justnick's Diaryland Diary


At such chaotic times, a man must take time to contemplate what's truly important in this life. On that note, here's an entry about boobs

There she is. The reason that I've shaved three minutes off of my lunch and twelve cents off of my paychecks every day for the past year. She's the cashier at the depaneur [ED: That's corner store to you, yank] that charges an extra twelve cents for a can of coke. She's very nice, very tall, and has great big brown eyes. I don't know her name, and she's a couple years older than I am, but hell, I'll catch up. Girls like that tend to stay twentysomething somewhat longer than the rest of us. She also happens to have fantastic breasts. Well, a little girl entered the Dep right before I did today, and was greeted with enthusiasm. 'Hello,princess.' She said to the little girl, who bought candy. 'Princess, eh? Friend of yours?' I ask. 'Naah, just a cute girl.' She replies, taking my purchases and doing her best not to hold eye contact overly long. Don't want to give these weirdos the wrong impression, after all. 'Oh really? Well then hello, princess.' I spout, giving my best impish smile. '2.14, please.' She states, attempting to look sardonic, but only coming off as wearily amused. 'Not exactly prince charming then?' I ask over my shoulder, leaving my change behind. This is what passes for romance in my life these days.

Speaking of boobs, I saw a friend of mine at a bar on Saturday, who for the sake of anonymity we'll call Areola MacMammary. Ms. McMammary, as you may have guessed, doesn't have your average pair of jubblies. Hers are different. Now, you may think me mad, but most who know me will tell you that I'm one of the biggest cynics you'll ever encounter, so bear that in mind as I say this: her knockers are magical. That's right, magical. Not in the sense that they're really nice, but in the sense that they have unholy magical powers. I met Areola through a friend of mine, and while she's heard great things, she must think I'm utterly insane if she doesn't realise that her love cushions are posessed. Because every time I see her, they take over my brain function. They make me see things, they hypnotise me, and not in that normal hormonal way. Take saturday. I hear 'Hi!!!' and turn around to see who beckons. There she stands, MacMammary herself. 'How are you?' she asks. So far so good. Then, as I get the 'Oh, Im good.' out, the air in front of her shimmers, changes. Boom, an illusion. Her body is gone, and is replaced by an old Burlesque act. She shimmies, tassled pasties like little hellicopters. Not to be taken in by the foul illusion, I feign a neck itch and look at the floor. And Stutter. 'G-Good. Yeah. Good. You? Uh, how are you?'


'Great, great. what's new?'


'Um.... um, I'm good, yeah. You?'

Round and round and round and round...'

'Uh.. Haha. You sure you're OK, you don't look so good.'

Look at us go!

'Uh.. I'm gonna uh.. go, uh...'

Just grab one, she won't notice!

'Lie, uh... down. Or.. yeah, lie down.

Uh oh! Pastie's coming loose!

She laughs. 'Lie down where? You sick or something?'


'Gottagonowbye!' I cried, dissapearing into the night. damn magical boobs.

So the other stock guy at Tony's who, for the sake of anonymity again, we'll call Skeeter Valdez, was teasing me at work the other day, pretending to throw a shoe box at me. Now, the older Italian gentleman who works there-who for the sake of anonymity we'll call Pope Sean Paul [ED: Gimme the light] saw this, and he loves me, despite the fact that we can barely communicate. But whatever his intentions, he intervenes. 'Hey!' cries his holiness. 'Whatt-a you do? Das'sa my frenn. You hurt heem, I cut-ta you head!' Little Skeeter V dropped that shoe pretty damn fast, I tell you what.

So I have had the song 'footloose' in my head for the last week and a half, and little dancing men have been prancing around my mindscape the whole time. Damn you Kenny Loggins, and damn you Kevin Bacon. I don't believe in hell, but I've heard the soundtrack. Excelsior.

7:08 p.m. - 2004-08-16


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