Dear Mr. President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.

Dear Mr. (or perhaps Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.,

Despite the fact that there was no acknowledgement to my previous correspondence last January,  I find that I am once-again at your mercy. . .  begging you to take some action on my behalf.  And, yes, the reason for my correspondence does have to do with the stickiness of your product. . . but not in the manner of which you and I spoke last year. (Well, I spoke.  You never saw fit to reply. )

This time I would like to simply ask the following question:


If your boobs are so sticky, why - then - do they not stick around?

Wait.  Let me state that more succinctly. Why do your sticky boobs not stick around where they belong?

For, Mr. (or perhaps, Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc., it appears that whenever your sticky boobs are needed by one of my three daughters, they are no where to be found.  Sadly, it seems,  those little rascals are often carelessly left at a friend's house after a big sleepover. . . buried deep in the recesses of the dog's crate (Don't blame her. She's a retriever!) . . . or - as is most-often the case - smushed in the closet or suitcase of another daughter.  And guess who it is who ends up having to shell out yet-more money on her daughters' boobs, Mr. President?

That's right.  Me.

Case in point. . .

Just the other day I was forced to leave my sick bed in order to drive Ponzi to the corset shop so she could spend a whopping $48 of my money on a set of your push-up-enhanced sticky boobs. (Yes, I know Ponzi has her license, but the Spin Family has been short a car ever since Veggie's accident - may Percy rest in peace - and all of my daughters refuse to drive my 1999 minivan, but I guess that's a story for another day . . .)  When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the countless other boobs I had purchased for Ponzi in the past, I was informed that Trigger took all of the good sticky boobs back to college with her, Mom!  And, although Trigger may have left some bad boobs behind in the wake of her departure, no decent mother worth her salt would entrust her teenage daughter's decency at a rock concert in the heart of New York City to a pair of bad (or shall I say sticky-challenged?) boobs!

So I ask you. . .  .  Should it be my fault if Trigger has sticky fingers in the sticky boob department?

I think not.

In fact, I think it's your fault Mr. (or perhaps Ms - but a woman would definitely have know better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.!  Yes, it's your fault for not having some sort of elaborate locking mechanism. . . or security-encrypted packaging. . . or, better yet. . .  . voice-activated adhesive . . . attached to your boobs.  That way they could actually stick around and be available to the rightful boob-owner when she needed them.

Could you work on that for me?

Tell you what. . .  I won't even charge you for the intellectual properties associated with the voice-activated idea if you would just market the product.   Having the correct boobs at my daughters' disposal when they need them would be payment enough.

Signed, one of your best customers (albeit, reluctantly)

Oh. . .  and I still think you would make a killing in the sticky thong (ouch!) department. . . .