This is Montana. Gorgeous, isn’t she? She’s as beautiful as her mountainous namesake, the U.S. state of Montana. I’ve never been to Montana but I hear the Little Bighorn River runs through it. Ah, Little Bighorn. That was my nickname back in Scouts. I was a lot smaller then, but I’ve always been hung like half a salami chub. It looks like a pink coffee cup with the handle broke off. Where was I? Oh yeah, Montana. She’s a fine–looking filly. If I was a woman and I looked this good, you can bet your life I’d be sitting on that leather couch too. I’d be sitting there, glaring at the camera, letting my gaze say ‘Hey, fella, you want some of this? Well guess what? You can’t have any. Scoot!’ And then I’d light a cigarette and cup each of my boobs to see how heavy they were. I’d gently weigh them like so much precious fruit, and then I’d go get a beer out of the fridge and watch TV for a while. During the ads I’d re-weigh my knockers to see if anything had changed, and I’d mark my findings in a little note pad. Then I’d get up on the roof and shoot at little kids with an air rifle.
When the cops came to arrest me I’d just strobe them my miraculous breasts. ‘What-flash-seems-flash-to be-flash-the problem-flash-officers?’ They’d stammer out a warning and I’d walk away scot-free. Must be great to be a chick. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Montana. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?