Machaon: Is anyone else hot?
Machaon: I’m really hot.
Idomeneus: You must not speak. The Trojans could hear you, realize our plan, and slaughter us all.
Machaon: Oh, there aren’t any Trojans around.
Idomeneus: Just be quiet. There is no way to tell if Trojans are near.
Tom Brady was tired from all the football he had been playing. He was sweaty too. He had scored like 100 touchdowns.
Something you should know about Tom Brady is that he is the best at football. He is also the best at sex. He is the Tom Brady of sex. He definitely knows what it is and how to do it.
As he walked off the football field , he ran into Margaret. She was the head cheerleader for the New England Patriots. She had long blonde hair, like that elf guy in the Hobbit, but better because she was a girl. Her boobs were really big, full of milk, probably.
“Hey Tom,” she said.
“Hey Margaret, you look dumb today,” he said back.
Girls like it when you are mean to them.
Margaret smiled. She liked it when Tom was mean to her.
“Thanks Tom Brady. You are so good at sports. You have won so many Superbowls,” Margaret said. She started to walk towards him, winking both eyes.
That’s when something crazy happened: Tom Brady’s peenie got big and muscular, like Gastons muscles in that scene from Beauty and the Beast. He didn’t get it, because he still thought girls were dumb and ugly. Maybe it was because his peenie was angry.
Margaret walked towards him slowly, and she gave him the look that Nala gives Simba in that scene in the Lion King.
“Why are you looking at me like Nala does in the Lion King?” Tom Brady asked sexily.
“Because I want to sex ya,” Margaret said. “Let’s do sex. You with your peenie, and me with mine.”
“Oh girls have peenies too?” Tom asked even though he knew the answer.
“Of course we do! We have girl peenies. They’re almost the same, but a little different. Full of milk just like our boobs.”
She quickly took off her cheerleading shirt and then her bra.
Boing Boing! Her breasts fell out.
She threw her bra away like a boomerang. The bra went soaring through the air and then flew back to tom Brady’s hands like Thor’s hammer in the Avengers.
Tom Brady caught it, which means that you can have sex now.
Each big boob probably weighed 80 pounds, like a big river bass, and was white and beautiful and had a shiny nickel at the end.
“Nice nickels!” Tom Brady said.
Margaret walked up to Tom, and they kissed.
Then Tom’s peenie exploded, and that was it. Sex was over.
“Thanks so much Tom Brady for sexing with me,” said Margaret.
“Shut up ya dumb fart breath,” said Tom. “I gotta go play football.
He turned and ran for the field, but stopped before he got there.
“I love you Margaret,” he yelled back at her.
“Love you, too,” she said.
Most people don’t think very highly of plastic surgeons. Don’t bother to deny it; we know what you say behind our backs. You say that we’re shallow and greedy, that we’re wasting our medical educations catering to the worst of society’s wealthy egomaniacs, that we’re little more than money-grubbing whores with scalpels and silicon. Well, I’m here to set the record straight.
How many of you have ever stopped to consider the ways in which cosmetic surgery can completely change the life of someone with a horrible disfigurement? Once, I had a patient who had been kicked in the head by a horse – miraculously, she survived, but with the entire left side of her skull caved in. She said she would never leave her house again. But by the time I was done with her, she had a brand new pair of triple-D breasts, and now you barely even notice the head thing.
See, it’s not all about vanity with us.
What we give our patients is the greatest gift of all: confidence. When a person comes to me for help, she’s not just getting new or enhanced body parts; she’s getting an entirely new self. The best version of herself that she can possibly be. And that’s something you can’t put a price on.
Still don’t believe me? Then you’ve probably never heard about my former patient Eric, the eleven-year-old kid who got his left hand stuck in a garbage disposal. Really mangled it up. I said to him, “Eric, would you rather have all your fingers, or be the only boy in the sixth grade with giant boobs?” He just kept crying, which I took to mean “boobs.”
Anyway, I’m sure he’s doing great now.
Whether it’s a boob job, a boob enhancement, a boob augmentation, implants, or just a simple boob lift, each procedure that I perform changes one of my patients’ lives immeasurably. From the hiker who got her nose torn off by a bear (new boobs), to the zookeeper who got his lips torn off by a monkey (new boobs), to the woman who complained about back pain from her enormous boobs (new boobs on her back to balance out the weight), they all leave my office better than when they came in.
And it’s not like I only help people through my practice, either. My knowledge and expertise can serve the community at large in all sorts of ways. Take, for example, the time I saw an old lady trip on the sidewalk and open up a big cut above her eye. I didn’t hesitate. I got her into my car and drove her straight to my office, where I performed emergency surgery.
You’re probably thinking I gave her big boobs, right? Wrong. To call them “big boobs” would be nothing short of an insult. I gave her a pair of goddamn planets with nipples. Little bits of dust orbit around her midsection, that’s how gargantuan those titties are. She can’t even lie on her back anymore, she just rolls over.
I am a good man.
[Jeremiah Budin is a person and a website]
Okay, who here thinks I murdered my husband? Quick show of hands. Keep ‘em raised. All right, that is…everyone. Mmmkay. Gotta be honest - this was not what I anticipated. I truly thought the answer would be zero because it is absolutely ludicrous that you all would attend a book club with a murderess.
Wouldn’t you all be scared I’d murder you too? I could take you all out in this very room if I wanted. Maybe there’s poison in the sweet tea? Ever think of that? I could up and poison your treats.
There’s no poison, Diane. I’m making a point! Christ.You can stop gagging like a damn goose.
Why are you all here if you truly believe that I am capable of shooting my beloved in our own home and burying him in the backyard? Come to your senses. You still made the trek to my cul-de-sac, so clearly you aren’t that convinced that I could truly and passionately murder.
Besides, Garrett was an asshole. What? We can all say it. He was an asshole. Oh, is it too soon? BOO-HOO-WHO CARES? He’s dead. Just cause someone was murdered to death doesn’t mean they weren’t an asshole.
Reign it in, Diane. He was my husband and he is now deceased, so I’m the only one allowed to actually call him an asshole here. Please, just shut up.
I do want to reiterate that I am not the one who committed that murder in the basement of our duplex. Just because I thought he was a cock-sucking pig who was sexting my cousin Starla, does not mean that I murdered him in a jealous fit of rage. Anyone of us could have murdered my husband. You’re all suspects, in my opinion, and you should all be questioned. Especially you Diane. You did gag suspiciously and say he was an asshole. So, you all should be scared of Diane - not me.
Now will someone pass that cheese ball my way and can we please get on with our discussion of the The Lovely Bones?