By Gagonza Gal

One thing I’ve noticed in my “career” as a big-boobed woman is that the sight of hooters, especially those of ample volume, sometimes transform men who might otherwise exercise circumspection and restraint in social situations into knuckle-dragging, insult blurting cretins. (I think there is actually an algebraic equation somewhere that defines the relative ratio of male I.Q. points lost in proportion to the increasing mass and area of a woman’s breasts.) Those who have endured the miming of twin air Klaxons accompanied by the compulsory: “Honk, Honk,” will no doubt have heard some of these charming “titticisms” before….

1. Wow! You’ve got some big titties!

No? Really? What the fuck? When did that happen? I swear, they weren’t here a minute ago! Oh! My! God! I guess that means there really is a Boob Fairy after all!

2. Are those real?

As in, do they exist in the time space continuum, or are they merely holographic images being cleverly beamed to Earth from the far reaches of the Gazonga Galaxy to torment and confuse clueless mortal men? Yes, Einstein, they are real. However, I am guessing that what the urbane gents who misguidedly pose this question probably mean is: “Are those God given or surgically enhanced?” Now, while I am willing to admit that I am a freak of nature, the winner of a genetic crapshoot in which big tits are the family jackpot (thanks, Aunt Tutz!), this is not a question one should be asking, either in the form of a catcall or in casual conversation. Proceed if you must, but be warned, you may find yourself being brained with a shoe as a result.

3. Are those yours?

No, they belong to my friend Louise, but she was going on vacation and she didn’t want to wear her underwires to the airport because they always set off the metal detectors at security. (This is actually a variation of: “Are those real?” Just let it alone. If you should ever find yourself fortunate enough to be in intimate contact with the jugs in question, the answer will be obvious, and even if it isn’t, at that point, who gives a rat’s ass?)

4. Got milk?

A. Yes. At home. In the refrigerator.
B. No. I am lactose and moron intolerant.

5. Mind if I help you carry those?

Hmm. Well…they are heavy and my back is a bit sore…and if you come anywhere near me, I will brain you with my shoe…and call the cops.

6. Do you have any idea what I could do with those?

Make them into bookends? Wear them as earmuffs? Appear on Letterman doing Stupid Boob Tricks? Actually, I do have a fairly good idea what you would—rather than could—do with them, and I am guessing that my end of that particular bargain would be about a pleasant a prospect as root canal. So, thanks, but no thanks.

7. Baby, I could suck on those all night.

Um, no, you can’t. Because you aren’t getting an invitation to the party. Besides, it’s hard to suck on anything—all night or otherwise—when you’re being brained with a shoe.

8. Hey, someone call Good Year! I just found two of their blimps.

Here’s a newsflash for you: That comment is about as funny as what happened to the Hindenburg, and older than the hills—and, no, I don’t mean my “hills.” Oh, just shut up and let me hit you with my shoe.

9. Oh, baby, I wanna cum on those big titties.

And I want lasting world peace. And the winning numbers for Power Ball to come to me in a dream the night before the drawing (and a pen and paper to write them down with before I forget). And a book contract. File it under: “fat chance,” “in your dreams,” “when pigs fly,” and “when hell freezes over,” kiddo.

10. Bet you never drop anything in your lap.

Ironically—as my laundry will attest—this happens to be true. My breasts seem to be magnets for both moronic comments and Marinara sauce. And no, you may not “get that” for me.