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2002-12-02 - 5:32 a.m.

diva e-mailed me (again) yesterday and asked why, when I ramble on about our moronic escapades, I don’t depict her as the beautiful, busty diva she is.

Well, dear friend, there are countless reasons. This essay board is not a vehicle of deception and I’m not going to bamboozle my loyal readers, nor do I intend to make it a stage where you can act out your self-delusions. But two chief reasons pointing (or not pointing) to the fallacy of bustiness are your evident lack of bosoms. Bottom line, you are not stacked! Nil. Nix. Nada. Goose eggs, old friend.

diva’s inquiry did, however, send my ill-manner and unbalanced mind off in a tizzy. A mission of sorts. My friend is quite obviously suffering from delusions of grandeur--aberrations of the voluptuous kind--and in need of reality checks. I could help, if I could only convince her she was not a buxom Jane Russell knock off. How many ways could I tell her she was flat-chested?

It might be outright rude to shatter her long-held myth and divulge she is really landlord to itty bitty titties. Certainly it would be a crushing blow to the over-inflated picture she has of herself. Nor would it be appetizing to inform her she has two eggs over easy sitting on her chest or to disclose she’s, in fact, flat as a pancake, or to erase her fixed large-breasted fantasy and replace it with the realistic snapshot of raisins!

Breastless seems somehow tasteless, and under-developed is understating the little facts of life. Bee bites would add to the pain of a flat reality, and little bubbies is not nearly forceful enough to attract attention. In fact, with diva’s frequent selective hearing, she might mistake bubbies for baubles and, once again, tell me she didn’t get many baubles in the settlement!

Reverse psychology is touted as being effective, so maybe I should clarify what it means to have: bazumas, bazungas, gazungas or mazoomas. Or hell, possibly the best way to destroy her deluded belief is to cut straight away to the issue and tell her the truth: diva, you do not have, nor did you ever have, colossal hooters, mighty headlights, bodacious tatas or--you demented boob--kingsized bazookas!

I don’t intend to be cruel, so once diva has accepted her sorry flat state, I’ll point out the perks and benefits of being flat as a board:

You can save money and stop buying Duct Tape to create cleavage. Your holiday sweatshirts are roomier. There’s never any need to worry about being groped. Cold weather, tight sweater, no problem. You’ll never receive a blackeye while jogging. Guys talk to your face. You’ll never slam those raisins in the refrigerator boor, although a mammogram might be somewhat painful.

When you snuggle, you won’t suffocate your boyfriend, and you’ll fit nicely into small spaces. You can continue saving for the day you’ll get a boob job. As you age, your pancakes won’t slip and get caught in your belt. You can wear the itty bitty teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini you’ve always dreamed of. But the best perk as a result of itty bitty titties is bras are optional! A little masking tape and you’re good to go!

The Big Kahuna of Holidays is drawing near, putting an A-cup or training bra in diva’s Christmas stocking might bring her to face the truth: Them ain’t bodacious tatas, old friend!

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