The studio audience was growing restless. They had set through the taping of one episode and now awaited the next. But technical difficulties prevented the next show from starting. Technical difficulties in the form of the host.
It seemed that the host, a tall black man with a shaved head, was reflecting too much light off his Yul Brynneresque dome. This wasn't unusual. But today the makeup artist seemed to be having a hard time getting the desired result. And the audience noticed.
One viewer was regretting ever taking the free tickets that landed him in the show's audience. What was he thinking? he thought. Probably something about how easy it would be to meet women on a talk show. Especially a show as weepy and heart-tugging as this one. A show that he didn't even watch.
Personally, he favored that other male-hosted show . The one with the white guy who wore glasses. On that show, fights and big tits were the standard fare. On that show, you didn't have to wait for someone to deshine the host's bald head. And the viewer felt like saying something to that effect.
"How long do we have to wait before your head starts blinding us?" He yelled.
The studio audience was frozen. The faithful, those who were in the studio audience on an almost daily basis, couldn't believe their ears. Did someone have the nerve, the balls, to say something about the host of this show? Sparks were gonna fly now, they predicted. And they were right.
The host stopped the ministrations of his makeup artist and charged up the steps to where the loudmouthed viewer was sitting. The host's genial smile had disappeared. It was replaced by the look he gave deadbeat dads who wouldn't take responsibility and claim their kids -- a stern, eyeball to eyeball stare born of his previous life as a U.S. Marine. Who knew what he would do to the viewer.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the now uncomfortable viewer, who regretted ever opening his mouth. "Do you have a problem with me looking good on my show?"
"Uh, no," began the viewer, who never imagined he would have a face-to-face confrontation with a talk show host, "of course not."
"Then what makes you come on my show and start yelling about my head. It doesn't challenge your masculinity in some way, does it?" the host inquired, psychologically interrogating the viewer.
"No," said the viewer taken aback.
"Are you sure," continued the host looking the viewer straight in the eyes, "that my big, black head doesn't bother you in the least?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," the viewer, embarrassed by all the eyes now staring at him, replied.
"Good," said the host, suddenly smiling. "Then I won't have to kick your ass on national TV."
A pin could be heard in the studio after the host's comment. He had asserted control and everyone feared what might happen if they pissed him off. Especially the former irate viewer, who had tiptoed out of the studio. He had seen the confrontational nature of the host and feared that for ratings' sake, the host would kick his ass when the cameras started rolling. It was, after all, sweeps week.
Unfortunately, the show's topic was pretty mundane. Instead of strippers, KKK members, or something controversial, the show had a married couple who the host would try to stop from getting a divorce. How dull could you get? thought a lot of the audience (afraid to voice their opinions for fear of the talk show host's reprisal), as the show's theme song began playing.
The host was back in genial mode, the concerned neighbor and problem solver, as he introduced the husband, Roy Higgins to the studio audience. Roy came from the back room of the studio looking like an extra from Deliverance, a stereotypical redneck hick wearing leather work boots, blue overalls, flannel shirt and a baseball cap with the name of some small town diner that no one had ever heard about imprinted on the front. He probably would've been chewing some tobacco but everybody knew the host didn't tolerate that sort of thing on his show.
The audience, especially the faithful, reacted negatively to the man. He had been on the show before and his reputation -- bad reputation -- had preceded him. He was shaking his fist at the booing audience in anger, which just made the boos that much louder. The host, smiling surreptitiously, loved guests like Roy Higgins. They made his job that much easier. And, of course, his ratings that much higher.
He watched as Roy took his seat. The host let the booing continue for a moment longer then silenced the audience with a look. Control of one's show was what separated the pro from the wannabe and I'm definitely a pro, thought the host.
He stepped up to Roy wielding his microphone like a warrior holding a sword. Let the games begin, he thought, as he began asking his first question to Roy Higgins.
"Roy, why are you here?" the host asked, looking the man in the eyes.
"Because your people asked me back," Roy announced, thinking he was saying the obvious.
"No, I mean why are you here with the same problem you had the last time you were on my show?"
"Because it didn't go away."
Damn, thought the host. Some of these guests were so stupid. "Why didn't it go away?" he asked annoyed.
"I don't know," said a confused Roy.
"I don't know, either," said the host suddenly going on the offensive. "I paid for a therapist. I paid for a marriage counselor. I, even, paid for a babysitter. And you're still having problems. Why?"
The audience edged forward in their seats. The host had started his attack and was going in for the kill. This was what they liked most about the show, watching the host beat his guests into helpless submission. Roy Higgins looked like such a guest.
He surprised the audience, however, when he smilingly said to the host, "Have you seen my wife?"
The host visibly shuddered. Damn, I hope they can edit that out, he thought. He remembered the last time the Higgins was on his show. He still had nightmares about Roy's wife. That woman was ugly. No, make that hideous. But a caring, sensitive but strong talk show host like him couldn't say how bad Roy's wife really looked. No, only late night talk show hosts and that shock jock who proclaimed himself "king of all media" could get away with that sort of honesty.
So the host lied.
"Roy," he said, playing to the audience, trying to make them forget that visible shudder, "of course, I've seen your wife. She's a beautiful woman. Not as beautiful as my wife, of course, but a beautiful woman, nonetheless."
Roy just stared at the host, thinking the black man needed glasses. "Are we talking about the same woman?" he asked and the audience went wild with laughter.
Especially the faithful. They knew how Mary Higgins looked. Hell, many like the host himself, still had nightmares about the woman. Many more had stopped drinking because of the woman; thinking any substance strong enough to make a man marry, fuck and have a kid by Mary Higgins was the kind of substance they could do without. Yet, even with his bad reputation and personality flaws, most of the faithful had a soft spot for Roy Higgins. He was the one who had to go home and look at Mary on a daily basis. They didn't. And they thanked God for that.
But the host was saying he could remedy that.
"So, you don't think your wife is an attractive woman," he asked Roy.
"Not when I'm sober," said Roy in blunt honesty. "When I'm drunk, however, she looks like Dolly Parton."
"So let me get this straight," began the host saying one of his trademarked lines, "Ms. Dolly Parton is the type of woman you find attractive?"
"Yeah," Roy said in a flabbergasted tone that he used when someone said something to stupid to believe, "I'd give my left nut just to live in the same house as that woman."
The host was about to reprimand Roy but he wasn't exactly sure if "nut" was a word the censors were bleeping out these days. So, instead, he said: "What would you say if I told you we have one of our makeup artists back there transforming your wife into the woman of your dreams? Hmm, Roy, what would you say?"
"That it's gonna take a lot more than makeup to make that happen," Roy said without a moment's hesitation. And, again, the crowd went wild with laughter.
The host thought about silencing the audience, but changed his mind. If that new makeup worked as well as Sandi, his residential makeup artist claimed it did, the host would be the one laughing. He'd be the one laughing last. He only hoped that Sandi knew what she was talking about.
Sandi was in the backroom sweating bullets. How did she get herself in these predicaments? she asked herself looking at Mary Higgins. What possessed her to go to her boss with a product that she had never tried and convince him to do a show around it. Her sister, she thought. Her dumb, gorgeous, big-titted sister, Lisa.
Of course, before last week, the words gorgeous and big-titted would not have been used to describe Lisa. Dumb, ugly and flat-chested would have been more apropos. But then Lisa had discovered and switched to a new brand of makeup. The rest, as they say, was history.
The blackheads, zits and pimples that had existed perpetually on Lisa's face were gone. In their place, Lisa now had rich, smooth skin that Sandi and the rest of her family swore was the result of long hours involving a team of dermatologists and plastic surgeons.
When Lisa denied medical specialists were involved, no one in her family believed her. When she said that her beautiful skin was the result of a cosmetic company's face cream, her family laughed at her. When she demonstrated a body gel from the same company and later showed her family the results, they were made believers.
Lisa had grown breasts. There was no other way to say it. Flatchested Lisa had grown breasts. Big breasts. And she had grown them in one day.
She had exited the bathroom after applying the body gel with a flourish that did little to impress her family. "Well?" she had asked. And their response was on the lines of "Well, what? Lisa was just having fun with the family, they thought, further confirming that it was dermatologists and plastic surgeons responsible for her new face and not makeup. But then her breasts started growing.
Her top, which formerly laid flat on her skin, began rising. Mounds of flesh were forming on Lisa's chest. Growing, expanding, becoming more and more globe like. They stretched Lisa's top, pulling the strained material further and further. The sight was unbelievable.
When the growth eventually stopped, a smiling Lisa said to her family: "Now, do you believe me?"
They did. How could they not? Women didn't just grow G-cup sized breasts in one day. But Lisa did. And if she said that a cosmetic company was responsible, who were they to argue.
Afterwards, the women of Lisa's family begged her for the name of the cosmetic company. But she was keeping that information to herself, having been the ugly duckling of the family for decades, Lisa now wanted to be a swan for awhile.
Her sister, Sandi, had other ideas.
She was determined to find Lisa's secret. And after a period of bribing, threatening and begging, she succeeded. Sandi had gotten hold of her sister's magical makeup.
She just didn't trust her sister enough to use it on herself.
So that's where Mary Higgins came in the picture. Sandi needed a guinea pig and the former guest was it. She had talked to her boss about her idea, the make over to beat all make overs, and the talk show host agreed. He had asked if Sandi could guarantee her results and the makeup artist said, "Yes." Besides, it was sweeps week and he had nothing else of note.
Sandi was regretting ever setting eyes on the stuff. The damn makeup wasn't working and Mary Higgins was as ugly as she ever was. Damn that Lisa, Sandi said to herself, cursing her sister. I never should have trusted her. Magic makeup. What was I thinking? Was I thinking?
Sandi's mental tirade was interrupted by a stagehand. "Five minutes," he yelled, alerting Sandi to the fact that Mary had five minutes before she was due on stage.
"Oh, fuck," Sandi mumbled under her breath.
"Did you say something?" Mary asked the panicking makeup artist.
"No, of course not," Sandi responded, thinking how this ugly woman was going to torpedo her career. After this fiasco, Sandi thought, I'd be lucky if a funeral hires me to do makeup.
Sandi worked fast. She got rid of that crap, her sister had conned her into using. I had used up most of it anyway, she thought, as she went back to her old, tried and true brands of cosmetics. Forgetting about her initial goal of having the make over to end all make overs, Sandi was just hoping she could make Mary look good enough to save her job.
The five minutes came quicker than Sandi would have liked. She felt she could have done a lot more for the woman if she hadn't wasted so much time with that bogus makeup her sister tricked her into using. But then again. Sandi looked, as Mary was escorted to the stage, and had to admit the woman looked a lot better. But that was probably stress, caused by the enforced five minute deadline, playing tricks on her eyes, the makeup artist rationalized, and yet...
It was showtime.
Time to unveil the new and improved Mary Higgins. The moment that everyone had been waiting for. The climax. The finale. The moment of truth. Could makeup transform Mary Higgins into a beauty and save her marriage? Better yet, could makeup help Sandi and save her job? Enquiring minds wanted to know.
She walked onto the stage. Her stride slow. The stage director wouldn't have it any other way. He and the host both agreed slow walking made for a more dramatic entrance. The lighting director surreptitiously manipulated the lights so that they both concealed and highlighted Mary. It was like everyone was trying extra hard to win an Emmy. Which they were.
Gasps were suddenly heard amongst the audience. Murmured whispers of disbelief and how that woman couldn't possibly be Mary Higgins filled the air. Even the host doubted the identity of the woman. He wondered if someone on his staff had hired an actress to play the now beautiful Mary Higgins, saving his reputation and that of the show. And if one of his staff members did hire an actress, he wondered, should he reward them for their initiative or punish them for not getting his permission. It was, after all, his show.
But amid all the whispering, gasping and murmuring, there was one person who hadn't said a word. Roy Higgins hadn't said a word about his beautiful, new wife. Maybe, he doesn't believe it's her, thought the host, suddenly sweating. This was the kind of controversy that could cancel a show. Using actresses to impersonate make over recipients. If that happened, thought the host, dreading the idea of losing his show and having to go back out into the real world and get a job; he'd kill whoever was responsible.
"Where are the tits?" Roy asked, commenting on his wife's appearance for the first time.
"Excuse me," said the host, shocked by Roy's comments and the fact that the man actually believed this woman was his wife.
"I thought you said my wife would look like Dolly Parton," Roy said to the host. "Dolly's got big tits."
The host couldn't believe what this man was saying. A beautiful woman, probably an actress, was standing before him claiming to be his wife and all he could think about were big tits. Not one comment on how the host's show had transformed his dog of a wife into a beauty. Not one comment on how this was all done by makeup. Not one comment on how great the host was. No, all this man cared about was big tits. Unbelievable.
"Now, Roy," the host said to his idiotic guest, trying hard not to lose his temper,"I know your wife doesn't look like Dolly Parton. She doesn't have big--breasts. But you have to admit, my show did one hell of a make over on her."
"So," Roy said. "Big deal."
"Big deal? Big deal!?!" the host said, visibly upset. Where's my gun? he thought. I'll show that ungrateful son-of-a-bitch a big deal. "What you mean, Roy, big deal?"
"You think I cared how ugly Mary looked?" Roy asked.
"Yeah," the host blurted out, simultaneously with most of the audience. He would have his "yeah" edited out with the visible shudder he did at the start of the program."when I asked you why you were still having problems in your marriage, you said,'have you seen my wife?'"
"And you thought I was talking about how her face looked?" Roy said, laughing at the stupidity of the host.
"Of course," said the host no longer even trying to be politically correct.
Roy continued laughing, managing to get out the words, "I was talking about her tits."
The host, about ready to punch Mr. Roy Higgins in the face, managed to mumble the words," I see." He was pissed off, seeing his sweeps victory go down the tubes. He was going to fire Sandi. Hell, if the ratings were too low, he might even kill Sandi. The makeup artist had forgotten what was important--Him and his show. Everything else was secondary. Like Mary Higgins. Roy's wife, or the actress portraying her, had come on stage, looked beautiful and not said a word. Why? Because she knew it wasn't her show. It was his show.
Well, the least he could do, thought the host, was allow the actress her fifteen minutes of fame. Show the world that he wasn't the self-centered egotist that everyone made him out to be. He would ask the actress a question. One question. It was, after all, his show.
"So, Mary," he asked, resisting the urge to give the actress a knowing wink, "what do you think of your new make over?"
Mary didn't answer. At least, not in words. She was moaning and playing with her chest. At least, that's what it looked like she was doing, to the host and the studio audience.
"Are you alright, Mary?" asked the host. Damn these actresses, he thought. It's fifteen minutes of fame; not twenty.
But Mary ignored the host, a no-no on his show, seeming to direct all her attention to her chest.
What was so special about her chest, thought the host. And then he saw it. Her top: it jumped. The host blinked his eyes in disbelief, but then it happened again. Mary Higgins' chest was jumping. Forget make overs, thought the host, this was the type of thing that earned sweeps sized ratings, so the host signaled his cameramen to come in closer and film it.
The jumping had increased, pushing solidly against Mary's top, stretching it to the breaking point. Filling it with breast flesh. With breast flesh? That was impossible, unless--Mary Higgins' breasts were growing.
And they were. Mary Higgins' breasts were growing. Which meant Sandi had been right about the makeup and he wouldn't have to kill her. It meant Mary Higgins was really Mary Higgins and not an actress. It, also, meant the host and his show were going to kick his four-eyed competitor's ass in the ratings. And since this was sweeps week you couldn't ask for anything better than that.
Roy Higgins would have echoed that sentiment. His wife, formerly she with breasts smaller than his, was now, literally, bursting at the seams. She had ripped her top off, complaining that it was too tight, giving him and everyone in the studio an unclothed view of her majestic globes. That were still growing.
The host, not looking at the enormous rack on Mary Higgins in an attempt to regain control of his show, asked Roy: "Does she look like Dolly Parton now?"
"Dolly, who?" Roy said unable to take his eyes off his wife's growing breasts.
After that, the only sounds heard in the studio were made by Mary. Everyone else was too stunned, too amazed to say anything. It wasn't until Mary's chest stopped growing that someone was able to say something.
Roy, sounding like he had just come from the desert, managed to croak out the words: "Tape measure. Get me a tape measure. I want to know how big my wife is."
The host, knowing that a woman built like the newly grown Mary would have some unbelievable measurements, sent for his wardrobe mistress and her longest measuring tape.
A hush fell over the crowd as the host, Roy and the wardrobe mistress worked together to get Mary's measurements. Her waist and hips were 20 and 32 inches, respectively, as if anyone really cared. What they and Roy really cared about was Mary's unbelievable chest. Something that would be of interest to the people at Guinness Book of World Records.
The wardrobe mistress, being the only woman involved in the operation and being the most knowledgeable about bras and their measurements, was in charge of determining Mary's bust and bra size. She began by having Roy and the host measure underneath Mary's enormous tits. She said this was to determine the band size of the bra. The men with the wardrobe mistress' help quickly got the measurement, determining that Mary had a band size of 34.
"Now for the big measurement," yelled the wardrobe mistress, trying to get her fifteen minutes of fame, unaware that her boss, the host, shot her a dirty look.
This second measurement wasn't as easy to get as the first one. Roy and the host had to wrestle with both Mary's boobs and the tape measure. The exertion combined with the heat of the studio lights was like being in a desert. Sweat drenched the men and they both thought back to their respective tenures in the military. How much did these things weigh, anyway, they both thought. But eventually, the struggling paid off and the wardrobe mistress got the necessary measurement.
"Sixty-five inches," she announced. "Mary Higgins is sixty-five inches around the fullest part of her bust."
"What's that in cup sizes," a female voice, yelled from the audience, voicing the question on a lot of people's mind.
"I believe an E-cup," said the wardrobe mistress.
The audience went wild. There was no way Mary Higgins was an E-cup. The wardrobe mistress didn't know what she was talking about. No wonder the host's suits were so tight, they thought, he had an ignoramus doing his wardrobe.
The wardrobe mistress, seeing that the audience had misunderstood her, whispered into the host's ear causing a giant smile to form on his face. He quickly assumed control of his show and calmed his audience down.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced like a circus ringmaster,"I believe you misunderstood my wardrobe mistress." He gestured to the woman, signaling her to complete her initial thought.
"What I meant to say," she said to the audience, trying to stifle a smile. "Is that Mrs. Higgins is an E-cup, the E being the second time around the alphabet."
Bedlam broke out in the studio with the wardrobe mistress' announcement. The host probably would have tried to calm his audience down but he couldn't. He was knocked unconscious.
Roy Higgins had slugged the host, who turned out to have a glass jaw, when he asked the dumbest question Roy had ever heard: "So, Roy, now that your wife has the biggest breasts on the planet, are you still thinking about divorcing her?
But the host didn't care. It was, after all, sweeps week.