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Sugar Tits Make For Fat Babies

MJS's picture

I can't even think straight. For the past five days I have had visions of Sugar Tits dancing in what passes for my head. Some of them speak with an Australian accent. This has to stop.

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Listen: I had gone my entire life without combining into one handy product the sweet, granulated wonders of Sugar and God's cholestrum-producing gifts to the brassiere industry. The two subjects were not on the same meta-aisle, though in my belief system breasts are sweet and sugar is something I enjoy putting in my mouth. Note #1: The whole "dripping honey" thing was a passing fancy, a brief and sticky experiment that I don't regret in the least, but it was, as I just wrote, a passing fancy. Note #2: Do diabetics cry out "Hey, Artificial Sweetener tits!" when detained by tanned police officers?

But I digress. You'd digress too if every seventeen seconds a Dancing Sugar Tit Fairy blotted out your every attempt at a coherent thought, every ounce of cogitation creamed by a bouncing candy melon which sashays across the big screen of your mind like, well, like a large tit made of sugar. And it doesn't help when I drink coffee, each cup begging me to find the Venus Sweetener lest my caffeinated brew be somehow left out of this new obsession.

Thanks, Mel. Thank you and all your little demons for hijacking my Inner French Television. Had I had my Pre-emptive Mel Gibson blocker engaged I would have been spared this...well, I'm not sure it qualifies as a nightmare but it's dream-like and sleep is now more like Cinemax as broadcast by See's Candy Company than the balm to hurt minds it was meant to be. Regardless, had Mel had the decency to just stick to his anti-semitism I could have gone about my business of whatever it is I do, but no: he had to drop the Mother of all Memes right into my skull. Note #3: I have a skull made of sugar above the kitchen sink. Things are bad, folks. Really bad.

Oh, sure, I have gone out into the world and tried to act as if nothing has changed. I even attempted to admire the outlines of an unknown woman's keester at a Los Angeles City Council meeting just this morning as if everything was just like it was last Thursday (Pre-Sugar Tits) but failed miserably...Turn around, momma. Turn around and flash those syrupy nectarines. I am living in a Post-July 28th World where the Naysayers have Granulated Nay Nays. And all because of Mel. If the Jews control everything why don't I have visions of Meandering Moils or Traipsing Torahs or Rabbis on Parade in my fevered mind? Mel knows why. The jerk.

And what about the babies, Mel? What do we tell them? What about their health, both physical and mental? "Oh, sorry little dumplings, but from now on it's Fat Babies Rocking on Chi Chi Crack." And no Freddie Mercury around to make it at least danceable. Reprehensible, it is. Reprehensible.

Damn you, Mel Gibson. Sugar Tits now run the show. I'm sure all future wars will stem from this terrible truth: The Mothers' Milk of human kindness tastes just a little too sweet. I hear Disney is cancelling your Global Lactation documentary. Serves you right, you and your salty balls. Oh, shit. I just Gibsoned myself.

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Image from here.

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