It's Called a Bra, Bitch.

Hey bitch coming through the door at the club last night, I know you know they exist. You are a woman in her late 20's, and I don't give a fuck how hippie you think you are, you have to have heard of those wonderful items called brassieres. They have them in all sizes, even the 46GG you probably need, you fat, disgusting fucking hippie. Part of me is curious as to how you got so fat on your earth friendly, sustainable vegan diet anyway, but I cannot ask you anything because I am distracted by the fact that your gigantic tits are almost tripping you. I am disgusted by the fact that you not only decided that your gargantuan knockers needed to be free to sweep the ground, but you decided that you needed to wear a very low-cut, flowing hippie dress so everyone could gag a little more by seeing the skin on your chest stretched like a fucking over-filled Hefty trash bag. Nothing wimpy about your chest skin, that's for damned sure.

What the fuck, you dirty fucking hippie bitch? I know that you subscribe to the anti-establishment mantra, and that bras are simply a way for The Man to oppress the breasts, but come on. Even in your marijuana and patchouli induced funky stupor, you have to acknowledge the fact that your knockers are far to big to just "hang out." How can that be comfortable? How can your back take it? Do you have to do something similar to a pitcher's wind-up to get some inertia going to turn around? I can't imagine those things just move (or stop) on command, do you have a warning system in place to let people know when you're about to swings those wrecking balls around? How do you get out of bed? Do you sling one over the side and let gravity roll you out? Fuck, so many disturbing, disgusting questions that should never have to be asked.

Seriously, get a bra, bitch. Even Betty Friedan or Helen Gurley Brown or fuck, even Germaine Greer (the leader of the bra-burning movement, for my less feminism knowledgeable followers...you're welcome) would say "Bitch, control those fucking puppies." Ms. Greer would probably take you to WalMart herself and buy you a bra, because even she understood that going braless as a rule was not a good idea. Especially for a chick with jugs as big as yours. You tripping over your tits while walking up a flight of stairs does nothing for equality or world peace or Tibet or saving fucking Brazilian Mergansers or whatever noble battles you fight via bumper stickers on the back of your piece of shit VW bus that barely passes emissions testing. Put them away.

Look, I know you think that every living creature is beautiful (you are seriously fucking misguided) and that everyone has the right to be free and blah blah fuckity blah, but in your case, bitch, you need to take a look in the mirror and understand that some things are a socially accepted rule for a reason. No one wants to see your big, fat, venous fucking udders banging your knees. And don't say "well they just shouldn't look," because you know that's impossible. Some things are so fucking freakish that you just can't help but look. God knows I didn't want to look. I had no desire to see all that you showed me last night. But I couldn't look away. I was just in awe at the nerve you obviously have to walk out the door in some sort of poorly chosen fight against gravity and physics and physiology and common decency. I was also amazed at your Lumbar strength, because it was incredible that you were upright.

It's called a bra, bitch, and for the love of God or Mother Earth or Vishnu or Cernunnos or whoever the fuck you believe in, please buy one. Then wear it. Any time you go out in public. Any time. Never ever walk out of your commune without it on again. Inside your fucking hippie haven of circus freaks, you do whatever the fuck you want. Out here in the real world, put the girls in a sling. Please. Society begs you. Our eyes beg you. Even the fucking Mergansers beg you. Yes, ducks that are on the verge of extinction want you to control your mammoth fucking mammaries, bitch. Do it for the fucking ducks, hippie.