Boob of the week

by Ken Carpenter

There are good things and bad things about writing an oddball column every week. The bad thing is that it is not always easy to find a suitable, or even unsuitable, subject to blab about. The other bad thing is that once you find it, many people assume that you are an idiot.
The good thing is also that many people assume you are an idiot. You can get away with anything, because folks just shrug it off and say, “Oh well, he’s an idiot, what else can you expect.”
That seems like a fair trade-off to me, except for one thing. Try as I might, I just can’t avoid attracting the ridiculous. I do not even have a safe haven in my own traitorous home.
A few weeks ago I’m sitting on my couch reading a book and listening to the TV drone on contentedly in the background. An empty bowl was pouting on the coffee table in front of me, desperate for more popcorn. It was 8:45 PM on a weeknight, almost time for bed. I wish I had retired early.
Suddenly the dogs charged to the sliding glass door, going ballistic, their crazed chorus of barks irritating even the dark of night. I got up and went to the door, expecting something along the lines of a stray cat lurking by the bird feeders. Boy was I surprised.
An unknown woman stood at the bottom of the steps, weaving like a stalk of wheat in the wind. Her hair stood out from her head, filled with leaves and grass, styled by the Bride of Frankenstein. She wore only one shoe, the white sock on her other foot stained brown halfway up. Those were the good points, according to my wife Joy’s account later.
It was freezing cold that night, between 15 and 20 degrees, and the poor thing only had a tank top on. To top it off, she only had half of that on, for one strap was torn off. To top that off, she wore no bra and the missing half of her tank top had been admirably replaced by her bare right bosom.
“I’m freezing,” she moaned, “Can I please come in and use your phone and warm up a bit?”
Being a man of delicate sensibilities, I opened the door to let her in. It was like I was the ticket master on the New York subway and she had just flashed me her season pass.
My wife, being the good sport that she is, managed not to let her jaw drop down to the level of her own chest. Her eyes were not suffering the same restraints though, and I was lucky their sparks did not set me afire.
“What?” I mouthed, inspiring a gritting of teeth that would have been audible outside the door.
Our guest immediately told us she had been in a fight and to prove it she dropped her drawers and showed us the bruise on her rump. My husbandly standing sunk a little lower.
Then she made her phone call, carried on a belligerent, drunken conversation with a less-than-pleased woman, and responded with verbal aggression when my wife asked her if she wanted us to call the cops for her. Twenty seconds later she was back out in frosty bosom territory and I was in the doghouse.
My wife informed me that I was never, under any circumstances, to invite a topless woman into our house. I responded, sheepishly, that “One of them was covered up and she was cold.”
That did not cut it. Apparently every woman she tells the story to agrees with her opinion too. They also agree that I should be nominated for the boob-of-the-week, if not the month.
Of course, I have a different candidate in mind.

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