I was sitting at a bar.  Easiest thing to do in the world right?  Well, not in my condition. I was so stoned, drunk and lazy that even sitting was becoming difficult so I closed my eyes, put my head down on the linoleum table and began drooling into my coaster.  Another awesome night. 

My mind wanted to leave but that would require far too much effort.  Instead, I figured that once I was asleep my friends would wake me up and drag me home.  Of course, nobody knew what I wanted from them, because (a) they couldn't read my brainwaves and (b) even if they could, my friends were far to busy seducing American tourists to care about what I wanted.  To make matters worse, even though I was trying to sleep, my ears were still working.  Which meant that I was forced to hear the entirety of their lame conversations. 

Apparently, these American tourists were in Canada because, for one, it's cheaper than visiting a real country, and for two, in America these girls were underage, meaning they were too young to buy alcohol and drink in bars, but in Canada they weren't.  In Canada the legal age is 19, in America it is 21, which meant that we were dealing with a herd of under-21 girls who were drunk enough to be talking to us.  Deduction: these bitches were clearly in heat. 

I guess the conversation must have hit a lull, because I was woken from my half-sleep by a hand pressing down on my shoulder and a Southern accented woman asking "So how come you're not saying anything?"  The hell?  Annoyed and without really looking at her, I pulled my face out of the linoleum only slightly and muttered "that's because I'm trying to sleep."  I began putting my head down again but then she asked me another question:
 
"Why'd you wanna sleep for anyway?"
"I think it's because I'm sleepy."
"Don't you like girls?"

Now that sounded like a challenge, so I pulled myself up.  I was sitting and she was standing over me.  My head was now precisely at eye level with a pair of exceptionally large breasts.  Her pair.  She had one of the largest boobie regions I have ever seen. Bam!  It was like being electrocuted.  The mental fog lifted and I could feel myself waking up almost immediately.  There was more to my awakening than just the sheer size of her breasts however, my reaction also took into account the way she wore them.  Her bra, her low cut dress, all the clothing she had on was specifically designed to call attention towards her breasts, unfortunately, in her case this had the added benefit of calling attention away from her face (she was no great beauty, but whatever, it's not like I was sober enough to care - and I'd never care because I'm never sober).  Most men who awoke in my position would probably point to her tits and say something like "I guess I just found two very good reasons for staying awake", but I knew that such an obvious compliment would be foolhardy.  So I did things a little differently.  I let her know how annoyed I was about being woken up:  

"Gosh, do you mean to tell me that, even dressed the way you are, you still get so little attention from men you have to actually wake one up just to get one to notice you?"
"No!  The other guys here are ugly."
"Agreed.  Not only that but they have very poor hygiene, especially my friends.  You do not want your friends to sleep with these assholes."
"Really?  Why not?"
"Because they drugged me with chemicals and dragged me to a shitty bar and now I want revenge on them."

My decision not to do the obvious and immediately go for complimenting her breasts quickly paid dividends.  When I asked whether her boyfriend back home would have any problems with her picking up swarthy foreigners in Canadian bars, she told me what I wanted to hear: 

"I don't have a boyfriend."
"Really, why is that?  Is there something I should know?"

It wasn't a serious question and I didn't expect her to give me a serious answer, but she did.  She paused for such a long time before answering I could almost hear the gears in her drunken head turning.  Then she began shyly stammering it out:

"I can't take most guys seriously... you know?"
"Why?"
"Well it's a little... you know? Uh..."
"Why?"
"Uh... well..."
"Come on... Why?"

Given this sort of expert interrogation it didn't take long for her to break down and admit what her troubles with men were.  She started ranting (bragging?) about how men are completely fixated on her breasts when she's out in public.  She mentioned how guys always, ALWAYS, ALWAYS compliment her on her breasts.  She used to like the way men obsessed over her breasts but that was five years ago, by now she had grown tired of it.

At first I thought she was full of shit (you can't really be sick of people paying attention to your breasts when you display them like that) but eventually I came to feel a little sorry for this woman because she seemed to get more and more depressed the more she went on about it.  So I figured I'd reassure her.  I said something comforting like "I'm know that can't be all guys compliment you on when there are so many other great things about you that are worthy of being complimented as well."  This was a mistake, because now she was looking at me expectantly like she was waiting for me to actually list those great things. 

So I took a prolonged look at her; her bottom teeth were kind of crooked and her face had some acne that her heavy make-up didn't entirely conceal.  Basically, I could not locate a single physical attribute besides her epic breasts that was worthy of being complimented.  Since I didn't know her at all as a person, I couldn't compliment her on her personality or on any artistic talents she might have because I wasn't aware of them.  So instead, after a few seconds of her silently looking at me like she was expecting me to follow up my statement, I simply repeated my statement: "yeah... there must be so many other great things I could compliment you on... and I can't wait to discover those things."  Damn I'm clever!  As Christopher Walken so eloquently put it in A View to A Kill (perhaps the shittiest of all Bond movies), "Intuitive improvisation is the secret of genius."

I never had to guess what sorts of things I could compliment her on, in fact, she offered that information voluntarily.  She gave me a suggestive look and moved her face closer to mine.  Following that, she quietly confessed that back home in Virginia she "may have been" complimented on the quality of her blow jobs "once or twice".

In my defense, Micheal Phelps is a big boy, I'm sure he can handle it.