Dare Me?My Boobs Need Support
By Sarah Buckley
Well, I’m famous. Last week I wrote a column about using pickup lines at a party and within a day, it was posted across the internet. The fame came mostly from a listing on http://www.fark.com: over 26,000 of their readers viewed my article within 24 hours of its appearance.
The first piece of criticism I received was that my article had “no arc” to it. So I hope you’re all satisfied with the availability of arc within my column this time around. I made a sincere effort to include arc. You’ll see — this one is chock full of arc. The Tech is practically shitting arc this week, and I can imagine the custodial staff will have a hard time mopping it all up.
Anyway, a few posts later things really started turning sour. Some of the farkers found photos of me online, the kind of photos that are snapped just as you’re making some weird face. They were downright awful, and I incurred slews of humorous insults on their behalf. I swear I don’t normally look “horsefaced” (I will back this claim up — keep reading), but based on the pictures they found, I could definitely see where they were coming from.
Happily, almost all of the responses were positive, except for the one man who choked on salad while laughing at one of my numerous jokes and needed to have his young cousin jump on his stomach in an approximation of the Heimlich maneuver. Boy, was he pissed. But for the most part, I was flattered, questioned for love advice, and even asked out. Yet I was still hung up about that fark thread. I can take most of the insults because I know that I am attractive. But there’s something I have to get off my chest (haha, you don’t know why that’s funny, yet): the one comment that lingered in my mind was being called boobless. I’ve always taken pride in my 32Bs — they’re small enough that I don’t need to wear a bra everyday but big enough to get me by when size matters. And yet the average American is a full-on C (and fat), which means that I’m sub-par.
That settled it. I decided to accept a dare that I had received a few days prior: do a breast implant fundraiser. I’ve got a grand in the bank right now, enough to buy me a “doctor” who’d chloroform me and then stuff dog poo in my chest, but I need to fork over at least $5000 for the real deal. So my challenge was to raise $4000 toward making my boobs bigger.
I walked (hobbled) over to the CVS in Central Square and got supplies to make a poster that read “Need $$ for BOOB JOB.” And yes, I made the double-Os look like heaving mounds of cleavage. Then I went back outside and stripped off my clothes until I was just wearing the bikini I’d put on that morning, and I held up the sign. People stopped. Cars stopped. Time itself dilated.
Also I was cold, but that didn’t matter because I was suddenly the center of quite a bit of attention. I spent my time basking in the honks, posing for photos (“Wait till my girlfriend sees this! She’ll just die!”), and of course collecting money (“My girlfriend wouldn’t approve of me giving you this, but…”). The most common piece of feedback I received was “Don’t get a boob job — they’re perfect just the way they are!” A couple guys asked me if I was a model (“Yes, but it’s so difficult for B-cups to find work these days.”) An old lady asked if I was demented and then graced me with the Evil Eye that you learn how to give young’uns when you turn 70.
After 15 minutes, I couldn’t feel my limbs anymore and so was considering putting my clothes back on when I saw a police officer approaching me. In a flash of panic, I forgot that my foot was broken and tried to run away, only to be hit by searing pain shooting up my leg. The policeman chased me as I limped into a nearby bank and collapsed over a radiator. Here’s a hint for any of you trying to evade the cops: don’t run into the closest building and curl into a ball; they will catch you. So we had the following exchange:
Cop: What the hell are you doing?
Me: [Holds up sign, looks sheepish]. Is this illegal?
Cop: Uhm. I don’t know. [Looks at my chest]. You’re going to cause an accident with those.
In the end I only made $5, and at that rate it would take me nine days to collect the money I needed. But I’m not disappointed. Maybe I should listen to the wisdom of Central Square and feel good about my knockers.
And of course I have pictures of this. You can check them out at http://www.mit.edu/~sabuckle. And to the farkers: I dare you to use one in a Photoshop contest.
Send dares and autograph requests to email@example.com.