My friend and I were eating at a local haunt on Friday and breast commentary broke out after he pointed out the boobs on one of the waitress were too large to be real.
Jesus (my nickname for anyone with long hair and a goatee) said that they looked out of proportion and it is how he determined they were not real. I looked at them and I couldn't tell if they were real or not. I did think they were a bit large but I don't think they looked that bad on her. I personally like the small ones that are shaped like a champagne glass. Jesus liked them a bit bigger.
The search for a set of perfect breasts was on.
I loved the waitress who took over our table once we moved inside the restaurant. Round and perky and just perfect for a guy to cup in his hand and do whatever.
Of course Jesus thought they were too small but he applauded them for being real. Again, size being the only determining factor of authenticity. He decided he like the ones tightly bound in a black knit v-neck halter at the next table.
Now that we both found our perfect set, it was time to move our conversation to the older men sitting at the bar hitting on the pretty young, not so innocent, just buy me a drink, things.
It's interesting to people watch and although I have to pay my own tab when I am with Jesus, he is really fun to hang with because we definitely are like two horribly self-centered pom-pom girls in the high school bathroom spreading the daily gossip about the teacher and the honor student.
Oh my Ga!
I wonder if Jesus is gay?!
Blondes wonder about men that make her pay?!
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