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by Matty Boy Anderson 07.13.07

*NOTE: This update contains absolutely NO pictures of my fiancée's boobs, nor are said images available anywhere on the InterWeb, version 2.0 or otherwise. Also, my usage of the modifier "fiancée" instead of "girlfriend" in the title should not cause anyone to think I've changed my negative opinion of marriage (we've been engaged for around two years at this point anyhow), which, as I've repeated ad nauseam, I feel like a real shithead doing, when my friends who "prefer the home team" can't. Lastly, the only people I feel inclined to apologize to for devoting an entire update to my girlfriend's chest are the few good folks who have pre-ordered a John's Arm DVD, thus funding yet another piece of whatever the fuck we always seem to need that costs piles of dollars. Those folks are most certainly my BFF and we're all gonna have a big cupcake party real soon.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: my girlfriend has the most perfect boobs in the universe. Oh, the irony of consigning these words in permanent e-marker to the internet's eternal bathroom wall won't be lost on me if we ever break up, and this page mocks me for all time as I fumble through pair after pair of substandard titties in vain. But I say this in all serious business, and assuming all inherent risks involved; my girlfriend's boobs are the best ever grown by God. You read that right- I'm so sure of myself that I casually blasphemed against a deity I don't even believe in. I'll even hyperbolize my statement to include all breasts ever up to the present. That includes your mom, Cleopatra, and Marilyn Monroe. Next to my girlfriend's rack Marilyn Monroe's tits look like cancerous tumors on Satan's ballsack.

I know what you're thinking. You think I'm ogling my girlfriend's boobs through rosy areolae-colored glasses because she's my girlfriend. Ponder this then: A blind man once regained his sight completely after simply touching my girlfriend's boobs. That story is 100% true- the very first sight that man beheld was the fine hairs on my knuckles as I proceeded to cut them up on his molars.

You also might be thinking that I, as a webmaster who collects Transformers and draws cartoons, must rank slightly above a LARPer with a hare-lip when it comes to familiarity with the flesh of legitimately desirable females. That would be just another falsehood in your hideous webwork life of falsehoods. Just because you can't technically say "no" when someone asks you if you've ever porked a retarded person, that is no reason for you to project that shit on me. Turn the computer off and work that out with your court-appointed handlers.

Now, I don't consider myself a Lothario by any means, but I've copped my share of feels since I hit puberty back in the Jurassic era. Female breasts are the only physical thing in life I like more than Transformers, and I have around 2,000 of those. I fondled all sizes possible in my never-ending Quest For The Perfect Boobs. I'd seen rare glimpses of them in the hallowed pantheon of 70's skin flicks, bouncing and jiggling in insouciant glory, but did they really exist? Had my evil brain, ever bent on entertaining itself by torturing me, fabricated a perfect, yet impossible pair of jugs to taunt me with unfulfilled desires forever?

I never faltered in my dubious Quest over the years. It's very difficult to falter when you're fondling titties. Well, unless you're a gay guy, in which case it would be kind of a gross, ironic chore. But whereas gay guys can appreciate things like ball variation and wang bumps, us hetero guys can enjoy the rich and varied palate of nipple sizes and colors. If you can think of a direction, somewhere, a girl's nipple is pointing in that direction, of its own accord! Some areolae look like dainty blossoms; some look like saucers having an allergic reaction to a pet. Some boobs disappear in a tight T-shirt; some are big and solid enough to crush a beer can, or a dumb frat-boy's vertebrae. It's almost as though no two boobs are alike, just like snowflakes, except I've never gotten a raging boner from snow. Nevertheless: somewhere, out there, is a boob for every hand. It's in the Qur'an.

It's possible that some of you are having adverse reactions to this session of My Girlfriend's Heavenly Boobs 101. Maybe you've only fondled boobs that felt like there was a marble stuck in there or something, whereas my hands literally go to 7th heaven and hand-jive with Yahweh every time I am allowed to lay them upon my girl's holy knockers. Maybe all this comes off a touch creepy, devoting this much text to this particular topic, even though it's as normal as putting an unflattering picture on MySpace. So I'll start to wrap this up, since I know everybody on the internet hates reading about boobies. A while back, it came to my attention that some people out there THOUGHT they were seeing my girlfriend's boobs on this site. Here is the culprit, from this page:

I apologize half-heartedly to anyone unable to decipher the "NSFW" at the top of this site; I know that human mammary glands are "dirty pillows" or evil kill-blobs or something and it's bad to look at them and like it. If that's the first time you've ever seen a picture of tits on the internet than you really don't belong here anyway, Count Pasty von Virgin.

Regardless, that is not my girlfriend. I have this funny program- maybe you've heard of it- called "Photo Shop" (it's not about a shop you buy photos in, bear with me), which allows me to, say, copy a picture off the internet of a slut who was paid to take her clothes off and smilingly tongue a giant rubber cock in front of a camera, and alter it. I know this practice will appear tantamount to "magic" to some of you out there, but I assure you that I mean no harm. Please do not burn me alive at the stake in town square.

In order to assume that those wads of inert silicone pictured above belong to my girlfriend, you must also assume that I am the type of person who would get his jolly rogers from posting his betrothed proffering her denuded bosom like a pair of rotten mangoes. I am not. Neither is my girlfriend the type of person who would sit still for that shit, and not, say, remove the nearest ball. Thinking that I would do something like that causes me to make an assumption about you; namely, that you've only really spoken to a handful of actual women in your life, and that nearly all of them have an IQ around that of yogurt left in a glove compartment.

The main thing that cheeses me in this particular case; there was a lengthy amount of courtship and effort involved that ultimately allowed me to glimpse my fair maiden's cleavage unfettered. You think I'm gonna just say "Ah, fuck it, I've seen 'em already; let's flop 'em in front of an entire internet full of asshole strangers!" Fuck you, chump! I don't even know you! Hell, donate $50,000 to this site if you want, I still won't show them to you! I'll use yet another stolen picture and have a hearty $50K laugh at your expense! Give me a Money!!!

I somewhat understand the prevalent net attitude... I maintain a public presence on the web, so people think they have some sort of right to see my girl's tits. If they can't see them, which they can't, they will start in with the shit-talking about how my girl's boobs obviously CAN'T be all that great. They'll even help matters by blatantly gawking at my girlfriend's chest in public. Explain this: after seeing my girlfriend nude for the first time, I lost every shred of interest not only in seeing other women naked, but in looking at naked women on the web. I used to collect hard-drives full of nude lady photos; it was the main reason that my marriage to Anne Heche fell apart (well, that and my gambling addiction, plus her tongue was inside Ellen Degeneres). Then I saw my girlfriend's nood body for the first time, and suddenly I found that all the hot pictures I had saved now depicted what appeared to be vivisected moles stuffed with cigarette butts. That is also a 100% true story.

So here is where I put the matter to rest. My girlfriend's tits will never appear on this site, because, as I learned when I first freed them myself using the patented two-finger bra-removal technique I honed through years of fumbling practice (with one hand and without looking, I can unclasp a bra and cause it to spring out of the woman's sleeve with great fanfare, before it hails a cab for points unknown), her breasts are forged from Goldilocks' Porridge Concentrate, and are so perfect as to cause euphoria bordering on hysterics in the unprepared. Posting a picture of my girlfriend's boobs would be as irresponsible as publicly posting the recipe for a banana split so delicious, it kills anyone who tastes it with an explosion of joy in their brain. What am I, a madman? That's fucking diabolical.

Lastly, you'll notice that in this update I never once wrote my girlfriend's name. That's so that if you decide to try and find out what her name is, you'll in essence be stalking, and we can all point at you and have a hearty laugh before we scare up a short-tempered cop to kick the shit out of you, you sick freak. If you'll excuse me now, I have to get back to work; not just anybody gets rewarded with the Rack That Even God's Girlfriend Covets. No joke- God's girlfriend called my girl a bitch, for no reason. I had to step in there and be all like hey, hey, hey. Be cool.

-MBA

Next time: JA posters! JA postcards! Even fewer pictures of my girlfriend's boobs! Don't miss it!