ALLIGATORS ON NOB HILL

As a fashion statement, painting the exposed surfaces of your breasts green for Saint Patrick's Day is berserk. Probably. as well as cold. And good luck getting all of that off.
I pretended that I did not see it, because this is San Francisco, and I am very much accustomed to deliberately not seeing things.

Also, if you really want to show 'em off, do not wear a dress of the same general colour, even if it is tight and they pop. It took a second look. Which I really didn't want to do, due to not being personally acquainted with them. Which I didn't wish to be either.

As a personal philosophy I will happily make the acquaintance of a pair of mammary glands under the right circumstances, if the right person suddenly wishes to introduce them into the conversation. "Atboth," she will say, "these are my physical appurtenances, who desire your attention". Or something like that. Privately, and somewhere warm and cozy. She will not trot down the street flopping them at me while on the way to the next drinking hole.

I have not been on comfortable terms with mammaries in a long time, not even a nodding acquaintance, and this is sad because I remember a time when breasts and I got along.
Trust me; me and breasts were like that.

We enjoyed each other's presence.

Never-the-less, emerald-hued bosoms of a certain hugeness do not tempt me, and not that I've actually thought about it but I would wish to avoid being near them.
Flamboyant tit displays are a bad sign.

If you had a recent boob-job, and are pleased with the results, well bully for you. You do not need to show them off. If we're interested, we'll ask for the name and address of the plastic surgeon. If not, not.

I had left the house with a pipe for the last smoke of the evening. That's what I was intent upon. The breasts were not the focus. They could not have been. I do not actually know any breasts at present. And I'm sure I would have remembered these if I did.
Great green boobies, honey bun. Aren't they cold?



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