I have been complaining to the sister about the fact that my fanny had disappeared. No, I don’t mean I have lost any tonnage. I mean it seems to have taken up residency elsewhere. I have lost my alluring curvature, once a vital necessity in attracting ogles and whistles from disgusting male perverts. My fanny has dropped overnight, and spread far and wide.
The sister handed me a magazine a while ago, and told me she had found an answer to my latest trauma of old age. Of course I couldn’t read the advertisement without my glasses, so she threw the magazine on the floor so I could see it. When things came into focus, I found that Hollywood fashion secrets correcting drooping bootys had been revealed by a fashion insider. It was called the “Booty Pop”.
My imagination ran wild. Was it possible that I could actually reinvent myself and my depressed derriere? I just had to find out. I ordered the “Booty Pop”” panty, feeling a lot like Ralphie waiting for his decoder ring.
It arrived. I dashed upstairs to my room, or should I say huffed and puffed, and slid into my “Booty Pop”, or should I say tucked, squirmed, and jammed my flab into my “Booty Pop”. After my head cleared and the dizziness subsided, I waddled over to my full length mirror and had a little looksie.
Great day in the morning! This thing worked! Aside from the displacement rolls hanging above and below the panty, this “Booty Pop” might be just the ticket. I swung around a few times, posing and positioning myself in every angle. Yessiree, that Hollywood fashion whistle blower was on to something, God bless her.
The one issue seemed to be the leftovers. I thought the thigh humps might be absorbed by some support panty hose, but the hills of Navarone were problematic. I sat down to read more helpful hints. When I did, I noticed a distinct but subtle “bounce”. It reminded me of those big balls with handles that the kids play with out on the street. I got up and seated myself again. Yes, there was a definite bounce. I found myself more interested in the bounce than in the advertised “eye popping booty” results.
Every now and then, a moment has to be shared to be enjoyed to the fullest, so I hollered to the sister to come quick. Nuthin. I hollered again, and then a third time. Finally my bedroom door opens. To say the look on the sister’s face was priceless would be an understatement.
There I was in my Earnheardt racing tee-shirt and “Booty Pop”, boinging up and down on my chair like Tigger, laughing like a fool.
“Watch this,” I said, as I bounced from one cheek to the other. I actually danced while sitting down, boogying from side to side. The sister was actually half smiling. I like to amuse the sister, because it bodes well for me when I do something that really pisses her off, so I continued with my exhibition. All was going well, and we were laughing like fools, but I guess I shouldn’t have begun waving my arms around. One hooked onto a shelf loaded down with some Wedgewood figurines.
Needless to say, the frivolity ended abruptly. The kids heard the crash, rushed upstairs probably hoping I had finally killed myself, and burst into my room. The sister unnecessarily assured them I was fine. The middle child’s reaction consisted of “Eeeeewwwwww! Giiiiiig!”
When the sister helped me up the little guy’s eyes bugged out of his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off my “Booty Pop”, which by the way had repositioned itself upward, giving me a humpback. As the sister dragged him out of the room, he kept insisting I had dislocated something, and suggested calling 911. Poor thing. I hope I haven’t traumatized him again.
Well, my “Booty Pop” has been retired to the closet. I’m thinking I might drag it out for the next formal engagement I attend, you know, like the Memorial Day Parade. That would give the old duffers something to remember.