Dr. Oz Dr. Oz. Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz Dr. Oz

I mean, is he a fucking elf? A fucking pedophilic elf-hybrid who's come to enforce Smallism on the American public? Behind those beady eyes lies a roaring fire, which only jelly rolls and spare tires can simultaneously stoke and contain.

An average-looking MILF sat beside him a few weeks ago. She was getting interviewed for her not-so-average secret: the flabby canvas of a corpus contained 9 nipples.  Not a g-thang, she said. She loves them all like little angel babies. 

"I mean, it makes me feel special" 

"I've heard one of them lactates." Dr. Oz sputters out anxiously, already at half mast (if you know what I mean).

"Yes, the one near my armpit, sometimes." MILF beams, proud. "Let's see if it works this time."

She takes two expert fingers and squishes the 9th nipple-- which looks more like a birthmark-- and THANKGOD BECAUSE EVERYONE IS WATCHING, a little dribble of milkish fluid drips down her creased pit. 

OHYAHHH! OHHOOYAA!

Infantile joy floods the room. Hearts open like the gates of heaven. But Dr. Oz grows serious.

"The only problem, insert MILFY name, is that the more breast tissue you have, the more at risk you are for cancer. So it's good you're comfortable with your body, but beware of the dangers."

The woman smiles, eyes blank and black as coals. She nods affirmatively. Dr. Oz signals for a commercial break and runs to his dressing room where he drops his scrubs to his scrawny ankles and comes onto his evening-wear crocs.