or
Published January 01, 2014 More Info ยป
42 Funny Votes
11 Die Votes
4,030 Views
Published January 01, 2014

During a meeting in a luxurious, albeit beige conference room, I sat at an impressive rosewood table. Across from me were three deadpan men in suits. You know, super suitlian suits. They said things like, "All hands on deck," "Hit the ground running." And my favorite, "I'll be out of pocket."

Like most things in my family, large breasts skip a generation. In fourth grade I somersaulted into an A cup. In seventh, I dismounted from the balance beam into a C cup, and then catapulted into a DDD by my senior year. Big fun!

Non-sequitur: Did you know that girls with large breasts are sluts? My vagina was rumored to have received over 70 penises. We were proud gold medalists in faux-slutnastics.

Circling back to the topic at hand... The meeting was going famously. I was on a roll when suddenly I felt one of the clasps on my bra rip. Oh, shit! Being an organically busty dame who wore bras that never made it through airport security, I knew the other clasps were not far behind.

After a brief pause, I sped things up. Ninety seconds in, like criminals on the lam, the clasps broke free. My bra was at my neck (under my shirt) and my tits were on the table (also under my shirt). It was like watching two ripe cantaloupes fight for a piece of the action at a poker game.

The men guffawed and stared at me with daggers in their eyes. Suck it up, Schwartz, I said to myself, and continued speaking while my breasts did the jig on the table. One of the suits pointed to my bosom and said, "Please do something with those."

Happy to oblige, I asked if they had a breast wrangler on deck. Collectively, they winced and pursed their lips. I wondered if they were in a Barbershop Quartet, they had such great timing!

I was so irked; I stood up, forgetting that my breasts would be reenacting the Drop of Doom and land at my waist. A few contemptuous scoffs later, I waved my hands at their crotches and lamented, "How would you feel if your boxers caved under the pressure of your ginormous dicks and flew out of your pants?"

Dumb ass, if that were the case, their literal versus proverbial dicks would've been on the table!

Torn between wrapping up and fearing that we'd reached an impasse, I collected my things while zipping between points from my document, their junk and trying to manage the pendulum twins. It went like this, "Point A. Do you have breastaphobia? Point B. In solidarity, you could take your dicks out. Point C. (with breasts flailing) The least you could do is laugh! Obviously this isn't a common occurrence. Gaaahd."

As they stood up, I dropped my documents on the floor. How serendipitous, I thought. On the floor, unnoticed, I could try and hoist my hangers into the cups of my bra. As I did, the suits walked across the conference room table and stood before me -- watching. Oy! My hands were down my shirt with one breast in a cup while the other drifted aimlessly. They were speechless. I was nauseous.

As I restrained the other breast into my bra cup, I wailed, "Say something -- anything!"

Timidly, one suit peeped "Have you thought of a breast reduction?" The others nodded in agreement.

"SERIOUSLY?! How much do you hate women that you'd recommend her bosom, MY BOSOM be on the slab so you can avoid the inconvenience of seeing untamed, REAL non-inflatable breasts?!"

Documents and pocketbook in hand, I released my soldiers from their cups and swung the conference room door open. My breasts and I were insolently marching through the door. As I walked through a long corridor, I was greeted by shocked eyeballs. At that point, I really didn't give a shit.

The next day I got a message from one of the suits asking me to come back the following week. Who knew tits on the table would yield such a positive result... All things considered.

Advertisement
Advertisement

From Around the Web