My Man Papi Makes It So Easy To Be An Abiding Subservient Wife......

Oh, that man of mine. How I just want to hang on his every word and fulfill his every whim and desire.
Do you want to know why I've chosen to poo-poo feministic ideals in order to properly hearken unto the wise counsel of my husband? It's because Papi's a genius of evil mastermind proportions, that's why.
While discussing our future and the future's of our half-dozen offspring, Papi turned to me and delivered the most inspired sermon I've ever heard. With a serious face he preached The Word According to Papi as such: "Girlie, this is what we're going to do: As soon as we shove that last kid out the door and we're liberated from parental slave status, we're going to move out to the country and become nudists so that there's a ZERO percent chance any of them will ever want to move back home."
The powerful force of Papi's words brought a small tear of joy to my eyes.
First though, I'll need to invest in some decent aprons with a built-in underwire support bra.
While I may not fully understand the complexities of the lobster's nervous system and whether or not they experience pain while getting boiled alive, I can most certainly attest to how it feels to have my own pendulous boobs boiled and steamed......it hurts like a MOFO and it did indeed transform Dangly Thing #1 and Dangly Thing #2 into a nice scarlet shade of lobster-red.
I won't bore you with the specifics except to say it involved me cooking without wearing my nursing bra and a giant pot of boiling potatoes on the front burner. Yeah.
Only an Englishman/Irishman would boil and ruin perfectly good boob meat like that.
My Mexican-born Papi also likes to frequently articulate his grandiose superiority complex by telling me that we Americans need the Mexicans here because they are akin to fulfilling a Conquistador of Love role in modern American society.
Well, when you look at it like that, I guess by Papi agreeing to be my husband these past 15 years, he's doing one of those crappy jobs that no other American wants to do.
Ever the dutiful wife, I'm going to spend the rest of the day crocheting a special bullwhip cozy for my sweet little taskmaster out of the clothes we won't be needing in about another 12 years or so....

It's No Coincidence That You Can't Have Brawn (Or Brains) Without A B-R-A!

For years I've remained cognizant of the cryptic messages that my XM Satellite Radio has wordlessly sent to me via its display screen; but I'm truly baffled to explain this latest digital outburst.

Fight Like A Bra.....what exactly does that mean, XM Satellite Radio?
Should I fend off mortal enemies and foes using a soft cup technique which entails me just kind of aimlessly batting them around with my hands encased in pillowy cushions? Or should I take a few battle cues from the padding and smother those suckers like how the foamy lining chokes the will to live out of booby skin?
If I were to Fight Like A Bra right this very moment, it would be a clean fight. However, if we'd engaged in a vicious quarrel a few minutes before my shower, I'd have absolutely guaranteed you a very down and dirty bra skirmish.
Bottles of Boob Sweat: Guaranteed to repel any and all attackers
Should bra fighting ever become a national sport we all know that the underwire and all its malicious poking, tugging, and boobage-cutting maneuvers would win the grand championship.
I suppose there'd be a training bra/featherweight boobs division too for those perky young whippersnappers who haven't honed their brassiere war strategies yet.
Personally, I think Fight Like A Bra gives some interesting insight as to why I detest wearing a bra so much. You see, its warring nature is wholly incompatible with my genteel ways.
Although if bra fighting really did make headway into the world of competitive arena sports like bull fighting has, I'd have to cheer for my sturdy Playtex bras. I know they'd beat the snot out of those flimsy lace things that Victoria's Secret has to offer........ One good snap, and they're OUT!
Heavens, I force Playtex to take the 18-hour bazonga-holding challenge on a regular basis. Of course they're well equipped to fight it out with other bras. That is some superior durability at work right there.
To ensure victory we'd first have to make sure that the Madonna line of I-Stuck-My-Boobs-In-A-Pencil-Sharpener-To-Make-Them-Pointy bras are disqualified.
Madonna can take those grotesque boulder-holder abominations she foisted on an unsuspecting public and get into Unicorn or Rhino fighting or something.

I'll have to have a more in-depth chat with my XM Radio display about its too frequent communiques rife with odd advice and what exactly it wants me to do with it.
Not too long ago it was flashing graphic things at me like You Give Good Love, I Want Your Sex, and I'm In The Mood For Love, and I was all like "Pardon me, XM Radio? Are you coming on to me? You need to mind your manners."
I also hate it when it asks me geographical stuff like Do You Know The Way To San Jose? I mean, gosh can't it just talk to one of its GPS buddies? I'm not a freakin cartographer. And no, I don't know how to take you down to Funky Town either.

Okay, so perhaps the XM Radio isn't exactly a useful tool to rely on for life-altering guidance but the next time you find yourself embroiled in an escalating confrontation just remember the promptings of my XM Radio and employ some Fight Like A Bra moves; sure to make any opponent feel squeezed, manhandled, strangulated, and profoundly uncomfortable just like my own breastages do every single day of their young, fleshy lives.

Elastic And The Hellacious Case Of The Heat-Rashed Rack.....

Alternately Titled:
Elastic And The Sun-Baked Boobs Of Doom

I'm usually loathe to admit this.......buuuuut, I am a woman chock-full of B.S.
Some days I'm so overflowing with B.S. that it's actually quite painful. The B.S. also seeps out onto my clothing in public which is a grossly mortifying experience.

Oh, don't you even try to sit there all smug while you self-righteously judge me and my glut of B.S. Scientifically speaking, you too have suffered from acute B.S. affliction at least once in your life. Yes, the heartbreak of Boob Sweat knows no gender or species barrier. It can adversely affect man, woman, and chicken alike. I know, because I've seen those sweaty chicken breasts under the heat lights at KFC.

Sadly, if left untreated, B.S. (Boob Sweat) will continue to progress and morph into full-blown Rack Rash. Just last week I fell victim to the most agonizing onset of Rack Rash while out working in the hellishly humid tropical clime that defines Houston during the summertime. I could scarcely breathe because the slightest chest movement triggered a new round of stinging pain and me squealing "Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow." There's no governmental discrimination protection for Rack Rash sufferers' either. All my dreams of one day waitressing at Hooter's have been dashed.

And then, just when I'd tearfully resigned myself to a life of itchy, sweaty, burning bazongas, bloggy friend Alice "If There Was A Problem, Yo I'd Solve It" Honey Pie rode to my rescue and sent me this fine product in the mail.

Skeptically, I broke my conservative nature by liberally applying a heaping helping of Anti Monkey Butt Powder straight to the stricken Ta-Ta Territory.

What happened in the next 24 hour period can only be aptly described by the cast of Fiddler On The Roof: "Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!"

This BEFORE picture allows you to clearly observe my depiction of the epidemic boob outbreak without me showing you my actual boobs. Look at them, pity them...... it's as though someone messed up a line of Shakespeare and demanded that "a pox be upon you and your bosom!" A chicken pox.

And now here's the dramatic artistic rendition of the events that unfolded after the use of Anti Monkey Butt Powder. Do you see what I see? The proof has manifested right before your very eyes that Anti Monkey Butt Powder really does perform the stupefying feats that the label claims.....BEHOLD! Just a sprinkle a day helps keep boob sweat away......

(Don't be alarmed. Only the irritating rash vacated my mountainous premises when I used the powder. My boobs didn't really disappear.)

I've been converted to the House Of The Anti Monkey Butt True Believers. That talc powder miraculously eradicated the angry spotty-dots. It took me from Reddish Rack Rash to Calm And Collected Calamine Cleavage in less time than it takes for Fergie to choke out the words to her 'My Humps' song.

Ahhhh yes, sweet relief. Thanks to Alice and the Anti Monkey Butt Powder, my delicate alabaster boobage has been restored. I got my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps.....Now, NEW AND IMPROVED WITHOUT ANY BUMPS!

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Show A Little Cleavage.......

The wearing of V-Neck shirts has caused me a considerable amount of pain and unmitigated anguish over the years; but sometimes you just don't have any clean tops left to wear. That's where my true tale of horror begins.

I'm journaling the experience here so that others may avoid the wretched agony that happened to me yesterday.

As I moved from one job to another I asked my daughter, Monkey to toast some bread so I could take a ham salad sandwich on the road with me. Each bite sent gritty brown crumbs cascading down into my cavernous Boobie Pit where they became trapped. It really felt like those sharp and pointy little dried bread bits were writhing about and trying to escape from the wedge of darkness they found themselves in.

Meanwhile it was causing me a great deal of distress along with profound discomfort. I mean, I'm driving, should I take one hand off the wheel to dedicate to rooting around and de-crumbing my bra? That didn't seem prudent. Should I just throw caution to the wind and lift up my shirt to shake the crumbs out? That didn't seem prudent, either. Besides, Mardi Gras is over and I don't really need any beads. I'll save flashing for when I can reap big rewards.

Aside from a few furtive digs at my bosom area, I did nothing. When I finally arrived home I flung my V-Neck shirt to the floor and started scratching and pawing intensely as though possessed by unseen forces.

The moral of the story is that you're not safe to eat toasted sandwiches unless you're wearing a turtleneck or a strait jacket. V-Neck shirts are only good for emergency bread crumb storage in case you need to leave a trail to find your way out of a dark forest.

*You can buy special Bread Crumb Boobie Protectors over at humor-blogs.com*

Dressed For Nursing Success

Ladies: Have you ever wanted to go out clubbing but you just couldn't find a babysitter for your still-suckling infant? It looks like the fashion industry has solved all your problems! Now, you can shake it on the dance floor while simultaneously breast-feeding your baby in these shirts that won't encumber or restrict your boobage in any way.

Me and my merry band of Infidels hit the mall on Monday and uncovered this revealing new trend in apparel. Uncovered and Revealing being the optimum words here. Who knew that the Janet Jackson's House of Exposed Titty Fashions would catch on?

*These Stores Received An Infidel Citation For Most Appalling And Inappropriate Sexualization Of A Mannequin Since The Crappy Andrew McCarthy Movie, 'Mannequin'*