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Jonathan Souza
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This has to exist, but I can't find it.

I want to find a company that makes replacement parts for cars. Not high-performance parts, not "racing" parts, but the same parts as the usual specification, but better. Higher quality materials, better tolerances, lighter weight, etc, etc, etc.

If I can trim about 250lbs from your car, that's one less person you're carrying around, and the cost of the gas and the wear and tear on your vehicle, etc, etc, etc.
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I'm not ever getting married, I'm reasonably certain. But I'm totes jealous of the girl wearing this for her wedding.

Designed and created for our bridal customer Rachelle. The top half of the dress is a sheer power mesh with branches sprawling across the chest and up her shoulders. From the branches sheer and opaque purple 3D flowers blossom. A cascade of petals tumbles down into her skirt looking as though they are falling from the branches. The skirt is a layer of white satin with an overlay of custom made ombre chiffon then an airy layer of white tulle to soften the color.
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I wonder, is this whole White Male Privilege thing like the Alaska Oil Royalty Fund? If this is the case, then clearly somebody missed my change of address. I'm not getting anything from my White Male Privilege payments! There's probably dozens of missed checks somewhere and they can't get my address right.

I want my big-ass White Male Privilege checks, and I can claim all other sorts of additional payments to that fund (heterosexual, conservative, "gun nut", etc, etc, etc) that I can probably support eight, nine people at a lower middle class level of income. It would be upper middle class, but I'm putting that money away in a nice rolling ten year annuity in the people I'm supporting's name. So that if at some point you get tired of me and want to go away, you've got money in the bank for a while to not have to worry about a damned thing or finding somewhere else to stay for a while.

Okay, maybe only seven, perhaps eight if I'm going to get the decent house that I want. But, I'm going to start asking for resumes for the harem manager, and I suspect that I might have to trim down to six to get the RIGHT harem manager.

Maybe five. Good harem managers are NOT cheap or easy to find. Especially with the secondary qualifications.
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So, surreal dream sequence coming up.

I’m driving home from work, and the girlfriend calls. I know the girlfriend from real life. I’m not saying who she is, but if she asks privately, I will confirm it. “Hey,” she says, “can you stop by the store and pick me up some new breasts? Got an outfit I want to try out and need bigger cleavage.”

“How large?”

“Oh, bigger than my usual size,” she replied. “Just pick up what you can find and bring it back home.”

So, I pull into the Wallget that was on the way from work, grab a cart and head over to the breast section. When I turn the corner, I realize that I’m screwed. The “small” shelf? Empty. The “large” shelf? Empty. The “you wish you were banging a porn star” shelf? Deserted, small layer of dust, everything. The “you really have a problem” shelf? One kit left, for a 54 LL breast set with matching ass.

Before we go further, go to Google Images and put in “54 LL Breast Model”. Go on, I’ll wait.

Done? Yea, understand that this was NOT a small box. We’re talking about the size of a decent tabletop microwave size of box. With labels and stickers on it. So, I manage to get the kit into the cart, and as I’m heading to the register, I can feel the eyes of everybody on me, looking at the kit and thinking of just how much of a dirty pervert I am. The sniff from the lady at the register didn’t help any.

(Well, I AM a dirty pervert, but if I wanted to share that with people, I’d be wearing my kilt.)

Drag the box back into the car and come home, girlfriend is waiting for me. She is NOT happy with the kit I’ve got. “I wanted bigger breasts,” she tells me, “not future back problems!”

“I sent you photos from the store, this was the only kit they had that was larger than your usual size,” I replied. “I called before I bought it, you were busy and I had to get home in enough time to install it.”

She looks sheepish and says, “Yea, you got a point.” So, she takes her top off and sits down. “Well, let’s get it installed.”

I can tell you this from experience-always upgrade your girlfriend. When I got my current one, I spent a cheerful three day weekend pulling all the bearings and screws and connectors from her and putting in high end after-market parts. And, the makers will always try to screw you-my girlfriend is pretty damn high end, and when I pulled the “stainless steel” screws? Cheap aluminum ones, didn’t even twitch when I ran a magnet over them. Bearings? Cheap-ass Chinese ones, I put in the really good German ones and she told me that she never felt so smooth before. And, it makes any repair work easier in the future-I swear to GOD that I was scared that I was going to strip the bolts from her left clavicle trying to replace them.

She moved so much better and was three kilos lighter when I was done. Best investment I’ve made.

So, I get out the cordless drill, the 9mm hex head, pull the bolts, and take off her current breasts. Unplug them, plug in the new ones, put the bolts in and make sure everything fits right. The ass takes a bit more work-namely lube and a rubber mallet. There was some…ah, warping issues.

She tries out the new hardware, and goes, “This is weird, and heavy. But, let me get dressed and tell me what you think.” While she goes upstairs, I’m putting away my tools and cleaning up. By the time I’m done, she’s at the top of the stairs, in costume. And, she looks awesome, a spectacular sight to see.

As she’s coming down the steps, her new hardware throws her off balance just enough…and she trips and falls. Right down at me.

Ever had a moment where you knew you were going to die? That transcendent moment of knowledge that there was NOTHING you could do to stop the death approaching you? That was what I saw as she fell at me, because there were one of three possibilities at this point-

1)Her breasts were going to hit me in the face and knock my head clean off my neck and toss it back like a soccer ball,
2)She was going to land on me, and her cleavage was going to suffocate me in a perfect marshmellow hell, or
3)She was going to get up after landing on me, see the tent that was forming in my pants, and beat seven colors of shit of me.

And, in that slow motion that happens when you have enough adrenaline in your system to hop up an entire floor of Chinese gold farmers, I could see her breasts coming closer and closer. I could feel the warmth from her skin, the smell of her perfume, and just as I could feel the slightest touch of the fabric of her outfit…

My alarm goes off.

My subconscious hates me, I know.
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Okay, just had confirmation that Harlan Ellison has just kicked the bucket.

Does this mean that "The Last Dangerous Visions" will FINALLY get published?

Or will his literary executor, according to everything that I've heard, destroy all of his unpublished manuscripts immediately upon confirmation of death?
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"You're using a groundhog day loop to be a successful pickup artist."

"You're just jealous that you didn't think of it first."
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Damn it, it's bad enough when my life is looking like a John Ringo novel.

It starts to royally SUCK when it starts looking like a Charles Stross novel.
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