A Special Reminder From Hollywood

As the holiday season approaches, you, like many Americans, will be drawn to the warming light of cinema to fill the idle, empty moments in your life. We would like to take a moment to thank you for being an essential part of the process of making movie magic. Without your patronage it simply wouldn’t be possible to continue delivering the kind of high quality entertainment that you have come to expect—and deserve.
That said, we would also like to take this opportunity to remind you of something:
POPULAR ACTRESS has breasts.
We here at Hollywood are very interested in making sure that you, the average movie-goer, is fully aware of the existence of POPULAR ACTRESS' breasts. Please take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with them, as you will be seeing them many, many times in the future.

Nice, yes? I thought you would agree. Just give yourself some time to appreciate them, to fully comprehend them. Admire their dimension, their bearing, their very gravity.
Imagine them in your hands. Imagine the soft, yielding flesh pressed against your calloused palms, tickling you with the tiniest of downy hairs.
Stop.
This is a pleasure that will, of course, be forever denied you. Do not weep. This is simply the nature of the world. As bigshot studio executives, we have had varieties of pussy so magnificent as to be fully beyond your corn-husking comprehension. Compared to many of these women, POPULAR ACTRESS is but a bloated Hefty bag full of cottage cheese and despair. Yet to you she is an angel on earth, a carnal paragon—sex incarnate. She is no more a woman than an ephemeral ideal that, so far as you know, exists only in the imagination of the Olympians themselves.
Tonight, as you lie sweaty and spent atop some sow-eyed she-creature (that we can only imagine passes for female in dim light) it is our hope that your moment of physical exultation was filled instead with the vision we have crafted for you:
The vision of POPULAR ACTRESS' breasts.

Oh, what a dreadful life you must lead, oscillating between shifts at the cannery and bitter rounds at the local dive. Our fondest wish is to gift your empty and baleful existence with the faintest taste of what nature has seen fit to hold apart from your oleaginous kind.
Take POPULAR ACTRESS' breasts. They are our gift to you. Stare, slack-jawed, at them as they bounce and heave across the screen. Allow yourself to be lost in whatever passes for erotic fantasy among your proletarian kind—something involving Neolithic positions and country music. Later, as you drive back to your double-wide trailer in your Ford F-150 with a window decal of Calvin urinating upon something, you may feel that vision fade. You may feel the panic of returning to that mewling, ape-like troglodyte you call a wife or girlfriend. You may think about how her breasts—saggy udders with nipples like vulcanized rubber—are nothing like the breasts of POPULAR ACTRESS. A deep depression will no doubt seize your soul.
Take heart! There will be many, many, many more opportunities to delight in the jiggling visage of POPULAR ACTRESS' breasts. We will see to it.

We make this solemn vow, to you, our wailing patron: We will put POPULAR ACTRESS' breasts in every movie possible, from now until the pre-ordained day of their expiration (not long after her 25th birthday). When that day comes, we also promise to replace them with a bosom no less bountiful to fuel your gruesome, primitive rutting.
We will do this for you.
Because we fucking hate you.