11.09.05: Hit Me With Your Breast Shot ‹ Blog

Do thou restrain the haughty spirit in thy breast, for better far is gentle courtesy.
Homer

Hit Me With Your Breast Shot

November 9, 2005

Pity the poor female breast, whose life is mostly spent doing things that are completely unrelated to its natural baby-feeding function. If boobs could talk, they’d probably sound something like this:

“Hey. Hey! Hands off! That is not my intended function, buster! Oh—oh no you didn’t! Did you see that?! What a—Well, I never—Hey, don’t touch that, it’s for the baby. Could somebody tell the brain that we’ve got a situation down—HEY! WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT THE TOUCHING?! Goddammit! Would somebody please tell the nipples to stand down? Because I know there ain’t no babies up in here. [sigh] Freaks.”

Not to be vulgar or anything, but my sweater-fillers have been on my mind more than usual lately. (This is not to imply that my breasts are literally on my mind, as in directly attached to my brain. I had that condition corrected a few years ago.) My husband’s to blame, really, because he accidentally walloped me right in the right bullseye a few days ago during a rather overly-enthusiastic embrace. I’m pretty sensitive in that area anyway, but right now? This week? Ow with a side of agony, if you get my drift. And it would have to be the same one that got biopsied last year—apparently, the universe will not be satisfied until my right breast is hanging in tattered ruins from my chest. (The other one will still be fine and sprightly, if only to annoy my bitchier female relatives, who have long plotted the destruction of my magnificent rack. But thanks to my new bullet-proof bras, their plans will all come to naught. Ha.)

On the plus side, this means I can now go pirating under the nickname Annie Blue-Boob. Cruise ships off Somalia: beware my bruisèd wrath. Yarrr.

Switching from matters where the word “boob” refers to a female body part, we now move into matters where the word “boob” refers to my mental abilities (or, at least, my installation skills). I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to install Mozilla Thunderbird, which (for me, at least) was like trying to install good Christian morals and a fear of Almighty God into the corrupt American youth of today, with their immodest clothing, their rock-’n’-roll music, and their heathen celebrity idols who commit fornication and jump on couches and—in short, it was impossible. Mozilla Thunderbird seems to be every bit as demonically complicated as Outlook Express. The true fault, though, probably rests with me; I keep trying to play in the big anti-Microsoft sandbox with all the cool kids, but I just don’t have the castle-building skills to do it, so I end up falling on my ass and getting laughed out of the playground. Can I help it if I have the natural program-installation abilities of a retarded orangutan? It’s genetic, I tell you—blame my parents.