Ed. note: The following piece was authored by The Legal Tease, of Sweet Hot Justice fame. Check out her other musings from Sweet Hot Justice here.

Oh, friends, I know: Where have I been lo these past few months? I’d like to say that I’ve been off on a soul-searching journey, finding peace within Big Law. Or pursuing emotional self-improvement. Or romping around with an aspiring actor type with soccer legs and a limited vocabulary. But, sadly, I can’t say any of those things. Truth be told, I’ve been pursuing self-improvement of a different kind. There’s no way of admitting this without getting ambushed, so I’ll just lay it out there: I had a breast augmentation. A big, round, expensive one. And if you’ll forgive the hubris, the new additions are pretty incredible.

Now, before you start judging, hear me out. Anyone who is even remotely familiar with the parade of psychopaths populating my romantic life knows that I’ve had no luck in finding The One. The whole law-degree thing just hasn’t reeled them in like I thought it would. At this point in my life, I just want to meet a professional, well-educated man and I realized a few months ago that I needed to take more drastic action to make it happen. And I figured that inflating my boobs to the point where I resemble a pair of engorged cantaloupes resting on a blanched pretzel rod seemed like a good— oh crap, wait, that’s not right. I was getting myself confused with our favorite litigious ex-Citi siren, Debrahlee Lorenzana, there for a minute. Sorry. I’ve just actually been at the office this whole time…

Oh Miss Debrahlee, ardent supporter of workplace fairness, champion of the tight turtleneck set, who is your publicist? Because, honey, that’s who you should be suing. Did no one advise you? Did no one sit you down and tell you how to navigate these blog-infested waters—waters where a little Google stalking can take you from being the Norma Rae of the Hot Harassed to Tits on a Stick in 36 hours flat? Clearly not. Please, then, for the sake of your lawsuit, for the sake of the 9–13 minutes you have left, take a seat, kick off your Vuitton platform wedges and take heed of the following:

“An Open Letter to Debrahlee Lorenzana,” or “Professional, Well-Educated Men Do Not Marry Tits On a Stick”

Miss Debrahlee, when I first saw the headlines that a lady banker had been fired from Citi for being “too hot,” my first thought was “A hot lady banker? Is that possible?” And then it quickly became clear that no, it’s not—unless by “banker,” you mean “person who works in a bank.” OK, fine, I thought, so you aren’t exactly a rising managing director at Citi—but that doesn’t make what you claimed happen to you any less infuriating. You’re a working mom in a respectable job who is also naturally full-breasted. What were you supposed to do? Tape down your boobs? Lop ’em off? As a naturally curvy lady myself, I empathize with the what-to-do-with-the-boobs problem plaguing any victim of a business-casual culture. If we wear clothes that fit, we look like strippers; if we wear clothes that hide our boobs, we look like fat strippers. Either way, we’re screwed. So, yeah, I was on your side, Debrahlee.

And then I saw the video.

Don’t play dumb, Debrahlee—you know which one I mean. Yes, that one. The one where you don a tube top and shill for a plastic surgery factory on Strong Island by scooting around the local grocery store holding giant melons up to your chest. The one where you admit that you want a second boob job so you can achieve your goal of looking like a cross between “Carmen Electra and Pamela Anderson.” The one where you shriek that you just want to look like “tits on a stick” so you can “meet a professional, well-educated man.”

Oh, Lee-Lee, this is where you went tragically wrong. But not for the reasons most folks think.

I could care less that you’ve had two or three or twelve boob jobs—or any “jobs” for that matter. I’m all for cosmetic surgery. If you hate your nose or your flat chest or your weird flap ears, change them. Hell, if you want to make yourself look like a human blow-up doll or a tiger or a melting wax statue of a horse dressed like a drag queen, have at it. Do it because you feel ugly, or because you hate the way you look in clothes, or because, yes, you’ve always wanted to look like a tiger. Just please, for the love of God, don’t admit that you’re doing it to meet a guy—much less a “professional, well-educated one.” Because that’s where you lost the ladies, Debrahlee.

Sweet Hot Justice explains the dangers of confusing your constituents, here.


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