Various and sundry parts of my body are trying to kill me. So far, my right boob has been the only one to strike a significant blow, but I fear that unless I take drastic steps to quash this lawless revolt, I will be violently overthrown.
Pshaw, you say. Paranoid much, Marlitharn? Then listen to the facts, scoffers, and have a care for your own naughty bits, because if it could happen to me, it could happen to you! [cue ominous music]
I have always tried to be very nice to my ta-tas. I refer to them jocularly as “the girls”, I buy them the most comfortable bras I can afford, and I NEVER let anyone chew them, squish them, or otherwise fold, spindle, or mutilate them. They’ve brought me many hours of untold pleasure and, through my actions, I’ve tried to show my appreciation to them. But yesterday morning my right boob, ingrate that she is, ruthlessly snapped her supportive underwire in half and tried to impale me through the chest with the sharp pointy end!
I escaped with a mere scratch. At the time, I assumed the stabbing had been attempted in a spontaneous fit of passion, because if Righty had planned it at all, she wouldn’t have done it with my most comfortable bra; she’d have waited until she could be armed with the demi-cup, which pinches and has thicker underwires. As it was, I punished her by strapping her down in a too-tight sports bra (I felt bad, at first, about forcing Lefty to endure the same punishment, but I feel it’s just possible that she was cheering her comrade on).
So your right boobah breached its containment hull and nearly caused you grievous bodily harm, you say. So what. Ah, but if that had been the only attempt made on my life yesterday, I wouldn’t be worried. Later in the afternoon, however, my right buttock got into the act.
Perhaps noticing how futile were the attempts of Hooter East earlier in the day, Buttcheek Right took a more subtle approach. Rather than attack me directly (an action which would have left her open to criminal prosecution), R. Buttock tried to make me die of shame by wantonly tearing through my jeans in the parking lot of the local gambling casino. Literally, my ass was hanging in the wind.
Fortunately for me, R. Buttock’s sense of timing was as bad as Ms. Right’s aim. She chose to make her flamboyant entrance as I was getting into the car, instead of in front of Bob and everybody inside the casino, which would have been wayyy more effective. Upon my arrival home, I was able to cover my modesty with my jacket and make it into the house without scandalizing the neighbors, where my husband soothed me by collapsing into hysterical laughter while pointing at my ass.
I could maybe overlook one attempt on my life. But two in one day? That, to me, looks a leeetle suspicious. I shall be sleeping with one eye open from now on, lest more cunning areas of my body get into the act. Supposing the left tit and the right tit conspire to fall over my mouth and nose and suffocate me whilst I slumber? shiver My husband has offered to keep an eye on them for me, but I distrust his motives. And I’m so tired…
can’t sleep…boobs will kill me…can’t sleep…boobs will kill me…