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Gross teenagers and desperate husbands not included.

I was at Victoria’s Secret with my sister this morning and the place was pumpin’, filled with doting boyfriends and horny hopeful husbands picking out that perfect little ensemble to present to their significant other.  There’s nothing like the promise of cleavage romance that motivates a man to plunk down $150 on something he’s probably going to rip to shreds with his teeth anyway (and I’m just talking about the obligatory steak dinner).   Bras, panties, lace lingerie; it was all there for the picking. 

And the probing. 

And the groping.
And the………ew.

First it was the group of adolescent boys, deep in the throes of puberty, huddled over by the flourescent piles of g-strings, their grubby little hands and teenage hormones raging all over the merchandise, their mouths wide open, the drool landing in places you just don’t want drool to land.

Then it was the old man standing in front of the lingerie display, his wrinkled and cigarette stained hands man-handling the backless pink apron number, and for some reason I got the impression that that little exchange was about as much action as gramps was gonna see. Ever.

I stood back and took a good hard look around; the place was pumpin’ alright, with testasterone-drenched men of every shape, color, and size, sweating, fantasizing, and panting all over your panties.

That’s right.  Kind of gives new meaning to Victoria’s “Secret,” doesn’t it?

So when your kind, thoughtful, loving man gives you that coveted pink and red striped box this Valentine’s Day, I urge you to

smile gratefully

accept it carefully (wearing latex gloves, of course)

place it on the nearest flat surface

and then set that box o’nasty on fire before the cooties have a chance to escape and infiltrate your personal space.

*This message was lovingly brought to you by a fellow woman who is gravely, if not a bit irrationally, concerned about your lady parts*

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