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Isn't there enough awkwardness in the world?

There are plenty of instances in the goings-on of everyday life that are uncomfortable enough without adding a bunch of new shit on top of it. There's the first time someone outside of your family sees you naked, the first day back to work after you called your boss a "disingenuous cocksucking mama's boy", any time you meet an ex with their new boy/girlfriend, the first time you see your girlfriend's dad after you know he knows you nailed his little girl, having to see the boy you molested in court every day... these are the challenges of a normal life.

Here's one I never thought I'd have to face, one so horribly egregious my imagination refused to even contemplate the outside chance of a faint whiff of a possibility: the first time you see your sister after her breast augmentation surgery.

Welcome to Pops' Saturday.

It's one of those things that you just don't discuss. She didn't tell me she was going to have it done, but I have another sister and a mother, so I knew. And I knew she knew I knew.

I sort of regret the unspoken-ness because at least I could have come out and asked her to wear something... um... vague. Like a really baggy sweater. Or a sleeping bag. Or one of those pixelated blur-spots they use on TV to spare us the horror of seeing things that the FCC fears might damage us (like, ironically, boobies).

The worst part is that when you're a brother to sisters, your sisters don't have boobies. Your sisters are amorphous, glandless creatures who laugh when you make fun of them and think boys are icky. Even when they reproduce, the power of self-deception is so strong that you are stunned by their ability to reproduce asexually a la certain species of starfish and you wonder why the newspapers haven't taken more of an interest.

Suffice it to say I was not interested in any way in noticing or even in giving the perception that I may have accidentally noticed my sister's new artificial appendages. The list of things I'd rather see than my sister's new rack is long, nearly infinite, and includes (among other things) the reanimated corpse of Shelley Winters eating my intestines.

And that's saying someting because as far as I know, Shelley Winters isn't even dead.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.8 (-0.2 for the Shelley Winters reference)


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 9:50 PM