Oh, I do all my Shopping at Targét

It's all marketing, girls.

So, I went shopping today, because I had to get some more intimates, because I seem to be going through ... well: panties at a rather fair clip at work, and I have spares there, yes, but when you run out of spares for the day, what do you do? Well, you have several options, right girls, one of them, eventually is to go au naturelle ... but then, sitting down, you get this little wet mark on the bottom of your c.v.n.t.-high skirt and how do you explain that, you don't, right, because by then you're bent over the boss' desk and ...

... well, you know how the rest of that story goes.

But you can't say, around here, that you buy your panties from 'Target' ... 'tar-get' because that's way too plebeian ... you might as well admit to shopping at K-mart with Ray-man, Rain Man, and even he knows that K-Mart sucks. 'Tar-get' is just a step up from K-mart, and sounds too much like it, too. And when people say, 'well, Tysons I or Tysons II?' and of course you have to say 'Tysons Galleria' or else you might as go back to baristaing. (that's a word) (which you need a Ph.D. for, and I'm not joking)

So 'Tar-get' is out, but if you raise your nose, and say, 'Well, only the best, of course, Targé!' then people are all like, 'Ooh, the new French boutique? What did you get?'

And then you show them what you just bought over the weekend:



... There is a downside to all this.

(STOP SLOBBERING, you PERVS!)

And it's this. Bossman knocks his red pen off the side of the desk and tells you to pick it up, which you do, 'cause that's what we do, get the coffee, pick up red pens and ... well ...



(uh, huh: I went there)

But this time, bossman sees your black lace thong and he just loses his mind, and next thing you know, he's got his nose buried in your ass crack and he's sniffing away while pawing through your purse and he comes across monty in all his long purple glory (and no, no pics for you, as if I'm not banned already!).

So what does he do, but whine, clamber up on his desk and drop trou and beg dommy you to eff him up his big hairy ass with that big purple thing strapped on, so what are you stuck doing the rest of the day but going through your whole tube of lube with monty strapped on and your only view is this guys broad back and blue moon.

Turn off city, right, and what's worse is that he explodes like all-get-out over the payroll report you slaved over all day.

All because you bought something that you knew was going to get spoilt in the first 15 minutes of work, being so worked up by all the fantasies you have with you in that black lace thong, then you so not in that black lace thong, with your whole harem ... 'ministering' to your 'needs,' as it were. So you buy the 6-pack which you get you through the first hour of the Mondays, but here you are pumping away for so long now that your legs are cramping up and you're dry as the Sahara, but what can you do, 'Just Say No,' and find your ass out the door because Mr. Bossman finds his submissive streak and gets so turned on with you saying, 'My big purple cock is pumping your ass now, bitch! Who's your daddy?' And you find out you're his 'daddy' when he screams out your name, yet again, the third time this hour and doesn't this guy ever get tired out and how come he lasts only 30 seconds when he's doing you?

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now I'm off to a power lunch with a client, why don't you shower, Vera and tidy up my office while I'm away? And all you are is left with his spunk from his junk in you and a very, very frustrated kitty, but when he wants it up the ass, you have to put out for a whole friggen hour, wearing your panties so he can sniff your ass afterwards as he paws at your titties, man-handling them as if they were steaks on the grill, and that's supposed to be 'sexy'?

And girls like guys for what reason again?

I don't get it.

So, wear these things to work? Like for 10 minutes and then have to change out of them and (eventually) go au naturelle and don't tell me nobody notices that particular scent ... and the puddle under your chair might be a clue, too. Or otherwise have Mr. Bossman with his big hairy butt whining away as you check your fingernails and the clock confirms what your poor tired legs are telling you that, yup, you've been at this for an hour and you still have work to do ... because your performance review doesn't have an oval for 'sexual prowess.'

Yeah. No. Not likely.

Now, one can wear them elsewhere, in more intimate settings, and for more private occasions...

Yes, ... one can do that ...

Hm-hm-hm. Excuse me. Gotta take care of ... 'something.'