I have well and truly jumped the shark on this one.
Wife and I have one friend that has continued visiting us. When she didn't come by for her normal weekly visit I just shrugged. I mean, she does have one of those... uhm... whatchacallit? Oh, "life", right.
But, then she missed the second week in a row and I was concerned. I hoped like hell that a) she was all right and b) I hadn't pissed off the last person outside our household that gave a shit.
The wife talked to her and she wasn't all right. She had pulled a muscle. While taking off her bra.
Being as I am me and don't really know how to be normal, I asked the first question to pop in my mind. "Just how much do those things weigh anyway?"
My ear is still ringing from where my wife thumped it.
Apparently, I'm not the only one to wonder though as I wandered off and checked Google:
http://www.wikihow.com/Weigh-Your-Breasts
I wandered back in and asked the wife if she figured our friend was a double-D. Amidst getting a book thrown at me and a lot of laughter aimed my way, I was informed that my wife is a DD now... when she bothers to lift them back up into a bra. (Last time I bought lingerie that fitted, I bought her a C) That our friend is more likely an H. At least.
I was reasonably certain my wife was twitting me. Granted, just one is approximately a little larger than my head. And my hat size is eight. But, that just sounded like some Penthouse Letters wishful thinking.
Say, I wonder if I could get her to try putting my hat on her chest and seeing if it fits...
Anyway, I finally gave up and wandered back, deciding that I would give her the benefit of the doubt. (Mainly because she threatened to superglue my dick to my leg and do a strip tease if I asked our friend the next time I saw her.)
Only, that wasn't enough information. Apparently, I also needed to know how dense they were. Which asking didn't go down as well as one might think based on her reaction from when I asked cup size. I was informed in no uncertain detail that she didn't know, wasn't going to try to find out, and I'd better not either.
What can I say? She went BA instead of BS.
I mean, okay. I've handled enough breast tissue in my life to know that some are a little firmer and some are a little softer. But, there are limits, you know. At least unless they use silicone. It's not like we are talking ballistic vests here.
Only... There was a Playboy model back in... uh... late 80s? Petra Verkaik. I don't know how much veracity to attribute it, but legend has it that she was once struck by a Volkswagen Bug and walked away without a scratch.
Also, now I think about it, there was a gal on a church ski trip that took out a tree...
But, all of that wasn't answering the burning question. And I didn't think she (or my wife) would appreciate me greeting her at the door on her next visit with a pan of water on a scale.
*sigh* Wild assed guesses have no place in science.
I did the best I could with the sparse information I could glean. And the best I could come up with was that we are talking between 14 and 20 pounds captured in her over the shoulder boulder holster.
Is that really enough to pull a muscle in someone's back? I mean, the weight restriction put on me when I was being tended to for a back injury a couple of decades ago was 40.
I commented on it to the wife, again. She pulled out a bra and threw it at me and told me to put it on.
Put it on what? One of my thighs?
Yes, I'm a bit self conscious about the size of my thighs. Last time I screwed around with tailored clothes, one thigh was only four inches smaller than my waist. And yes, that was the only part of my body the damn thing would fit around without falling off. There was no damn way I was getting it around my forty-six inch chest.
So, the wife puts it on in front of me and then takes it off while I watch. Then puts it on again. Then takes it off again.
That just confused me worse. Why the hell would you put it on by wrapping it around you backwards and engaging the combination lock and then spinning it around your body and slipping your arms through the straps and shaking "the girls" into place. But, when it came time to take it off, instead of doing the rational thing and reversing the process, twist yourself up like a pretzel trying to put your elbow in your ear and twitch the five fastenings free behind you?
When I pointed this out, I was told I wouldn't understand because I'm a man.
She decided to demonstrate by tying a rope around me. And let me just say that if a woman wears a bra that fucking tight, she's certifiably insane. I couldn't draw a deep breath. Getting it off... I swear I exfoliated to the dermis trying to twist it around. That bitch... I mean, my delicate flower had tied a Gordian knot. And was absolutely no help getting it off me as she was collapsed across the bed laughing so hard she was crying.
I tried a knife and hacksaw and finally went for the machete. I didn't give a damn if I sliced off a nipple or my nose. I wanted out of the damn thing.
But, at least I can see how a woman might pull something in her back. And it's got damn all to do with the size, density, or weight of her attributes. Let Victoria keep her secrets. Burn the damn contraptions. Burn them all. Let your boobs hang low. Let them wobble to and fro. If it bugs you, tie them in a knot or tie them in a bow. Or throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier. Let your boobs hang low.
Screw it. I just heard Kelly Ripa in the other room ask Kate Beckinsale, "Did you ever show Jack Nicholson your..."
Enquiring minds want to know what the fuck this is about!
Wife and I have one friend that has continued visiting us. When she didn't come by for her normal weekly visit I just shrugged. I mean, she does have one of those... uhm... whatchacallit? Oh, "life", right.
But, then she missed the second week in a row and I was concerned. I hoped like hell that a) she was all right and b) I hadn't pissed off the last person outside our household that gave a shit.
The wife talked to her and she wasn't all right. She had pulled a muscle. While taking off her bra.
Being as I am me and don't really know how to be normal, I asked the first question to pop in my mind. "Just how much do those things weigh anyway?"
My ear is still ringing from where my wife thumped it.
Apparently, I'm not the only one to wonder though as I wandered off and checked Google:
http://www.wikihow.com/Weigh-Your-Breasts
I wandered back in and asked the wife if she figured our friend was a double-D. Amidst getting a book thrown at me and a lot of laughter aimed my way, I was informed that my wife is a DD now... when she bothers to lift them back up into a bra. (Last time I bought lingerie that fitted, I bought her a C) That our friend is more likely an H. At least.
I was reasonably certain my wife was twitting me. Granted, just one is approximately a little larger than my head. And my hat size is eight. But, that just sounded like some Penthouse Letters wishful thinking.
Say, I wonder if I could get her to try putting my hat on her chest and seeing if it fits...
Anyway, I finally gave up and wandered back, deciding that I would give her the benefit of the doubt. (Mainly because she threatened to superglue my dick to my leg and do a strip tease if I asked our friend the next time I saw her.)
Only, that wasn't enough information. Apparently, I also needed to know how dense they were. Which asking didn't go down as well as one might think based on her reaction from when I asked cup size. I was informed in no uncertain detail that she didn't know, wasn't going to try to find out, and I'd better not either.
What can I say? She went BA instead of BS.
I mean, okay. I've handled enough breast tissue in my life to know that some are a little firmer and some are a little softer. But, there are limits, you know. At least unless they use silicone. It's not like we are talking ballistic vests here.
Only... There was a Playboy model back in... uh... late 80s? Petra Verkaik. I don't know how much veracity to attribute it, but legend has it that she was once struck by a Volkswagen Bug and walked away without a scratch.
Also, now I think about it, there was a gal on a church ski trip that took out a tree...
But, all of that wasn't answering the burning question. And I didn't think she (or my wife) would appreciate me greeting her at the door on her next visit with a pan of water on a scale.
*sigh* Wild assed guesses have no place in science.
I did the best I could with the sparse information I could glean. And the best I could come up with was that we are talking between 14 and 20 pounds captured in her over the shoulder boulder holster.
Is that really enough to pull a muscle in someone's back? I mean, the weight restriction put on me when I was being tended to for a back injury a couple of decades ago was 40.
I commented on it to the wife, again. She pulled out a bra and threw it at me and told me to put it on.
Put it on what? One of my thighs?
Yes, I'm a bit self conscious about the size of my thighs. Last time I screwed around with tailored clothes, one thigh was only four inches smaller than my waist. And yes, that was the only part of my body the damn thing would fit around without falling off.
There was no damn way I was getting it around my forty-six inch chest.So, the wife puts it on in front of me and then takes it off while I watch. Then puts it on again. Then takes it off again.
That just confused me worse. Why the hell would you put it on by wrapping it around you backwards and engaging the combination lock and then spinning it around your body and slipping your arms through the straps and shaking "the girls" into place. But, when it came time to take it off, instead of doing the rational thing and reversing the process, twist yourself up like a pretzel trying to put your elbow in your ear and twitch the five fastenings free behind you?
When I pointed this out, I was told I wouldn't understand because I'm a man.
She decided to demonstrate by tying a rope around me. And let me just say that if a woman wears a bra that fucking tight, she's certifiably insane. I couldn't draw a deep breath. Getting it off... I swear I exfoliated to the dermis trying to twist it around. That bitch... I mean, my delicate flower had tied a Gordian knot. And was absolutely no help getting it off me as she was collapsed across the bed laughing so hard she was crying.
I tried a knife and hacksaw and finally went for the machete. I didn't give a damn if I sliced off a nipple or my nose. I wanted out of the damn thing.
But, at least I can see how a woman might pull something in her back. And it's got damn all to do with the size, density, or weight of her attributes. Let Victoria keep her secrets. Burn the damn contraptions. Burn them all. Let your boobs hang low. Let them wobble to and fro. If it bugs you, tie them in a knot or tie them in a bow. Or throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier. Let your boobs hang low.
Screw it. I just heard Kelly Ripa in the other room ask Kate Beckinsale, "Did you ever show Jack Nicholson your..."
Enquiring minds want to know what the fuck this is about!
