Looking the mirror getting ready for a friend’s birthday party, I remark to K, “wow, I have a Kim Kardashian butt!” What I meant is her rump is like mine, and they are both substantial. Sometimes when the new Victoria’s Secret magazine comes to my house, I peruse it for hours, not for the bras or swimsuits but to try to see what make those skinny flanked models tick. It is inconceivable to me how anyone could have such tiny haunches. How exactly does one roll down the street without the weight of a sizeable derriere to ground them? Given our unknown (to her) connection, I found it amusing when one of the grocery store rags blared the headline over the weekend that Kim K’s mamma is to blame for the size of her rump by forcing her to get “cheek implants.” I suppose my mother is to blame too, for marrying my dad and forcing the ba-donk-a-donk rump into my gene pool. It is entirely my dad’s fault. He is to blame when I have to jump and stuff myself into my jeans after I wash them, and he is undoubtedly at fault when I have to shamefacedly ask the sales girl for the next size up (or two) when trying on pants. Truthfully, having a unicorn horn sprout on my forehead would be no stranger to me than imagining having a svelte posterior. Yikes, TMI, is this the weirdest post I’ve ever written or what? Laters.
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