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A couple of days ago a dynamic duo named Beth & Paul sold me an oak desk/hutch they’d advertised on Craigslist. The hutch is eminently drawable but needs company; thus this page was born. It is a sometimes thinly, sometimes thickly disguised celebration of puns and other word-association sorties, sorta. (Like those last two words.) (Like those last two words?)

Here is the quadruple-acrostic transcription:

Some friendly Flicka ate her oats & whinnied, meaning Pooh
The queen of Egypt slaked her thirst & Brutus he et tu
Avoirdupois was pounded out & tried & found in want
Recovery’s de-livery’s a frisked & bucking bronc
So roar at ease Sorority: shellac & conquer conch

Breasts are many things. They are definers of mammals. They are enablers of the continued existence of human beings. They are life-threatening catchers of rogue cells. They are distractions, enticements, modified sweat glands, fabric stretchers, objects of desire, objects of derision, objects of adiposity, curiosity, virtuosity–but let’s get on with this post. Here is the page I made yesterday, which is about a specific type of breast, the enhanced breast, and about the instrument of its enhancement, the silicone implant.

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Here are the words to the tricky, brain-busting quadruple acrostic:

Stuff cabbage–check! Stuff sausage–yes! stuff silicone? Ten-four
Quick-bobble will make wobblers with more perk than neoprene
Unlike that I Love Lucy star with monogram VV
Implanteds get invited to the finest posh soiree
Some grace a this-month centerfold or ad in social media
Help adolescent boys get off and make a Grandpa swell
Enduring fame may not be hers but O the current melee
Delights that ditzy Jersey girl whose bra size is DD

For the most part I am against breast-enhancement surgery. It seems invasive, dangerous, and barbaric to me. But for a wonderful friend of mine, subjected to a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, and various other tortures of the damned, it may provide a semblance of normalcy and rebelonging, and I’m all for that.

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The 16th-Century apothecary and prognosticator Michel de Nostredame, popularly known as Nostradamus, is most likely better-known than the 20th-century biochemist, raconteur, limericist, Futurian, essayist, humorist, correspondent, toastmaster, and, yes, prognosticator, Isaac Asimov. Dr. Asimov is perhaps best known for his Foundation series, which covered more than a thousand years of Galactic history. But he also wrote Asimov’s Guide to Science, Asimov’s Guide to Shakespeare, Asimov’s Guide to the Bible, and about four hundred other books that made him the only author to have original writing in every single major Dewey Decimal System classification in the library. His daily writing streak extended from his teens till close to the end of his death at 72. In addition to his books, he corresponded with EVERYONE who wrote him–over one hundred THOUSAND letters.

Indeed, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I never wrote him. I wanted to–I had found what was perhaps a fatal flaw in the logic of his science-fiction short story “Billiard Ball.” But I had not the wherewithal to do so. Alas! His letter to me would have been one of my most prized possessions.

My late, great father was fond of saying “Less prediction, more production.” This is the latest of my several salutes to him. And I’d also acknowledge Thomas Carlyle for his immortal quotation: “Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in God’s name! ‘Tis the utmost thou hast in thee: out with it, then. Up, up! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might. Work while it is called Today; for the Night cometh, wherein no man can work.” And–what the hell, grateful acknowledgment also to Harlan Ellison, writer of more than one thousand short stories, without whom I might never have read Carlyle’s quotation.