by Gazonga Gal

Yesterday, I was surfing the Net, looking for a topical subject on which to DDDesclaim, or perhaps DDDescant, when I happened upon this meaty, not so little item: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/02/04/worlds-biggest-breasts-sh_n_163992.html , and I thought to myself, Yowsa! That chick looks like a freakin’ float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade!

Shuddering with a brief pang of guilt—after all, one should not be judgmental of big knockers, lest ye be judged oneself, because really, it’s the pot calling the kettle (or in this case industrial vat) black—I found myself waxing nostalgic for the days when I was employed as a sales clerk at the venerable Macy’s Herald Square in New York City, and was reminded of a certain incident that involved, not holiday blimps, but rather, a pair of big boobs (mine)—and one very tiny man….

It was a lovely summer’s afternoon. I had just completed my shift in the now defunct Junior Accessories department (which I’d dubbed at the time, “Beads for Bimbos”), and was headed for the subway station at 34th and Broadway. The sidewalk was crowded with its usual tumult of tourists and natives, all walking, gawking and squawking their way to their appointed destinations, but the hustling, bustling and jostling didn’t phase me in the least. It had been a good day. A major sale combined with my employee discount had netted me a veritable treasure trove of marked-down unmentionables that included a red and black satin teddy and garter set, several frilly bras, one Edwardian-esque camisole, a fishnet bodysuit, plus a plethora of panties, at what, even back then, was a steal. (I was a bit of a lingerie whore in those days, what can I say?)

While lost in thought, trying to recall which ingredients I still needed to purchase for that night’s supper, as well as wondering which of my purchases I would be modeling for my then boyfriend to accompany our postprandial cocktails and pre-bedtime nookie, I was suddenly thrust from my reverie by the pinging of that innate radar city-dwelling women possess (Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!), and what appeared, initially at least, to be a disembodied voice that croaked: “My, aren’t you a healthy girl?” (“Healthy,” for those who don’t know, is a euphemism for “stacked,” which is a euphemism for “hefty in the hooters department.”)

I looked left. There was no one. I looked right. Bupkis. “I could sure churn some butter with those jugs,” the invisible provocateur continued. And it was then that I looked down. Eye level to my cleavage, the Mayor of Munchkin City was waxing poetic about my boobs.

Now, I am aware that the reputation of little people has been much tarnished as a result of certain accounts by Judy Garland regarding drunken Munchkin lechery on the set of The Wizard of Oz. According to Garland’s kids, mischievous Judy loved to tell a tall and entertaining tale, and would sometimes embellish certain details for theatrical effect. Were tanked up Tom Thumbs grabbing her ass behind the scenes and peeking up her skirt as she embarked on the Yellow Brick Road? Maybe yes and maybe no.

But as the saying goes, there’s always one bad apple in every bunch. While it isn’t fair to stereotype, dumb blondes do exist, some women with big hooters have loose morals, and there are televangelists who have fallen from grace with God. While my congress with little people has been limited, my guess is that there was at least a kernel of truth in that old cob story. Just because you’re short, doesn’t mean you haven’t been blessed with genitals, not to mention the hormones with which to rev them up.

“Get lost, you creep,” I growled, my standard response. (Okay, not very original, but it was usually effective. Not so here. What this guy lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer testosterone and tenacity.)

“Aw, c’mon, Baby,” he cajoled, “give Daddy some of that fine, juicy titty.”

“Go away!” I yelled, but the little schmuck just followed me up the street, lobbing one crude remark after another, trying to grab my breasts. No amount of verbal discouragement could fend him off. Like a sideshow comedy act come to life, we had begun to draw a crowd of onlookers. I reached the subway station and my boiling point simultaneously. “Leave me alone!” I shrieked, and without thinking, hoisted the only available object at hand aloft, and crowned Sir Mini-Masher full-force over the cranium with my sack o’ salacious sundries.

For those of you who missed that day’s weather report: “Sunny and hot, with a chance of scattered racy underwear showers in the late afternoon.”

I recall what happened next in slow motion, kind of like that sequence in the opening credits of the Mary Tyler Moore Show when Mary jauntily tosses her toque aloft, ’cause she’s gonna’ make it after all: The bag exploded, launching a cascade of unmentionables everywhere. Gobsmacked, my diminutive stalker’s eyes bulged wide for a split-second, and he gasped, afterward, emitting a curious gurgle from deep in his lungs—and no doubt his loins. Then, much to my relief, he scuttled away, a happy hermit crab who’d popped a load in his pants.

The appreciative audience tittered and guffawed. Several female passersby actually helped me gather the detritus of my temper-induced twister, and yes, Toto, we were finally headed back to Kansas—or in my case, Brooklyn. They say that good things come in small packages, but until that moment, I never knew that small packages—when exposed to big boobs—can have a good come, too.