WUSSY BREAST PARTY

This weekend I could’ve gone to a poker party at a friend's house. More or less in celebration of Mothers' Day, it was going to be a charity event for Breast Cancer Awareness.
And I was pleased to be invited - tickled pink, in fact.
I like breasts. Breasts are very nice.

"Please, let me bring something - cigars, Bourbon, pizza. Just tell me."

The offer was sincere. Breast Cancer Poker Party, oh boy!


No cigars! Smoking is bad for you!
No Bourbon! Some AA members will be there!
No Pizza! There will be Vegan snacks!


No cigars, Bourbon, or pizza? What the hell kind of poker party is this?
Did all of you guys learn to play poker from your computers?

Apparently, not all guys. There would be several variations on womanhood there too.
Including the co-host, a big transgendered green lesbian who used to be a weightlifting champ.
Non-smoking, non-drinking, ex-alcoholic.
With very large artificial..... landscaping.


I decided that there were too many conflicts of interest for me to attend, and declined gracefully.


When I was still in college I took part in a few poker parties. Nothing like a bunch of guys hanging around all evening smoking stogies purchased at Drucquer & Sons on University avenue, scarfing down pepperoni pizza, swilling Bourbon, and telling off-colour jokes. By four o'clock in the morning, everyone has fallen asleep - whether it's the oxygen deprivation or the booze that done 'em in is immaterial.
By ten in the morning, you'll wake up on a couch, seriously groggy and achy.
You'll slowly bring your still-plastered self to an upright position, and survey the damage.

Oh my. Half-eaten pizza everywhere. Empty bottles. Ashtrays filled with butts.

It reeks.

You look at your companions, still sleeping the sleep of the wicked. One of them is on the rug in front of the teevee, head in an overturned bowl of potato chips. One of them is in lying in a recliner, with a layer of drool down his chin. Two of them are slumped over the table.
And one of them is on the other couch. The apartment dog (a retriever) is there too.
Eating a slice of cheese pie off the recumbent body.
She must have fallen asleep while eating, the pizza is wedged between her breasts.

One of the guys, I need to explain, was the mom of one of the guys.

A woman with the body of Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei Lee and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau as Oscar Madison.

She had shared a box of Royal Jamaica Presidentes with us. Anybody who can bring a box of fine cigars to a poker party is a welcome addition.
Even if she is bankrolling her son, and swears that we're all a bunch of sissies.
We didn't dare argue, heck, we couldn't dispute it - she was outdrinking and outsmoking us.

At all times, respect the voice of experience.
One might learn something.

Bourbon and stale pizza - the breakfast of champions.
As well as their moms.
Also champions.


The body of Marilyn Monroe and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau


I'm fairly certain that if she had organized the "Great Mothers Day Breast Cancer Charity Poker Party", there would have been cigars.
And Bourbon, and pizza.
She believed that if you were old enough to stay up all night, you were old enough to make your own decisions about what to stick in your body.
Sometimes, a temple becomes a toilet.
Grown-ups have choices.
Not all rational.


Anyhow, I didn't go to the poker party yesterday, but I do support breast cancer organizations.
We've all been incredibly fond of people who have breasts. Wonderful people.
And breasts are wonderful too.
Support your local mammaries.
Donate.


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