Bra Problems.

While putting on your bra, you glance up at the Venusian Wheels, churning in synchronized teledisplacement, blotting out the distant sun. You begin to suspect the bra may be the wrong size. The bra gal at the bra store who sold you the bra clearly wasn't as good at estimating bra sizes as she thought she was. Who does she think she is, selling people the wrong bras? You glare up at the Wheels, projecting your bra-based ire at their firmament-filling, crystalline garishness. "Eyesore," you complain, as they slip between dimensions, instantly transporting Venusian armadas to galaxies unknown. "Fucking eyesore."