Awhile ago, my son, Hunter, and his entire crew of then-11 year old skateboard buddies were lounging around my living room — eating Hot Cheetos, drinking root beer, and watching South Park. I had an appointment and was way in the back part of the house taking a shower and getting ready to go. I was hauling fatass so as not to be late, and was distracted, so I had no idea that there was a flock of dudes with their lanky selves spread out all over my furniture.

After I pulled on my white cotton granny panties and white cotton sports bra, I realized that the black t-shirt I wanted to wear was up in the laundry room — right off the kitchen. So, in all of my oblivious, hurried glory, I sauntered my fatass in that direction. It was only as I saw them — and more importantly, THEY SAW ME — that I realized the horrific truth: I was strutting practically naked past a roomful of pre-pubescent boys. In my trauma, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I looked over at their stunned faces, cocked my head to one side, pursed my lips, put my hands on my hips, continued to strut, and shouted in a voice that was large and in charge:

“Don’t look, boys, it’ll turn you queer!”

Hilarious fucking line, I know.

Too bad it wasn’t mine.

It was Shelley’s.

As the story goes, she was shooting a film way back in the day — after she had gained quite a bit of weight — and was unexpectedly called to the set. She wasn’t exactly dressed and ready, but being the consummate fucking professional that she was (oh, and she WAS) she ran out her dressing room door, still pushing and tucking her ample flesh into her girdle. As the story goes on — half dressed and with copious titties and tummy asplay — she passed a group of young male actors waiting for their call…and as she passed them, she shouted out that immortal line:

“Don’t look, boys, it’ll turn you queer!”

Goodnight, Miss Shelley. There’ll never, ever be another you.