Portable Curiosities Read Online Free
Author: Julie Koh
motorised, guiding the distressed ship to safety despite the best efforts of the Dolphin and his seafaring cronies to sink the vessel.
The closing credits roll. The theme song kicks in: half sax, half sex.
In the bonus DVD feature, The Making of the Fantastic Breasts , the producers discuss how they screen-tested every A-list set of Hollywood breasts for the role but discovered none fantastic enough to cast.
The producers recount to the camera how they pled with the Fantastic Breasts to play themselves in the title role. The producers look at each other knowingly, cross their arms and grin. They tell us they got their way in the end, and that casting the Fantastic Breasts as the Fantastic Breasts turned out to be a masterful stroke of filmmaking â a giant leap forward for twenty-first-century cinema.
The producers fail to mention, however, the TV spin-off series they financed, which stars a less fantastic set of breasts and which has found itself playing 3 a.m. TV slots a little earlier than anticipated.
Although the Fantastic Breasts save the world by day, theyâre mine by night.
I serenade them under the stars in the middle of a Roman piazza. I dine with them in a candlelit garden, where a lute player perches on the side of a fountain and strums Renaissance melodies. I feed them strawberries and chocolate truffles on Saturday nights. I whisper them sweet nothings. I grow them English roses and carpet the bedroom with petals. I present them with my great-grandmotherâs rings. I praise their kindness, generosity and intelligence; let them precede me into lifts, through doorways and railway ticket gates; converse with their less well-endowed friends at interminable dinner parties; cuddle them when theyâre not in the mood; and listen to their rants about the inconsiderate citizens of the metropolis.
Every evening, without fail, the Fantastic Breasts and I go out together for a stroll. People marvel at their charm and at how proud I must feel to be the companion of the Fantastic Breasts. At home, we sit by the fire and I tell the Fantastic Breasts how beautiful they are. The Breasts curl up against me like helpless, blind puppies.
But sometimes, when Iâm feeling down, I start thinking that the Fantastic Breasts arenât all that fantastic. I begin to think theyâre getting full of themselves and I wonder who they think they are, going around assuming they deserve a capital F and a capital B and thinking they can parade me around the streets like some sort of trophy.
So I take them out for a walk and when people start gawking I whisper sweet nothings to the breasts like Stay, Sit, Fetch, Heel, Roll Over and Beg.
And when I tire of that, I put them back in the bedroom and say Lie Down and I whisper that they dress like theyâre asking for it and that theyâre looking flabbier these days and that the producers called earlier to ask why theyâre so out of shape and I whisper to the breasts that I saw them flirting with that extra on set Iâm not stupid I see whatâs going on and maybe itâs my fault for assuming I could expect more from breasts that make the lewd sort of movies they make and then I start feeling a bit better about myself and even a bit like a superhero and I push the breasts up against the wall and hold them there and they squirm and their boots canât touch the floor. Then I release them and the breasts start getting their clothes together and stuffing them into a big bag and I punch a wall and I shout where are you going you donât have any real friends and all your moneyâs in my bank account and I punch another wall to match the hole in the first one because of course I like symmetry and then the breasts cower against the wardrobe and so I stop punching holes and sit on the bed and sob into my hands and promise I wonât do it again and I say I know itâs my problem Iâm messed up and will they forgive me Iâm only being
The closing credits roll. The theme song kicks in: half sax, half sex.
In the bonus DVD feature, The Making of the Fantastic Breasts , the producers discuss how they screen-tested every A-list set of Hollywood breasts for the role but discovered none fantastic enough to cast.
The producers recount to the camera how they pled with the Fantastic Breasts to play themselves in the title role. The producers look at each other knowingly, cross their arms and grin. They tell us they got their way in the end, and that casting the Fantastic Breasts as the Fantastic Breasts turned out to be a masterful stroke of filmmaking â a giant leap forward for twenty-first-century cinema.
The producers fail to mention, however, the TV spin-off series they financed, which stars a less fantastic set of breasts and which has found itself playing 3 a.m. TV slots a little earlier than anticipated.
Although the Fantastic Breasts save the world by day, theyâre mine by night.
I serenade them under the stars in the middle of a Roman piazza. I dine with them in a candlelit garden, where a lute player perches on the side of a fountain and strums Renaissance melodies. I feed them strawberries and chocolate truffles on Saturday nights. I whisper them sweet nothings. I grow them English roses and carpet the bedroom with petals. I present them with my great-grandmotherâs rings. I praise their kindness, generosity and intelligence; let them precede me into lifts, through doorways and railway ticket gates; converse with their less well-endowed friends at interminable dinner parties; cuddle them when theyâre not in the mood; and listen to their rants about the inconsiderate citizens of the metropolis.
Every evening, without fail, the Fantastic Breasts and I go out together for a stroll. People marvel at their charm and at how proud I must feel to be the companion of the Fantastic Breasts. At home, we sit by the fire and I tell the Fantastic Breasts how beautiful they are. The Breasts curl up against me like helpless, blind puppies.
But sometimes, when Iâm feeling down, I start thinking that the Fantastic Breasts arenât all that fantastic. I begin to think theyâre getting full of themselves and I wonder who they think they are, going around assuming they deserve a capital F and a capital B and thinking they can parade me around the streets like some sort of trophy.
So I take them out for a walk and when people start gawking I whisper sweet nothings to the breasts like Stay, Sit, Fetch, Heel, Roll Over and Beg.
And when I tire of that, I put them back in the bedroom and say Lie Down and I whisper that they dress like theyâre asking for it and that theyâre looking flabbier these days and that the producers called earlier to ask why theyâre so out of shape and I whisper to the breasts that I saw them flirting with that extra on set Iâm not stupid I see whatâs going on and maybe itâs my fault for assuming I could expect more from breasts that make the lewd sort of movies they make and then I start feeling a bit better about myself and even a bit like a superhero and I push the breasts up against the wall and hold them there and they squirm and their boots canât touch the floor. Then I release them and the breasts start getting their clothes together and stuffing them into a big bag and I punch a wall and I shout where are you going you donât have any real friends and all your moneyâs in my bank account and I punch another wall to match the hole in the first one because of course I like symmetry and then the breasts cower against the wardrobe and so I stop punching holes and sit on the bed and sob into my hands and promise I wonât do it again and I say I know itâs my problem Iâm messed up and will they forgive me Iâm only being
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