It started with an innocent comment:  “Hey, what’s that spot below your breast bone, on your hoodie?”

The reply:  “I spilled my breakfast on the way into work.  But no one noticed.  See?  I have been walking around with my hand hanging like a limp wash rag just below my boob.”

And then it started.

Goof number 1:  “I thought you were trying to draw attention to your boob.”

Goof number 2:  “Did you spill that on purpose?”

Goof number 3:  “What’s that shaking?  I swear I saw shaking.”

And she did it:  She has it down to a fine art:  The pectoral muscles.  Wow. In a wink of an eye, they began to shake, rattle and roll.
Shake, shake, shake, Señora, shake your body line
Shake, shake, shake, Señora, shake it all the time

I love Beetle Juice.

“How did you do that?”

“Easy.  Clasp your hands together, grab a pole, and hey!  You have a new career path!”

We all tried it.  And we had it!  4 people, exercising their pectoral muscles, laughing raucously, after a very tough week.

Then Bill showed up.

“What’s going on?”

No one commented.  We just clasped our hands together and shook.”

“What?  What?  What’s going on?”

And in the blink of an eye, Bill began to exercise his pectorals and he did it, one boob at a time.

The four of us looked right, then left, and watched as his amazing pectorals went:  A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle.  That’s the way the boobies go. Pop goes the weasel.

It is now Friday night.  The 4 of us are home, and secretly clasping our hands together, popping our weasels and giving thanks for a spilled breakfast.







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