Get Goose

I got a haircut last week. My first visit to this particular salon. The kind where one person washes your hair and a second person does the cutting. When they called my name, I walked over to the wash basin thingie and met Beverly. She sat me down, wrapped me in a towel, and proceeded to scrub. Now, I need to tell you that Bev was a woman with curves. Some southern fried chicken and corn fritters will do that to you. And, about five minutes into the wash—about the time I was getting comfortable and Beverly was getting her groove on—I was smothered by a large fleshy mass. Something was mushed up against the left side of my face and was cutting off my air supply. For a brief moment I panicked, then squirmed, and gasped for air. Attack of the Bev Boobs, ladies and gentleman. Beware.