Out with friends the other night, I met the most charming girl. Her name is Jody and she is a 34-DD.
Now you may be asking yourself, why, pray tell, does Hänni know the cup size of a girl she just met?
Well, it’s not because I was checking her out or anything … Because I was … And it—I mean they—were awesome.
But yeah, I know Jody is a 34-DD because she told me so.
It was in the context of this story:
“So,” she started, “I’ve got boobs, huge boobs, 34-DD boobs. And I’ve got this boyfriend. We’ll call him James, like James Dean.
James has a sport bike. It’s a Suzuki—like a crotch rocket. Like a rice burner. Like a thing that goes ‘weee weee’ when you rev the engine.
James loves that bike. He loves it so much he has a pre-ride ritual. First he runs his hands over the front where the headlights are, then over the seat, then over the smooth plastic above the rear wheel. Next, slowly, lovingly, he pulls on the gloves he bought specially for riding. And then James puts on a jacket to protect against the wind. When all that’s done, he mounts the bike for its “warm up.”
The “warm up” (which I don’t think is necessary) consists of revving the engine a time or two or twenty. Only when James feels he’s made a sufficient amount of noise, does the ride begin.
Not too long ago James was having a rough day. He decided his Suzuki would chase away the blues. The wind in his face would be just what the doctor ordered.
As usual, James did his routine. Running of hands. Wearing of gloves. Donning of jacket. Revving of engine.
As he drove out of our complex, a sense of serenity overtook him. The engine’s growl combined with the rough and rugged sensation of dirt bouncing beneath tires made James forget all his troubles. Just a boy and his bike, James felt like a million bucks.
James felt like a real bad ass.
James rides on some paths near the boulevard, and not too long after he started, he had to stop. Passersby were honking their horns, and while the first time it happened James figured it was alright—someone was showing their appreciation for his fine-ass ride, by the fourth time, he thought something might be amiss.
And there was.
And it had been waving in the wind while James flew down the pathway.
That something amiss—it was my ginormous bra. And it was attached, by its hooks, to the back of James’s jacket.
Horrified, James undid the bra—which ironically is how it ended up off my body in the first place—and shoved the contraband under his seat.
When he got home, James was upset. I tried to cheer him. I told him that if things like this happened more frequently, maybe there’d be no war. When he questioned my statement, I explained that the undergarment being white and all probably looked like some sort of flag of surrender, some sort of high-flying flag of freedom.
For some reason, James was not impressed by my analogy.
I laughed until I about peed my pants though,” Jody said.
And that’s the story of the boy who went from bad ass to jackass in the snap of a bra strap.
The AI Cocktail Countdown ends tonight. Get your votes in so I can get my drink on this Wednesday for the American Idol finale party.