Thursday, 21 January 2016

Rosie Tits: You are the Walrus; I am the Eggplant




Do you see this lovely nine pound baby?
Isn't it a beautiful wondrous creation?
Try strapping it to your chest and walking around with it every single minute of the day.
This baby represents the total poundage of my two breasts. My girls are not symmetrical and neither is a baby. My left one is 5.1 pounds while the other is exactly 4 pounds.
So it's sort of like carrying a child's gigantic head on one side and the rest of it on the other side.
No wonder I have horrible back problems.
I'm literally taking on water and listing to one side.
For years I've been on a quest to find out exactly how much my breasts weigh.
The Internet, that font of information, was no help at all. There are no evidence-based articles on this subject at all. It's awkward to weigh a boob, given its location, in order to get an accurate measurement.
WikiHow suggested this method. Measure water into a big bowl that is sitting on a cookie sheet, and stick your boob in it. Then see how much water is displaced. That will tell you what it weighs.
I tried this and all that happened was major flooding in my kitchen and a wet dog.
Whoever came up with his idea was no Bill Nye, the Science Guy.
At one point, I tried to coax my husband to lock the door at the vet and use the cat scale.
We chickened out, afraid that the vet might consider us kinksters.
I asked the tech at the mammo clinic, and she thought I was nuts.
So today, I asked a nice family doctor at my clinic if I could borrow the baby scale, and that's how I found out that my boobs are indeed the size of a hefty baby, a Bam Bam, if you will.
I can't believe I've been carrying around what amounts to lopsided imperfect factory-second bowling balls on my chest!
Add to that groceries, gym weights, pugs or anything else I have to carry out on an ongoing basis; it's a wonder my spine hasn't cracked in two.
Aside from being friggin' heavy, the girls are also long.
They are roughly the size of an award winning eggplant at the country fair.




They hang down to my navel without a bra, and are the exact length of my arm to my elbow when I'm wearing support.
North Korean cruise missiles, that's what I'm thinking.
Women have to put up with this kind of freakizoidedness for years before they can get help. I've been on a waiting list for a year and a half and it will be two years by the time the doctor does the slice-and-dice on them.
Thank God it's covered by government insurance, otherwise I'd have to put up with these babies until I was incinerated at my death. I've often wondered how long it would take them too cook. An hour, maybe two? Would they make delicious gravy?
These are the things that keep me up at night.
If men had boobs like this, there would be a national enquiry on wait times. No, I take that back.
Not boobs. Balls.
What if men had to put up with balls the size of honey hams?
It certainly would disqualify them for space travel. They'd be upside down all the time.
So pardon me for whining. My back hurts, my neck is locked, and my knees are buckling.
Don't get me mad, cause I'm seriously packing.



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