Five Inch Beef Curtains

 

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I’ve been sitting alone in an exam room at my new plastic surgeon’s office for about a half hour now with nothing to read but these brochures.

Normally I’d be bored out of my skull, but beyond this wall is some kind of nurse’s lounge, and I can hear everyone talking all kinds of shit.

It’s pretty fantastic water cooler gossip.

There’s talk of a lady “with five inch beef curtains” who got a much needed vaginal rejuvenation procedure.

There’s also talk of a new trend where Asian women are getting heroic doses of Restylane injected into their labias. One nurse says they do it to look like prepubescent girls, and the another nurse thinks it probably gives tiny penised Asian men a little more traction.

Fucking priceless.

 

Dear last night’s DJ,

You fucking sucked. Yes, Michael Jackson died, but that does not give you license to play bad 80’s dance pop sprinkled with a few awkwardly mixed MJ hits.

It wasn’t 80’s night, asshole. Even if it was, I have faith that the club owner would have hired a DJ who didn’t learn everything he knows about that decade from watching a Beverly Hills Cop marathon.

A real DJ would have patiently built up to that perfect 12:45 moment and then dropped an homage of carefully chosen Jackson beats from all four decades.

You used Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ as cheap ploy to pull people back on the dance floor after losing the crowd before midnight. Dick move, dude.

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