Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt

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СКАЧАТЬ I see what appears to be some form of malfunction, but I am the one who told you not to get that bimbo shit in the first place.”

      “I never knew they’d multiply with age,” I yelled. “I don’t only have two fake boobs, but, as you can see, I have grown my originals to the point they’re quite migratory and have a mind of their own and left the anchored pads the doctor put in.”

      He snorted more and yawned. “I’m going to bed. You may want to get some rest. You could be seeing things.”

      “I’m having a mammogram tomorrow, so I’ll just tell them about the multiplication of my teats. They’ll have equipment to prove it. I’ll just lay down on their dirty old tile floor and show them I have four and not two like most women.”

      He shook his head and shut the door. I scooped my four breasts back into place in their bra cups and hurried to my laptop, clicking onto my saving grace, www.implantinfo.com, the lovely Nicole’s Web site where there’s a chat room with tons of support and wonderful ladies (and men with implants, too). They are the ones who helped me get up the courage for the operation to begin with.

      “Help!” I typed, using my pen name, Sally. “I’ve got a problem.”

      After the other chatters finished up their conversations about how big they’d gone and what kind of bras to buy, someone noticed my plea for help.

      “What’s up, Sally?”

      “Well, they finally dropped, like y’all said they would, but I think they’ve done more than just drop.”

      “What do U mean?”

      “I have four. I look like the underbelly of a goat or cow when I lay down on my side.”

      About six chatters started writing things like, “LOL, I’m laughing my ass off.” and “Oh, my God.” and “You’ve got to be kidding.”

      One even wrote, “Wow. Your husband is one lucky man.”

      “Don’t pout,” one woman said, “I am growing a set of back tits. I put on a bra and tight sweater and my husband said, ‘Hon, you’ve got bigger tits under your shoulder blades than you do up front. You’d think you could get a four-cup bra for those suckers.’”

      “Hey,” I wrote. “I’m needing the four-cup bra, too. What can I do? I swear they are OK when I stand up or lay flat on my back, but once I roll over, say, to be sexy and gaze into the eyes of my man, all he does is stare in disbelief and pretend he only sees two tits instead of the four any other human being could see and count.”

      The chatters had a field day and hissy fits of laughter.

      “Sounds like you need a lift,” one of them said.

      “I got a lift,” I said.

      “Sounds like you need some Gorilla Glue,” another said.

      “I already thought of that, too, but when I asked at Lowe’s if you could use it on the breast tissue they called Security.”

      “Is there some sort of procedure the doctor can do where he stitches the real breast tissue onto the round Mentor mounds?”

      Oh, mercy.

      “Enjoy them,” a woman said. “Think about this. You get older every year and your original models are going to fall farther and farther south. By the time they’re at your abdomen, you’ll still have the two humps up top and maybe nobody will notice the lumps in your pants. If they fall low enough you can just say you have a set of balls.”

      I loved that line. I loved all these chatters. “Wait till you get a mammogram,” wrote Cindy Big’uns, who’d been silent in the chat room up until now. “I had mine last week, and ain’t nothing now where it ought to be.”

      “What do you mean?” I panicked. “My mammogram’s tomorrow.”

      “You think you got problems with four tits? Wait till you throw them suckers on the Old Smasheroma and that nurse tries to flatten everything out and see if you don’t come out screaming and all lopsided. I had one pop right then and there on the table, and it made such a loud noise we thought a gun had gone off. Half the lobby screamed.”

      I knew that most of the time, mammograms were fine and good screeners for cancer. I also knew that women with fresh nack-nackers were cautious about having them and entered the Squish parlors with much trepidation.

      I stayed up half the night worrying about the procedure and its effects. It ended up being no big deal. I truly believe the cell-phone conversation I endured in the office was much more painful than the actual procedure was. There I sat, about to enjoy my first four-tittied mammogram when some stupid jingle (“Roll Out the Barrel”)—fitting since she was shaped like a barrel—rang throughout the waiting room and a saucy lady, who’d forgotten to Jolen the left side of her mustache, lifted a teensy phone from her billowing lap.

      “Hello…Yeah, I’m setting here waitin’ to have my yearly Hooter Hammer…Uh-huh…Well, just put the pork chops in the sink and they’ll be thawed out in time for supper…There’s a box of Shake-n-Bake in the cabinet and you can get it started up while I’m tossing up the goodies in this place, you hear?”

      Ma’am, we all hear, I wanted to say. Everyone in public now hears things meant to be said behind closed doors. And talk about loud? No one ever, ever whispers into a cell phone. They yell. They yell about their surgical procedures while others are trying to eat out. They talk about colonoscopies and drainage and goiters and rampant infections while other diners are coaxing their throats to swallow their $50 entrees.

      What cell phones have done, since becoming more affordable than a standard wall unit, is open a Pandora’s box on private lives. Everywhere Nokias and Samsungs are stapled to eager ears, clipped onto trousers or slipped into purses.

      How many times have I been in the Discount Depot, trying to find the carpet cleaner and rawhide bones, maybe a carton of Slim-Fast, when ring-a-ling-a-ling —or, worse, an extraloud rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” blares from someone’s belt loop? Talk about eavesdropping and blushing. It’s like a party line we’re not sure we want to be privy to. Conversations such as the following:

      “Hey there, Barbara Beelicious, now what chu up to?…Oh, lawsy, I’m here in Jabba the Bargain Hutt buying Vienna Sausages for Roy Dale’s third birthday. Little Devil, we’re going to have his party at the Twist and Tryst…Huh? I can’t hear you. Did you say what’s the Twist and Tryst? Uh-huh…Why, of course I realize it’s an adult bar not based on biblical teachings, but they do have that wonderful video game room and—Yes, I know that…but Roy Dale’s uncle has connections and the price is good.”

      About fifteen years ago—during pre-cell phone affordability—the gadgets were the novel toys of upstarts or those who wanted to play like they were celebrities. Then the price dropped and everybody got hooked up, giving rise to a boom of irritating, ceaseless chatter that follows one from the birthing room to doctors’ offices to shopping centers. And even a burial.

      Yes, a burial, for heaven’s sake. I was at a funeral service several years ago when someone’s cell phone blasted out, echoing throughout the church sanctuary.

      My friend Randy T. Ford, a former Chippendale’s dancer who is СКАЧАТЬ