The breast job ever.

So check it.

One of my jobs last week was at the Women’s Imaging Center which is a really nice name for Miss Carol’s most favorite place- the boob moosher. You know, the place where you ladies go to get tortured checked for breast cancer?

When I got the work order I was all like ooh baby, baby.

I’m thinkin’ my day’s gotta be filled with Playboy bunnies and Penthouse Pets and Victoria Secret models parading around topless waiting for mammograms while I try to work and not stare, right?

I am such a turd.

Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. After tossing and turning through an anxious and anticipatory sleepless night, I strode manfully into the Women’s Imaging Center breathlessly expecting endless eye candy.

And guess what?

The waiting room was chock-a-block full of really old, REALLY FAT women. Women that I would NEVER EVER want to see topless. Women that I didn’t even like looking at fully clothed. I mean, women that even really old, REALLY FAT men wouldn’t want to check out.

And ya know?

It reminded me of a different similar experience. Decades and centuries ago when Miss Carol and me were first married, we were living in Florida, and the company I was working for scheduled me for a service call at a nudist colony.

I was all like, yesssssssss.

But then I got there and reality slapped me.  Nudist colonies are crammed full of pasty, pear shaped, ugly, white people with flappy boobs. Even the chicks.

Shit.

Why is it that my fantasies can’t be my realities?

I mean, c’mon.