Fake boobs

Miss Cranky Pants has been AWOL for a while now due to the demands of her job and busy social life (who am I kidding, here? My job is running my life.) BUT, in an effort to counteract the grievous muscular tension caused by her work, Miss Cranky Pants rallied her pals together for a day out at Inspa World (possibly the greatest place on the planet). A day of floating, naked time, kimchee eating and strategically placed high-powered jets...fabulous.

So, in the midst of my bliss in the giant hot tub, I witnessed to a woman in a very little bikini and very big fake boobs. Let it be noted that Miss Cranky Pants is not against plastic surgery. Actually, quite the contrary--she firmly believes in better living through chemistry and the scalpel...but, there was something about these boobs that were just not quite...right.

I mean, surely, this woman had every right to insert immovable faux-mammaries in her chest, if she wanted? Well, sure, but note that the name of this blog is hateration not live-and-let-live-aration...so, i gotta say that her boobs were like two halves of a grapefruit stuck on her chest...I found them repulsive and yet strangely fascinating. They didn't move at all when she moved. They didn't bounce when she bounced. They were, in essence, her anchor. I wanted to poke them to see if they were as hard as they looked. They looked concrete and utterly unbiodegradeable. How very ungreen.

It led me back to a time when a good friend of mine, C, decided to get fake boobs because she had been self-conscious about her chest her whole life. In fact, in the course of our friendship, I'd never seen her without her shirt on. What could make this otherwise out-going, smart and seemingly confident woman so neurotic about her boobs or lack thereof? Her response? "I just want to stop thinking about it."

So, she scraped her pennies together and got her boobs enhanced. Days after the surgery, I delivered arnica gel and chocolate to her door. Her boobs were high, huge and unmoving. Kind of like Kilimanjaro. She made me touch them. They felt like rocks inserted under her pectoral muscles.

But, in the end, I guess she made the best of it because she moonlighted as a stripper and made a fortune. So, the moral of the story is you reserve the right to get big fake boobs if you want and the rest of us reserve the right to gossip about how big and fake they are. Chacun a son gout, I suppose. And thank you to my genetic pool that has given me boobs that are beyond reproach.