Hey! Do you know a lady who's an avid oenophile yet a tad deficient in the boobular department? Is she a card carrying member of the local wine tasting society AND the itty-bitty-tittie-committee? Do her a huge favor and buy her a Wine Rack bra! It's a clever undergarment that makes literal the "jugs" euphemism by transforming her mammary glands into booze vessels.
It's a brilliant concept, we must admit. A gal can get all gussied up for a night of honky-tonkin, top off the tank with some Almaden cabernet (or a fifth of Southern Comfort if she's a REAL whore), and head out to the local juke joint. The fellas, no doubt, will take note of her pendulous sweater meat. And if, during her come-hither interpretation of the achy-breaky (the hillbilly dance of the seven veils), some plumber takes a shine to her, she can shove a spigot into his mouth and feed him a quart of Jesus juice. Repeat. By the end of the evening, he'll be too sloshed to notice or care about her diminished cup size; in fact he'll be so indiscriminate he'd shtup anything with a pulse and/or an orifice. Everybody wins! Yay!
Yet we have our reservations. First of all, the optimum conditions for storing wine are 55 degrees and moderately humid. We suspect that after an evening of doing the electric slide and tongue kissing the roto-rooter dude, the quality of a gal's sweat-drenched blouse bordeaux may have been compromised (to say nothing of her long-deceased self-esteem). But most distressing is the looming possibility that someone will discover yet another female body part to double as a booze vessel. The "wine in a box" vaginal keg is not something the world needs.
Okay, okay. We hear your accusations. Our homosity disqualifies us from making such claims. But in our defense we're no more inclined to drink a glass of Budweiser from the spigot of some dude's balls-o-beer jock strap.
The thing is, and call us squeamish, but we firmly believe that food and drink oughtn't be stowed in one's sin zone. It strikes us as untidy, unappetizing, and patently unhygienic.
Case in point, when a classy broad by the pole-dancy name of Lori Shannon Turner placed an order for two burgers at a McDonald's, she promptly stuffed a "big and tasty" into her panties and attempted to accuse a hapless McEmployee of shorting her. Presumably, she meant to extract her diabolically concealed burger at a later hour and serve it up as a piping hot entree ("um, mom? this special sauce tastes funny").
We submit that any meat product concealed in the crotch of a McDonald's customer is by definition toxic.
Perhaps there's a temptation for females to make excessive use of their own God-given glove compartment. Tic-tacs? Lipstick? Pepper spray? Fine. But we hear stories of classy gals who smuggle guns, grenades, kilos of horse, syringes, all sorts of contraband stuffed up their baby chutes. Even a North Korean spy-girl whose oopsie zone carried a lethal dose of cyanide, which stands as a stark warning to anyone tempted to cunnilingicize a dame from the DPRK.
But food? Nope. We believe setting up an arsenal in one's lady cave is one thing, but a vaginal 7-11 is quite another. Exhibit one: this TOTALLY NSFW photo essay, showing a woman stuffing a raw chicken up her hoop-de-hoo at the supermarket. Desperate times may call for desperate measures, but no measure so desperate as exposing one's labia to salmonella and frying up a steaming bucket of yeast-infected fricassee. What kind of boob-wine goes with crotch chicken, anyway?
This trend has to stop. This bud must be nipped. Or mark our words, in some back-water town (probably Tuscaloosa) a chick will show up at a state fair selling corn dogs from her poo-hole. Pass the mustard.
Supermarket gal sez: "This blog's feed makes me feel like chicken tonite!"