Erin go bragh?

I haven’t quite gotten the hang of proper nekkid boob etiquette when it comes to crossing Bourbon and seeing a tourist for whom gravity has not been kind, baring her boobs which are, I am not exaggerating, hanging to her belly button, pointing down, painted green for St. Patrick’s Day. I generally manage to ignore the sights of Bourbon as I have to cross it to get to the building, but some days, I’m just sort of gobsmacked. The “Female Solidarity” portion of my brain wants to applaud that she’s proud of her body, whatever shape it’s in. The very very southern part of my brain wants to take her aside with a “Bless your heart,” and buy her a shirt.

four-leaf-clover

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