I try to write BE stories all the time, but I never finish them. In fact, I usually give up after writing the opening sentences, because they all seem to turn out like this...

	As the native women pinned his arms and legs between their enormous breasts while their Queen tore out the crotch of his cargo pants, Burton decided that maybe the Haitian fishermen hadn't been joking when they called it the Island of Busty Cum Vampires.

"Gosh, Professor," chirped Becky as she modestly tugged down the upward-creeping hem of her cheerleader's uniform and stared goggle-eyed around the lab at the cool knobs and buttons and dials and sliders and compressors and nipple nozzles and tanks of bubbling pink gel, "What does all this stuff do?"

Susie had just wrinkled her nose and complained that the Gatorade tasted funny when everybody in the first seven rows of the bus carrying the Central High Girls' Soccer Team to the quarter-finals went off like popcorn in a microwave.

Casting another disbelieving glance at the enormous implants quivering on the prep table, Dr. Johnson began the breast augmentation surgery, never dreaming that the nurse who had recorded the patient's desired new cup size on the admitting forms was dyslexic.

"Hah," IRS agent Brittany Baker growled as she padlocked the doors of the odd little shop despite the odd little shopkeeper's threats, "What's a dried-up old sales-tax cheat like you gonna do to me?"

Doctor Frankenstein's latest project hit a little snag when security guards at Hollywood's Forest Lawn Cemetery caught Igor skulking among the tombstones with a shovel, a saw, and two large specimen jars.

"Okay, New York," thought Dave as he chambered one of his special darts into the rifle and sighted down from the rooftop at the burgeoning crowds lining the street for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, "Now you're gonna see some real balloons!"

"Goddammit," Police Chief Moran shouted, "I don't care if she's changing clothes in there so she can fight crime; I want you to stop BustyWoman before she ruptures any more phone booths!"

Sure, a nice theme park might keep a resort community in business during the summer months, but take it from me: nothing attracts tourists like a highly contagious breast-expansion virus with nymphomaniacal side-effects.

Separated from her platoon, stranded unarmed behind enemy lines, and suffering from a glandular infection that had caused her breasts to swell grotesquely until they'd burst through her uniform shirt, PFC Annette Daniels discovered quite by accident that the average enemy sniper was more than willing to lay down his weapon and engage in hand-to-hand combat.

"Earthman!" the big-titted invader from Venus commanded as she pointed her devivicator pistol at Frank, "Prepare to transflucticate my lactopods!"

"Humph," Kandi muttered when the doorbell sounded in the reception room, "So begins another unrelentingly humdrum day in the life of Kandice Keane, Lingerie Seamstress to the Stars."

All four phone lines on her desk were ringing frantically, but the senior vice president of product research at Juggo Juice Bottling Company, currently pinned to the carpet beneath the blubbery tonnage of her own bosom, didn't need to be told that something was very, very wrong with the new Büsenberry Coolers.