One of the best decisions I ever made was to have breast reduction surgery, or as I like to say, have most of my tits chopped off. The problem with huge, saggy boobs is that they weigh a ton. I’m only about five feet tall, for crying out loud. Most of me was my boobs. It became very hard for me to carry around my chest and anything else, like a backpack or purse. My shoulders and neck hurt like hell and my bra straps were starting to dig canals into me. I was growing increasingly worried about finding a gondolier guiding tourists down my back some day. My decision to have the surgery ultimately led me to another good decision, which was to lose some weight before I got my tits cut off. See, the nice thing about big boobies is that they create a tenting effect on t-shirts. I used the tent to full advantage to hide my gut. I feared if the tent poles disappeared, then my gut would hang out for the world to see. The thought horrified me, so I got my ass in gear and joined a gym.
Anyway, having plastic surgery is a farce. Plastic surgeons make a living from reminding you about what you hate about yourself physically Thus I was met at my initial appointment by a man who looked like a weasel/child molester who told me how terrible I looked, and had me pose for diagnostic pictures topless and with my gut hanging out. The Polaroids were then sent to my insurance company as proof that I had the ugliest boobs in America and that they needed to pay to fix them, lest I destroy the patriotic spirit of all red-blooded American males. (No, I didn’t worry that the pictures would wind up in the wrong hands. Playboy wasn’t going to be contacting me any time soon unless they wanted to blow a year of their budget for airbrushing.) The insurance people agreed that I endangered my own health and the nation’s love of perky breasts, so they approved the procedure, and I was good to go.
I arrived at the hospital bright and early on the day of my surgery. Weasel doctor drew what appeared to be a diagram of football plays on each boob, outlining where they’d cut. Basically, the game plan was this: the center was to chuck my nipples aside, the quarterback would put them in a little jar to preserve them, and then the wide receivers would flay me in two smooth plays, scoop out tissue and fat, hack off any excess skin, and then sew me back up and replace the nips. Touchdown! I’d have cute new little boobies. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if the center threw wide and the wide receivers forgot to replace the nipples. I hoped I could at least take them home in the jar of formaldehyde and keep ‘em as a souvenir. Anyway, I was given anesthesia, said good-bye to my old tits, and hut, hut, hike, I was out like a light.
The end result was amazing. The surgeon may have been an egomaniacal weasel - at my follow up appointment, he repeatedly praised himself for his brilliant “art” work; I liked my new tits a lot, but didn’t appreciate being treated like a sculpted lump of clay - but he made my saggy old lady boobs into adorable lovable little natural fake titties. (Natural because they there’s nothing fake in them, but fake because they didn’t get this way naturally.) It was literally a load off my shoulders, although for weeks afterwards I had no feeling in my chest, which pretty much meant that anyone could cop a feel without me noticing. This made me a little paranoid when riding on a crowded subway, but it was still much better than heaving around boulders on my chest. It’s been almost seven years since the surgery, and I couldn’t be happier, although I do sometimes search the internet to see if the pictures were leaked to any saggy boobs fetish sites. Fortunately, the pictures seem to remain safely hidden away in a secret storage facility somewhere, much like the Ark of the Covenant and other relics.
After going through so much to get rid of my ginormous boobs, I find it hard to understand why anyone would pay good money to have bigger jugs tacked onto them. I’m sure women with implants would question why I paid good money to get rid of mine. But let me tell you again: that shit hurt. I’d think that lugging around a big silicone tit bag would be no different. I’m not against all implants, either - it’s obvious that breasts are as important to the women who wear them as they are to their partners who desire them and our society’s obsession with ogling them. It makes perfect sense to replace breasts lost to disease or accidents. But it doesn’t make sense to me to fuck around with perfectly good titties so that guys stare at your chest instead of your face when you are trying to have a conversation with them. Unless, of course, a person is irredeemably ugly and it costs less to divert attention from your ugly mug to your jugs. But I doubt most women find themselves in such a dire situation.
Based on the extremely large success of the giant stuffed penis, I decided to make my college roommate a giant stuffed Glenn Danzig doll. She was totally in love with him, and frequently told people that she was saving her “golden snatch for Glenn.” This way she could literally sleep with Glenn whenever she desired. I even made a big dick for Glenn, as you might note from the bulge in his sex faux leather pants made out of felt.
