On breasts.

Wonderful things. I don't know that I'm a breast man, per se -- the legs, posterior, hands and ankles all must be factored in -- ankles perhaps the real litmus test -- but the breasts have their heft in the equation. And then there is the whole breast-buttock ratio to consider, as well as the chunk-in-the-trunk zaftigity that tends to accompany a pair of real, screaming gazongas. Real here meaning natural -- and so comes the topic of structural augmentation. Jane Anybody desperate to attain an epic, globular status worthy of a south Indian temple frieze or perhaps a '57 Chrysler's bumper.

But I need to recuse myself. Breast implants paid for my education, braces, and shoes, Dad being a plastic surgeon. I'll just say this -- in my first job, as a filing clerk in his office, I encountered an implant lying on the counter like a tumescent water balloon, with all the lateral slurdge attendant to its unfettered state. And...well, that kind of took the bloom off the rose right there.