucking shut up. Titstitstitsblahblahblah. Yawn. I'm through with you now.
OH and I had a conversation about fake boobs a while back when we were watching something dreadful on television, like "Blind Date" or "I'm Desperate To Stick My Tongue Down Your Throat And Then Call You Names They Have To Censor On Television" or "Spankings All Around 2."
The conversation went something like* this:
Me: Do you think her breasts are fake?
OH: Which one? The blonde Florida bim with the orange tan? Or the blonde North Carolina bim with the bad tan lines?
Me: Wh…uhmm…wait. Those are different women? This isn't the same episode?
OH: I don't think so.
Me: Oh. Well, just her. That one there. Are they fake tits?
OH: Yeah. Definitely.
Me: Thought so.
OH: I hate fake tits. They look really bad.
Me: Yeah, and they feel gross, too.
OH: I wouldn't know. Wait. What? How do you know?
Me: I don't remember.
OH: Yes, you do.
Me: You want something to drink while I'm up?
OH: No, thanks. How do you know what fake boobs feel like?
Me: Are you sure? There's orange juice, cranberry juice…you want a beer?
OH: Hey.
Me: Or just water?
OH: HEY.
Me: Fine. I grabbed a stripper's breast once.
OH: That's classy.
Me: It wasn't a sexual thing. I was…kind of pushing her away from me while asking her to please fuck off. Besides, you asked.
OH: I hate when strippers have fake tits. The better dancers are always the ones with real breasts.
Me: Oh, yeah. I've heard that plastic surgery tends to throw off a person's ability to rip her clothes off to music.
(OH sighs.)
Me: And, oh shit. It totally makes it much more difficult to lean over just right to collect dollar bills in her thong.
OH: I didn't mean they were more coordinated with real boobs. I just meant they are better to look…uh…
Me: Better to look at?
OH: Um. Yeah.
(Long pause as OH and I appraise each other steadily for a few moments.)
Me: This has become a very dangerous conversation. What say we watch more of…uh, what did you say this crap was called?
OH: I think it's "Making A Screaming Mockery Of Myself On National Television, The Second Season."
Me: Great.
* You will notice that I said "something like this." Notice that? Go back. Look again. Notice it now? Good. Please keep in mind that I did not have a tape recorder with which to document the exact conversation, nor did I take the time to hire a stenographer beforehand. To the other person involved in the conversation I have described, when he reads this and finds himself nearly fetal with the need to comment on the accuracy of my story: I appreciate you not do that no more.
4:19 p.m. - 2003-07-18
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