The big secret in Roxie's family, which no outsiders were supposed to know about, was her oldest sister's boob job. Seems Sis was feeling a little unhappy with the state of her sagging, aged teats, so Mr. Sis ponied up for a bit of silicone reinflation. Roxie was telling me about the time not long after at a family gathering when Mr. Sis gazed longingly at his wife's fresh rack of 38DDs, shook his head with a smile, and said, "Best three thousand dollars I ever spent."

Kind of sad, isn't it?

I just want to put in a good word today for old-fashioned, real-live, flesh-and-blood breasts, sagging or no. Regardless of how well they resist gravity, silicone breasts just don't measure up when it comes to the touch test.

Oh, yes, there's a difference—you know there is. Remember that hilarious scene in L.A. Story when TV weatherman Steve Martin finally gets New Age ditz Sarah Jessica Parker into the sack and he cops a feel? A confused look crosses his face, and he says, "Why do your breasts feel strange?"

And she says, "Because they're real." (Ba-dum!)

So when was it I felt a pair of Fifth Avenue falsies for myself and arrived at my opinion? I'd like to say that I got my hands on Sis's casabas in a back room at one of those frequent family gatherings, but that, more's the pity, would be a lie. No, what happened was I slipped a woman a couple of bills at a peepshow near Times Square sometime last year, and that's when my innocence was lost.

I'd never felt fake breasts before, but it was obvious from the first moment I touched them that that was what they were. Even before that, I knew something was up, because this woman had to be pushing forty, and her 40-DD's were defying gravity as perkily as helium balloons at a carnival. But when I laid hands on them, all doubt fled my mind.

Those suckers (or suck-ees, if you prefer) were as hard as bowling balls.

When I say they were hard, I mean they were hard. No give whatsoever, not one iota. Now, I don't know about you, but I prefer a little softness and give in my breasts—well, not my breasts, but you know what I mean. If I wanted to caress a couple of chunks of marble, then they'd be peeling me off the statues up at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a regular basis.

"You know, most men come instantaneously when they get their hands on my breasts," the nice woman said to me (possibly in reaction to the fact that this obviously was not what I was doing).

Uh-huh. And a lot of men would give their left nut to trade places with Tommy Lee for a night with his wife, Plastic Pam, but that's not me. (Hey, even if Pamela didn't come with a tag that reads MADE IN BEVERLY HILLS, I've met Tommy Lee, and while he was a relatively nice guy, he was so dumb that I'd steer clear of any woman who was actually willing to bring two of his get into the world.)

So bring on those all-natural breasts. I don't care if they sag, or if they're small, or if they come in two different sizes. If I like you, then I'm liable to like your breasts, so long as they're 100% organic.

I guess I'm just a ditzy New Age kind of guy.