** Big Knockers **

For you, Warren. Ask and you shall receive. Happy Friday.

*                                  *                                  *                                  *

It was cold that winter… real cold. I remember it well. College girls were frantically buying up all the cotton balls from the basement panther pit stop and stuffing them into their bras, hoping against the odds that the fibrous substance would create enough of a barrier to prevent hardened nipples from ripping through the thin fabric of yet another vintage washed Abercrombie baby doll t-shirt. It was madness I tell you. Madness.
But there we were, my roommate and I. Sprawled out in the middle of our fourth story dorm room amidst cans of spray paint, anti-bush propaganda, issues of punk rock weekly, feminist zines, and one gigantic overstuffed luv sac. Sorting through polaroids of flaccid penises. We were tired, you see. Tired of being objectified. Tired of being commoditized. Tired of being qualified by the content of our cup size rather than the strength of our character. Fuck these Abercrombie tits, we decided. Finally – we’d had enough.
“I can’t take this anymore!” screamed Clash, tightening her grip on a particularly hairy polaroid. “If they can get away with this, we can too!”
Her eyes were mad – two round saucers nearly the size of her brand new diva cup courtesy of Amazon perched on a nearby dresser next to my Nintendo.
I’d never seen her this way.
“Clash, what are you saying!?” I gasped, recoiling deeper into the sac, mindfully avoiding the 12 hour old jizz stain she and Frodo had carelessly neglected to properly remove the night before. “A-a… are you… PRO BUSH!!!???”
The words! Oh god – the words! They sliced through my newly pierced tongue upon delivery like the dulled blades of the very pair of craft scissors she and I had used to hack off her bleached blonde hair naught two hours before. The blood flowed so freely I doubled over, nearly retching into the wooden milk crate containing my latest addition to a very well stocked collection of vinyl – Anti-Flag’s The Terror State, signed, still in its Amoeba bag.
“I’m sorry Niner – but I am. I never thought I’d say this, but I am thoroughly Pro Bush.” Her chest heaved at the proclamation as penises rained down from her fingers, landing with a flutter upon her converse clad feet.
Like soggy butterflies.
“Then so it shall be done,” I resolved, “but Clash – if we’re going to do this,” I urged, slowly raising my bare arms into a withered T, like a duck preparing to take flight, “we’re going all the way…”

My face grew solemn, “… let it grow Clash,” I whispered, “let it grow…”

And grow it did.
News of our endeavor spread far and wide. Coeds whispered words like thickness and length in the halls – stole glances at room 420 as they passed on their way to the elevators. Until finally, it was time.
I sat cross legged on my extra long twin bed, wrapped in a fuzzy leopard blanket brought back from Tiajuana, clutching a box of red hair dye. Holding my breath.
Outside the rain pelted against our window. Thunder rolled. Lightening flashed. The bathroom door flew open and Clash broke through, stark naked, double-Ds flying, letting out a shrill cackle as she opened her stance wide and threw back her head in reckless abandon –
“It’s aliiiiiiivvvvveeeeeee!!!!!” she screeched, her voice carrying throughout Henley Hall – calling forth an endless swarm of residence pushing through our front door, desperate to catch a glimpse of the electric red hair that shrouded her legendary vagina and underarms like a Christmas sweater marked clearance on a post holiday mini mall window display.
It was shear chaos. With the viscosity of your grandmother’s maple syrup they filtered in, gasping in horror at the audacity of her natural state, crossing themselves before clutching orientation issued, pocket sized crucifixes and dropping to their knees in desperate prayer.
OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN
The pour soul.
HALLOWED BE THY NAME
<span style="font-size: medium”>We never saw him coming.
THY KINGDOM COME
I heard him then,
THY WILL BE DONE
above the synchronized lord’s prayer –
ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN
“Excuse me… miss… I’m here to change the filter…”
GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD
His once crisp uniform looked disheveled as he squeezed past a newly formed prayer circle, his box of tools clutched tightly in his hand, resting against his taught thigh.
AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESSPASSES
And then she was there – thrust upon him with limbs flailing like some reenactment of an ancient African tribal mating dance.
AS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO TRESPASS AGAINST US
His handsome face locked in on the barbells pierced through her hardened nipples –
AND LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION
“Alllliiiiiivvvvvvveeeeeee!!!!!” She screamed again, reaching for him.
BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL
But she was too late. His eyes had caught sight of the patchwork quilt that was her heathen fire crotch as he ducked beneath the wirey hair of her underarms.
And he screamed…
 “WHAT IN THE HELL-“
FOR THINE IS THE KINGDOM
“I can’t be here!” He screamed again. Body tense and frozen in place.
AND THE POWER
“I can’t see this!”
AND THE GLORY
“You can’t be naked!”
FOREVER
“YOU CAN’T GO FULL BUSH!”
AND EVER
And with that, he turned on his heel and barreled through the crowed, colliding with the Jesus freaks on his way to the heavy fire rated door, where he paused, smiling through terror filled eyes, to steal one final glance at her amazing knockers.
AMEN.
And you see, Warren, to this day, legend has it that the filter in Room 420 remains unchanged.

And we never heard from that poor, handsome repair man again.