The Monster

A lesson learned. Bras should be washed and rinsed by hand, not spun in a washing machine. One would scarcely think that spinning a dozen bras, even for three minutes, could produce such a monstrous multi-breasted creature as the one that this afternoon confronted me, but it can and it does. I know. I saw it. In fact, I became entangled with it, such that I feared for my very life. Had even one twisted tentacle of those elastic tendrils wound about my throat, I might not be here now to tell the story. In the dead heat of mid afternoon, I found myself locked in combat with those many breasts - assaulted, to put it simply - pulling, twisting, stretching, cursing. Never, I think, have female garments been subjected to such fluent strings of blasphemy. Never, as well, have common breast cups become so sweaty as these that came into contact with my limbs, my chin, my nose, my head in this seemingly endless struggle. One of us, either I or the octopus, would be undone if it took the rest of the day and night. How can it be, I wondered, as I began to gain the upper hand, that these breasts can look so nice when hanging on my wife and yet so unworldly when left to themselves? A mystery and a riddle, and one that will not likely be answered by those defeated pink and creme colored cups that now hang serenely dripping on the clothesline.