Back in the day, the secret to unlocking a man's heart was to enhance the three B's:
Boobs, butt, and brains beauty.
Brains? What brains?!
Sometimes, you just gotta be the straight man. Is there anything this guy could do to be weirder than this lactating statue? Didn't think so.
Oh, San Francisco. You can live here forever and still not know all her wonders. There's the Eyeball Museum in North Beach.
Believe it or not, this bouncing boobfest is sponsored by the folks of
a breast cancer awareness organization. They think the best way to get women in gear to check themselves regularly is to put an over-sized pair of
"fun bags" on a dude and have him laugh and frolic around as if he hasn't a care in the world — as if his ta-tas weren't susceptible to swelling, tenderness, and nasty lumps. But we'll see if he's still drooling over his newfound assets when that insufferable backache kicks in.
There's something about Granny . . .
Someone has officially lost it, in more ways than one.
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Lady takes off her sweatshirt and gets a round of applause. Lady wonders why . .
Thank you, Heidi. Pretending that your boobs are projectile weapons and/or lethal machine guns will really encourage the opposite sex to
reevaluate their approach to our chest region. As you so aptly demonstrate, they don't call them bazookas for nothing!
Hollywood inspired trend? I hope not. (And who's the perv behind the camera?)
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I've asked you what you call
sex and what nicknames you use for your
lady business. It seems only right to ask about your breasts!
My gram used to call them bubs, and my friend calls them her twins, but I like to call them my girls or my knockers.
