Published on: 19 May 06:42
Nic asks
My b00bs keep growing; I am worried the devil is coming to collect my soul soon.
Long story short, when I was in high school, I jokingly made a pact with the devil for bigger b00bs. I figured it didn't work, but 15 years later, my b00bs won't stop growing. I went up 3 cup sizes in the last 6 months.
How can I undo this and save my soul?
My answer
A few ways around this:
(1) Ever heard of Γgedei Khan? He was a Mongol chieftan centuries ago, (one of Genghiz's sons) and a drunkard. His overlord told him to cut down to one cup of booze a day or it's curtains. He complied by using a cup the size of a monsoon bucket. Why not do the same? Shout from every rooftop your adoption of your glorious new A-cup bra. Turns out the cups are full-sized interstellar satellite dishes. NASA might eventually want their Voyager-comms systems back, though they've got mighty fine heads on their shoulders, I'm sure they'll realise you're putting their kit to fine use.
(2) Calories in, calories out, right? Mass in, mass out? Why not become a wetnurse? I hear there's a fad amongst bodybuilders these days to use human breast milk as their prime protein source, as it's the milk human digestions are most suited to. What's the ratio of litres to cup sizes these days? Only three cup sizes in six months would barely nourish Pee Wee Herman ... hm. What were the exact terms of your devil-pact? Why not sustain beefier bloke(s)? Ever considered additional pacts with additional demons to produce waps of truly inconceivable vastness and splendour? (If it's not a personal question? [1]) Approach Beelzebub, Lucifer, Pluto, Cthulhu, even Ellen DeGeneres, why not? You could be just the gal to provide bounty and sustenance imperishable to entire nations' Olympic Games teams. Just imagine the opening ceremony: the Canadian team enters the ceremony venue trotting in formation, trussed and kitted up as dray horsies, hauling a colossal golden chariot housing (1) a vast sloshy open-topped reservoir of delectable neon lactic ambrosia; (2) a pair of colossal over-taxed hydro turbines hooked up to your waps and doing their damndest to pump and quailing at the backlog; and, last but not least: (3) your resplendent gleaming self, reclining supine and gorgeous on a magnificent golden throne, eating lembas or something by the cubic mile, or anything with the insane caloric densities required to maintain yield, and hollering at the more novice Help that your boobs' equatorial provinces respond most happily to the really vicious Thai massages, but their temperate regions require a teensy bit more sweet-talking, and rather more pliant, sensual fondling. Yeah. Like that. That's it! Perfect! Now those latest twelve temps, yeah the exquisite ones, they will plumpen and polish your areolas until they can see their faces in them, for you'd promised Bhutan's yachting teams that tomorrow's Second Brekkie will be extra-creamy, and you are a woman of your word. Now they'd better hop to it or their bones will fortify Third Brekkie.
What modern woman wouldn't thirst for all that? It'd be awesome. The Devil will no doubt become so flabbergasted and overawed by your breastly magnificence that he'd return not only your soul, but the souls of every deceased Olympic wetnurse in his archives. You may have company.
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Source: https://www.facebook.com/groups/393804108644865/po...
