Terrance levers his ample mass forward

With a ridiculous and unbalanced flourish he darts into a lunge pose as he monologues, chest jutting proudly out for emphasis. And emphasize it does. His tits are probably bigger than mine. No question whether or not his belly is, I thought to myself, taking in his awkward, wobbly attempt at the lunge. That’s where most of the weight had settled, into a bulbous mass, as if he’d impregnated himself with cheap takeout and cheaper beer.

“But alas,” ‘autuer’ Terrence laments, “due to the woke sensibilities of the modern filmmaking industry and the news makers and opinion makers and so on, and the consuming public who are in thrall to them all, obviously we cannot possibly show this titillating revelation--excuse me my dear, no pun intended--outright. A waste! Our hand is forced, then, and in post we’ll have our very clever prompt engineers gen-ai it so that when you pull down your top, instead of those most crucial and womanly mammaries, we see instead a cascade of large milk jugs!”

He repeatably jabs his hands from his chest outward, simulating the rushing onslaught of milk jugs.

“They come bursting fourth to fill the screen, and we see that they have odds and payouts and the like stamped upon them. One will even have a missing persons notice on it, just as the milk jugs of yore when a small child had been snatched away. Except for on our milk jug, it’s not the labors of cradle robbers we see, it’s 'your winnings!' For they are missing! Because the viewer is viewing. They are watching our advertisement! And if they are doing that, how can they be betting on our humble digital application? How can they be winning? Impossible. They cannot. So they must be reminded. Bet! Gamble!”