Purchasing breast implants is not a decision to be made lightly. This is why it was only after much thorough research and cheap internet advice that I decided to purchase my very own pair; a decision that I have regretted ever since.
I was able to source said implants from an accommodating Mexican website. The delivery and service was proficient, if slightly casual. The product, however, left much to be desired. Firstly they looked nothing like they did in the catalogue. Isn’t that always the case?
The picture in the brochure showed them tastefully attached to a bronze skinned South American woman in her early twenties. She wore them well, each one crowned with an areola the size and color of a Romany cream and a nipple as delectable as a Petit Rouge grape.
What I received, however, were two clear jellies, absolutely tasteless (I mean that figuratively and literally, not nearly the caramel delight I had been anticipating.) Where was my Brazilian Beauty? A terrible thought struck me. What if she had been lost by the South African Postal Service?
Somewhere between Tijuana and the Eastern Coast of South Africa was a breastless Mail-order Mexican at the mercy of God knew what third-world post office thugs. Surely the parcel was some sort of message, but what? I searched the box for a ransom note or other indicator of skullduggery: nothing.
I could only assume that they had the rest of her and would return her at a price. My next step was to trace the package back through the convoluted workings of the postal system. No one seemed to know anything, or at least feigned innocence. Surely the culprits would be eagerly awaiting my call?
Almost in hysterics at this point, I called the website from which I had made the purchase, “Listen, I’ve lost her! She’s gone and all I have are her sizeable plastic lumps!”
My outburst was met with a confused, but polite Spanish soliloquy.
“Her lumps, man! Her lumps! Her lovely lady lumps!”
More quick-fire Spanish.
“This is serious, bru! We’re talking about a human life here - a senorita, as it were!”
Nothing but confusion, I would need a translator. Out of desperation I hung up the phone.
Finding a Spanish interpreter in the small town of my residence is proving somewhat challenging. A week has passed, but I have not given up hope. My search continues and every day I gaze upon the sad silicone blobs that now reside on the shelf above my writing desk as a reminder to stay strong, to persevere, and to never ever give up on that poor, beautiful woman awaiting my rescue.
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