With the Writer's Strike heading into extra innings and more TV programs heading into re-runs you'd think there wouldn't be enough comedy writing here in Southern California. Wrong. At least wrong for this household.
This morning, as most mornings, my beloved, the pooch, and myself were watching the morning news from bed. A story about a, can't-even-remember-her-name, model aired with her reason for getting a breast augmentation. Seems she was quite flat chested and the butt of many jokes growing up. Sadly, I understand, as I was called "butter-ball" by my father when I was little. I can't even imagine why I'm not in therapy.
My darling took in the story then commented that she should do what I do. Confused, I am ample of bosom all on my own, I asked what he meant. Straight man is just one of my many job titles and it's the first of that definition, thank you.
"She should feed them like you do, he said." My quizzical look prompted the following. "That's what you're doing when you drop food on the front of your blouse, right?"
Rim shot, please.