Breasts and bottoms proclaiming that gravity is someone else's problem....
Hair so perfect that the wind never blew....
Skin so smooth that the word "airbrush" was never invented....
So full of provocative pep and all of it in aid of the monthly-magazine scripture...
Playboy ... reminding men and women everywhere what it was like to be young ... to reach for the stars and fantasize as they skim the glossy, perfect, wise and beckoning pages.
Hot damn! This really is curvy, enticing, and ... holy!
And then one day, the gilded magazine shows up on time, stuffed in the mailbox with junk mail about the newest iPhone or sale at Costco, and lo and behold, the centerfold picture -- the pièce de résistance of the whole scriptural collection ... the page that unfolds to offer up a BIG version of babe-dom -- is empty.
And the thought arises unbidden, "Hey! My magazine is defective! I paid for this and by god, I want it! I got fucked..." which is what a lot of the guys were thinking about, un-holy-fashion, in the first place ... only not in a bad way. "I want my money back! I want all the effort I expended in youthful times returned ... with interest!"
Empty! No big-time scripture where big-time scripture had always existed in the past.
Empty, for Christ's sake!
What a gyp!
But then ... but then ... but then ... but then, you gotta laugh.
Who is this nitwit who imagined in the first place that gravity didn't exist?!
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