Saturday
8/09/04
The Enemy Within.
It was not so very long ago on a bright summer afternoon that the lads and I were engaged in a time honored tradition: I was cruising the aisles of my local supermarket while carefully checking labels for calorie count and fat content, and the lads were busy as bees scheming how to fill the cart with sugar/junk cereals without me noticing. In short, we were passing an amiably mundane afternoon together.
Soon enough I had the cart full with all the necessary staples, and, after double checking for any stow-away Cap’n Crunch that might have slipped aboard, we made our way to checkout aisle number twelve. Then, only moments later as I was busy surrendering a box of granola to the scanner, I made a grim discovery that was to forever shatter my boyishly innocent view of the world. Right there in front of me, in bold, living color, was a newspaper whose terrifying headline read simply: "Dolly’s Breasts Killing Her!"
Killer breasts? Good lord, I thought to myself. Who would have imagined such a thing was possible? I quickly shielded the boys’ gaze from the grim pronouncement and shooed them away. Certainly they’re too young to have to face the grim reality that breasts can be so dangerous. And certainly I wouldn’t want their fond memories of my Lovely Bride’s boobs to be sullied in such a churlish way.
Worse still, it wasn’t until I was driving home in the minivan freshly packed with groceries and boys that the full ramifications of my ghastly discovery began to dawn on me. How, exactly, were Dolly’s breasts trying to kill her? Was it a full frontal assault involving suffocation? Or perhaps they’re more devious than that and are waging psychological warfare against her.
By the time we arrived home I was truly in a state. What if, I wondered, the occurrence of traitorous appendages isn’t confined to malicious mammaries? Would it be possible to fall victim to a pair of rogue buttocks, for instance? Or a pair of disloyal elbows? Or a pancreas, perhaps. Now that I think about it, my pancreas and I never really got along after that Christmas party in 1998 when it had too much eggnog and started a fight with my spleen.
Anyway, I still haven’t warned my Lovely Bride about the potential danger her breasts present as I don’t want to spook them or frighten her. I have though, as a sensible precaution, taken to sleeping with a flashlight and a bat by my side just in case her boobs are considering a nocturnal offensive. My Lovely Bride thinks I’m nuts of course, but then again she always has.
So take that as a warning you… you… sneaky boobs you! Thanks to Dolly’s valiant fight I’m on to you now!
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The Enemy Within.
It was not so very long ago on a bright summer afternoon that the lads and I were engaged in a time honored tradition: I was cruising the aisles of my local supermarket while carefully checking labels for calorie count and fat content, and the lads were busy as bees scheming how to fill the cart with sugar/junk cereals without me noticing. In short, we were passing an amiably mundane afternoon together.
Soon enough I had the cart full with all the necessary staples, and, after double checking for any stow-away Cap’n Crunch that might have slipped aboard, we made our way to checkout aisle number twelve. Then, only moments later as I was busy surrendering a box of granola to the scanner, I made a grim discovery that was to forever shatter my boyishly innocent view of the world. Right there in front of me, in bold, living color, was a newspaper whose terrifying headline read simply: "Dolly’s Breasts Killing Her!"
Killer breasts? Good lord, I thought to myself. Who would have imagined such a thing was possible? I quickly shielded the boys’ gaze from the grim pronouncement and shooed them away. Certainly they’re too young to have to face the grim reality that breasts can be so dangerous. And certainly I wouldn’t want their fond memories of my Lovely Bride’s boobs to be sullied in such a churlish way.
Worse still, it wasn’t until I was driving home in the minivan freshly packed with groceries and boys that the full ramifications of my ghastly discovery began to dawn on me. How, exactly, were Dolly’s breasts trying to kill her? Was it a full frontal assault involving suffocation? Or perhaps they’re more devious than that and are waging psychological warfare against her.
By the time we arrived home I was truly in a state. What if, I wondered, the occurrence of traitorous appendages isn’t confined to malicious mammaries? Would it be possible to fall victim to a pair of rogue buttocks, for instance? Or a pair of disloyal elbows? Or a pancreas, perhaps. Now that I think about it, my pancreas and I never really got along after that Christmas party in 1998 when it had too much eggnog and started a fight with my spleen.
Anyway, I still haven’t warned my Lovely Bride about the potential danger her breasts present as I don’t want to spook them or frighten her. I have though, as a sensible precaution, taken to sleeping with a flashlight and a bat by my side just in case her boobs are considering a nocturnal offensive. My Lovely Bride thinks I’m nuts of course, but then again she always has.
So take that as a warning you… you… sneaky boobs you! Thanks to Dolly’s valiant fight I’m on to you now!
