send them to the military. they can become surface to air missles

I had no idea that my breasts were such underachievers until I read these excerpts. They really need to step up their game.

Then they need to get a boob job.

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The self proclaimed author reclined on the bed in a way that seemed to be trying to channel the Lotharios' of old. It wasn't working. His dark, penny-sized nipples were straining against the fabric of his cheap polyester shirt. A wild bramble of chest hair sprouted from around the unstarched collar, reaching desperately for the light - a woodland you could find yourself lost in. I suddenly wished for a machete, pruning shears...a ride on lawn mower. Anything. He smiled at me - wet lipped and eager, "My dear, your breasts look physically repulsed!" "No, that's just my face," I said, backing away slowly.

As the man walked up to me, it was clear that he wasn't going to be much of a writer...after all how could he be, with only 43 disappointing hairs crossing his shiny expanse of a crown? Crestfallen, my breasts took in the rest of him: if he only took off those glasses, i muttered to myself, he would be almost tolerable. After all, the moisture-wicking fabric stretched over his atrophied muscles clearly showed what used to be a functional set of abs. And as my breast eyes feasted further south, searching desperately for a reason, any reason at all, to bed this man, i hit upon it....his Ken-Doll penis was alive, and waiting. I thought, what the hell? He might be a writer after all.

Had she only had good breasts, a surgically narrowed waist, and hips unsuited for childbirth, truly, he might have considered her. Alas, she simply had good legs, a high IQ, a great personality... And, it turned out, one hell of a right hook when he told her she should dye her hair red to at least become interesting.

He stood there confused, bless his little blond head. The cold wind made his nipples stand out like the buttons on the microwave he used to warm up his TV dinners. His biceps tried to seduce me, so precisely set into those fabric tubes also called sleeves. I was caught off guard, and almost found him attractive for a second. But then I thought of his Ken doll penis - hard, yes, but also non-existent. Pass, I thought to myself, still smiling.

He sat across the room trying to subtly flirt with any female who would catch sight of him. He had practiced flexing his nipples so strenuously that they could cut through a Thanksgiving turkey. He looked like the kind of man that would take the greatest care of his testicles lest they resent his neglectfulness and rebel against him. Even though I suspected he couldn't stretch his penis to touch g-spots and retract it to fit in his tight shorts like most men could, I decided to steer clear of him. He was trying too hard. If he really wanted to achieve his goals of wooing the ladies so to speak, he wouldn't keep such a lukewarm, yet icy cold 5 o'clock shadow.