ALMOST made bearable by the central topic of conversation: My mother-in-law’s brand spanking new breast implants.
Best. Black Widow. Ever.
Sassafras Junction
The Pitfalls and Profanity of Southern Living
Vote for me in ‘09!
Bad News for Minors
C’mon, Subscribe to me. I have a van full of nice kittens.
Be My Frenemy
Stumble My Shizzle!
Join My Cult! (the koolaid is delicious…)
So, I’m guessing she spent the money for our whirlwind trip to Europe on the new chest? Sigh.
Oh, I’m sure she’s still got some cash. But she’s probably saving up for botox.
Her new boobs are already wrinkly? Weird.
Well, she IS 52 years old. Most of her is wrinkly. And, I feel personally, that 52 is a bit late for a “Midlife Crisis” — particularly since that bitch best not be plannin’ on living until she’s 104 (which would make 52 “midlife”)…
Funny boob job story… My father died back in 1996. At his funeral, his brother decided to show up. (He had been in hiding for years.) Well, he showed up in a gorgeous black dress that was filled out rather well by his new boobs. He proceeded to show them off, asking several guests to “Feel them! They feel so REAL!”
I think if my mother-in-law tried to coax me into touching her breasts, I would just go on auto-pilot at long last and punch her in the face.
However, (and this sounds hypocritical, I know), if she was a) long-lost and/or b) a male, I think I would have gotten a kick out of them.
Though not, perhaps, at someone’s funeral. Perhaps.