By Gazonga Gal

Boobs. Jugs. Rack. Sweater cows. Sweatermeat. Melons. Hooters. Bosom(s). Breasts. Chesticles. Breasticles. Tits. Titties. Tay-tahs. Gazongas. Bazongas. Funbags. Balloons. Traffic cones. Tetons. Torpedoes. Snuggle puppies. The girls. Cantaloupes. Cans. Boulders. Knockers. Yabbos. Mulligans. Airbags. Bronskis. Bra stuffers. Butterballs. Marimbas. The Devil’s Dumplings. In the course of my tenure as a card-carrying member of the Confabulating Sisterhood of the Over-Crowded Balcony, I have heard all these euphemisms, plus a whole lot more.

My personal favorite (apart from sweatermeat which for some reason just tickles me) stems from an incident that occurred when I was little more than a DDDebutante. Whilst temping as a receptionist for a Japanese banking firm between college semesters, I found myself in a curious situation. Each morning, as the businessmen made their way into the main office, they would briefly congregate in small groups, circling my desk in the antechamber, errant fish caught out of school by the pull of an unseen eddy.

Each would greet me cordially, and I returned the courtesy. But as they left, whispering to one another in their native tongue and giggling like schoolboys, I often caught them making the universal hand gesture—palms spread about 10 inches apart, fingers arched as if to catch a medicine ball. This was accompanied a phrase I heard on a regular basis for several weeks. Of course, not speaking Japanese, while I got the gist, I couldn’t help but wonder what the literal translation was.

Now, I have a good ear for language, and am adept at phonetic pronunciation, so
one day, not long before I was due to return to school, I repeated the phrase to my manager, who turned a most charming shade of crimson upon hearing its utterance from my American lips. “What does that mean?” I asked him. He was clearly flustered. I repeated the phrase. “Well?”

“You see, in Japan,” he explained, after some hemming, hawing and generally not being able to look me in the eye, “most women have very small…chickens.”

“Small chickens … I see,” I responded, “and I have big chickens.”

“Yes,” he gulped. “Big chickens.”

He was clearly relieved when I started to laugh. Big chickens. I suppose I could have been offended, but honestly, I’ve never been politically correct—which is perhaps why lost in translation humor—especially of the unintentional takeout menu variety—has always appealed to me.

Name Game

In addition to the salacious tittie titles men bestow upon our breasts, there is also a long tradition of women who choose to name their own twins. As mentioned in an earlier post, mine are called Mutt and Jeff. I have also been acquainted with the owners of Bert and Ernie, Hope and Glory, Frankie and Johnnie, Lucy and Ethel, Ben and Jerry, Abbott and Costello, George and Gracie, Gin and Tonic, Romeo and Juliet, Pyramis and Thisbe, Gert and Alice, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Boris and Natasha, Venus and Aphrodite, and of course, Thelma and Louise. I’ve yet to meet a woman sporting a pair of Penn and Tellers (although I have met Penn and Teller) or Siegfried and Roys, but perhaps that’s because a gal might be afraid her precious pair might magically disappear into the ether—or be mauled by tigers.

And speaking of less than sexy imagery, I feel compelled to admit that I find some boob soubriquets men have come up with tend to be turn-offs. I am not fond of the terms jugs or funbags. Likewise, headlights and hooters leave me stone cold.

So, after much time and consideration (and a few glasses of wine), I’d like to offer some alternatives that I’ve come up with for your consideration: Nippleodeons. Bra monkeys. Bravados. Pair de deux. Pairouettes. Cupolas. Capitol domes. Demimounds. Portabellas. Lactavias. Mammarionettes. Mammifest destinies—on second thought, maybe I’ll just stick with big chickens.