At some point I woke up and discovered that my nipples were reaching for my toes. It wasn’t pretty. I’m not quite sure when this phenomenon happened but it did. Almost overnight the girls were high and perky on Monday and gravity challenged on Tuesday. But hey, no problem. They make these really great push up, underwire bras that will lift these babies sky high if necessary.
For some reason the lyrics to Bette Midler’s song “Otto Titsling” and his over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder keeps running through my head. But I digress….
Someone told me once that my breasts were one of my best physical attributes. Them and my legs. Both were big. Now they’re bigger and I’ve acquired a watermelon bottom. I surpassed an apple bottom ages ago, my butt so full and high right now that it takes my ass a full five minutes to follow me into a room. Although I get that whole ba-dunk-a- dunk thing, I can still make the argument that too much of a good thing is just too much. So, I’ve been in the gym regularly lately trying to shorten that time down to at least two minutes max. Unfortunately there’s not much short of surgery and a good bra that can widen the distance between the girls and my knees. Lifting them closer to my chin is a true challenge.
And I say all of this for no reason whatsoever other than I have to go to the gym to work out and I don’t want to. The trainer is whittling my waist away but he’s had no suggestions for my boob dilemma. Maybe if he could figure out how to bring perky back I’d be more willing to pick the girls up and get up out of my bed at six in the morning to train. We women catch hell growing older. I do hope at least one man out there is experiencing his share of dick shrinkage to balance out the scales.
(DEEP SIGH)
(DEEP SIGH)
Oh well. Maybe Bette and Otto and the right idea.
"Otto Titsling"
This next story is a true story.
It concerns two of my favorite subjects:
industrial theft . . . and-a t-ts!
Mmm, what a combo! This is the story . . .
The inventor of the modern foundation garment
that we women wear today was a German scientist
and opera lover by the name of Otto Titsling!
This is a true story.
His name was Otto Titsling.
What happened to Otto Titsling shouldn't happen to a schnauzer.
It's a very sad story. I feel I have to share it with you."
Otto Titsling, inventor and kraut,
had nothing to get very worked up about.
His inventions were failures, his future seemed bleak.
He fled to the opera at least twice a week.
One night at the opera he saw an Aida
whose t-ts were so big they would often impede her.
Bug-eyed he watched her fall into the pit,
done in by the weight of those terrible t-ts.
Oh, my god! There she blows!
Aerodynamically this bitch was a mess.
Otto eyeballed the diva lying comatose amongst the reeds,
and he suddenly felt the fire of inspiration
flood his soul. He knew what he had to do!
He ran back to his workshop
where he futzed and futzed and futzed.
For Otto Titsling had found his quest:
to lift and mold the female breast;
to point the small ones to the sky;
to keep the big ones high and dry!
Every night he'd sweat and snort
searching for the right support.
He tried some string and paper clips.
Hey! He even tried his own two lips.
Well, he stitched and he slaved
and he slaved and he stitched
until finally one night, in the wee hours of morning,
Otto arose from his workbench triumphant.
Yes! He had invented the worlds first
over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. Hooray!
Exhausted but ecstatic he ran
down the street to the diva's house
bearing the prototype in his hot little hand.
Now, the diva did not want to try the darn thing on.
But, after many initial misgivings,
she finally did.
And the sigh of relief that issued forth
from the diva's mouth
was so loud that it was mistaken by some
to be the early onset of the Siroccan Winds
which would often roll through the Schwarzwald
with a vengeance!
Ahhhhh-i!
But little did Otto know,
at the moment of his greatest triumph,
lurking under the diva's bed
was none other than the very worst
of the French patent thieves,
Philippe DeBrassiere.
And Phil was watching the scene
with a great deal of interest!
Later that night, while our Brun Hilda slept,
into the wardrobe Philippe softly crept.
He fumbled through knickers and corsets galore,
'til he found Otto's titsling and he ran out the door.
Crying, "Oh, my god! What joy! What bliss!
I'm gonna make me a million from this!
Every woman in the world will wanna buy one.
I can have all the goods manufactured in Taiwan."
"Oh, thank you!"
The result of this swindle is pointedly clear:
Do you buy a titsling or do you buy a brassiere?
"Ohhh! Thank you!"
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