Fries with that?
It was the third Wednesday of the month and that meant the department was having its monthly lunch at the Boobatorium. It isn’t really called that. It’s sort of a poor man’s Hooters. The typical sports bar you’d see in any town, except that the waitresses wear less than many swimsuit models.
Our waitress’s breasts seemed intent on leaving the confines of their flimsy fortress of fabric. Every time she bent over to leave a straw or napkin, she would intentionally press her arms together, forcing her breasts to smash and protrude like twin loaves of dough rising from inseparable pans. She was really working her tip. So to speak.
When lunch arrived, her left breast saw the chance to escape and took it. Seeing several plates of food running up the length of her arm, it burst forth from of her skimpy, orange t-shirt and landed in a plate of under-cooked French fries. There it rested until it reached the table.
Seeing fifty pairs of astonished eyes, the breast quickly became self-aware and attempted a hasty retreat. In actuality, it was shoved back in place by three slender fingertips, each clad in fuschia nail polish and tiny murals that included palm trees, neon and miniscule parrots.
Needless to say, the fries went uneaten.
On Saturday,