Since you are unnamed in every report we've read, we've decided you shall hereinafter be dubbed "Lola MaGoo, whose bra is a zoo." Okay?
So. Lola. Here's the shiznit. We read with shocked fascination the story about how, during a routine police interview in dazzling Warren Ohio, a fuzzy little baby squirrel popped out from 'twixt your impressive mammaries, whereupon you casually popped the lil' critter back into your cleavage and continued answering the officer's questions. You could have knocked us over with a feather.
Lola. Lola-Lola-Lola. While it may be true that our woodlands are fast disappearing to make way for Wal-Marts and Piggly-Wigglies, classier gals don't sublet their ta-tas to Bullwinkle's pal so he has a place to store his nuts. See, we like furry lil creatures too. But while you appear to have enough boobular real estate to accommodate the entire Country Bear Jamboree, allowing rodents to burrow in one's personal nooks and crannies has been passé since Richard Gere's gerbil (allegedly) went a-spelunkin up his oopsie hole. We'll say it to your (pixilated) face: it's tacky.
Beyond which, one has to ask the "why" question. When he scampers about in that deep crevasse within your over-the-shoulder boulder holder, does it tickle? Are we titillated when a rabid tree-dweller gnaws at our nipples? Dost thou harbor bite-y vermin in thy fun bags to discourage rude gropers? There's really no satisfactory answer to the whole "why" thing. We somehow doubt the lil' dickens is a squatter who moved in unnoticed. For instance, were a chipmunk to take up residence in our underoos, we feel fairly certain it wouldn't escape our scrutiny.
Finally, we are alarmed by the thought of escalation. We'd really prefer this didn't become a fad. Sure, some gals carry chihuahuas in their purses. French bitches in the Rococo period were wont to wear bird cages in their wigs. But we draw the line at opening a petting zoo in one's bosom. After all, where does it end? Is the squirrel a gateway critter? Can we expect to hear from you a year from now? Perhaps we'll read a story about how you were getting treated for distemper at the free clinic when your traumatized gynocologist encountered a hedgehog twixt your thighs or a badger up your toochis.
We can't even consider it.
Rocky sez: "Bullwinkle told me I should subscribe to this blog's feed."