Dear Dr. Phil


Dear Doctor Phil,

Your show about the boy with tits really inspired me to get off my ass and shake my tits.

Ever since I can remember I've had tits. When I was a boy, the kids called me "booby-boy" and eventually, just "booby." I cried myself to sleep many a night.


Because my tits were bigger than most of the girls in my class, I was quite embarrassed to take a shower in gym, or participate in any sports. My high school years were a living hell. Despite my Mom's positive attitude of "if God had meant for you to be a swimmer, he would have made you flat-chested," I was determined to dive into something.


Unfortunately, I dove into a world of alcohol and drugs to numb the pain, and became the school's biggest drug dealer. I would stash the drugs under my tits and no one was the wiser. My tits became an asset when stripped searched. The cops would poke fun but never touched or thought to look under my tits.


When I went to college, my tits were quite popular. I spent many a drunken night flashing my tits to strangers on the street from the sun roof of my best friend Tommy's Datsun. Of course, I was in a bad place then, quite the exhibitionist. I derived a certain amount of pleasure from the looks of horror on the faces of those who fell victim to what we called "titty surprise" and titty seizure."


Once, on a dare, I flashed a group of rival fans at our homecoming game and was severely punched in my right tit by this frat-boy. Despite being drunk and coked up, the pain was so excruciating and I had to have another three hot dogs before I could catch my breath.


After college, my life took a turn for the worst. I became clinically depressed and thought about taking my own life on more than one occasion. Those were dark days my friend. I worked in the stock room at Wal-Mart by day and at night I roamed the streets aimlessly hopping from bar to bar. My tits led me to places, I'd rather forget. The guilt was heavy on my shoulders and chest - so seedy was my life back then. But, in retrospect, my esteem was so low it was like I didn't have a choice.


That's around the time when I met Sara. She worked the register at Wal-Mart. Her ass was the size of a small pickup truck. I loved the way she waddled to the break room and I would secretly spy that dumpster from the loading dock when she would walk from her car into work every morning. She made me take stock of my own life and one day I got up the nerve to asked her out.


It was Halloween and we were busy as hell. She was at register 4 dressed up like Cyndi Lauper, circa 1984, and I was dressed up like Divine from Hair spray. When it was time for her break I cut her off at the cat food aisle and said in my best Edna Turnblad, " Girls just wanna have fun!" She giggled.


We went out that night after work and we each ate a large pizza at Luigi's. Our conversation was easy and we had a few laughs. I started to see Sara on a regular basis and we became close friends. Despite her fat ass, Sara was very upbeat and a positive influence in my life. She would often say, " it's not what a person looks like, it's what's in their heart that counts." At Wal-Mart, other employees called us "Booty" and "Booby."

These are what I considered saccharine and very happy days. Sara taught me a lot of things about myself and life. Although it was virtually impossible for us to consummate the relationship we had fun trying. Boy, did we ever! She made me feel very comfortable about my tits.


Unfortunately, Sara tragically died in a revolving door accident. Her ass was severed at the hip and she bled to death before they could get the jaws of life to her mangled ass. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I'll never forget the frantic phone call from her sister. I was sitting at home playing with my tits, looking in the mirror, when the phone rang.


"Booby!"


"What!"


Her sobbing told me something was wrong. Her voice choked with emotion.


"Sara...Sara...


"Sara what?"


"Sara is dead."


"What!"


Sara is dead."


"NO! NO! NO! Please God NO!"


The funeral was surreal. The casket was as big as a bungalow. The soft sounds of "Time after Time" playing as I stood there, tits aching.


I digress.


That's when I started watching your show. I was far too depressed to work and I would sit at home crying - my tits moist, my eyes, red and sore. Life didn't seem worth living. I became so jaded. The only thing that kept me going was your show. I would make a kitchen size garbage can of popcorn, a five-gallon bucket of sweet tea, and poke fun at you and your guests. My sardonic wit would make my stomach ache with laughter. Your bald head and Texas twang rants to guests, who were so messed up, became a salve to my inner pain.


Your "Family in Crisis" shows on Thursdays became my favorite. I would howl at their incompetence. In comparison, my tits were mere pimples, my problems moot, compared to these idiots. And my pain subsided considerably. However, Sara was never far from my mind. All the popcorn, sweetened ice tea and idiots couldn't begin to assuage that ache. Late at night, alone in my king size bed, I would imagine Sara's snorty laugh, her thunderous flatulence, and coquettish smile. My heaving sobs and eructation’s became a prayer of sorts.


That's about the time when you had Jeremy on your show - an answer to my feeble entreaty. His story, his tits, put me in mind of "history," my history, my tits. I felt his pain. No sarcasm that day, my friend. I could hardly finish my popcorn. My ice tea almost untouched. Poor Jeremy. Poor me.


That's when I decided to shake the popcorn off my tits and get off my ass. Thank you Dr. Phil. Thank you from the bottom of my overworked heart. Thank you Jeremy for sharing your tits with the world at large and thank you for sharing with me. Because of your courage I decided to start my own web site: Mantits.com. I've never been happier. I have over 600 hits on Mantits every day and the sponsor money has started to trickle in. I've incorporated live cam shows and little did I know that the buzz would be "Man Tits Is It!" I've even had an offer from the USO to go on a tour to support our troops.

It's the least I could do. I recently started a book with the working title of "Gynecomastia: Don't Quits If You Got Tits. "As soon as I get enough money together, I'm going to start a charity in memory of Sara to bring awareness to the dangers of revolving doors. Once again thank you Doctor "Feel." Just joking.




Yours Sincerely,

Robert "Booby" Jackson

Posted by Robert Tip
Fledgling mockingbird spreading wings and hopping on the ground. I write. I sing. I play. Take photos. Make art. Soundcloud: DJ Whodini Instagram: songsinlessthanaminute
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