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.