Dear Serena (may I?),
What are you, about a 38 triple D? Was that too personal? Gosh, I'm sorry, but ever since you threatened that lineswoman with severe bodily harm, I've felt a deep personal connection to you. In fact, I wonder if I can have your cell phone number, because there's a woman at the DMV I'd like you to visit on my behalf.
But that's not what I wanted to talk with you about. (Do you dislike people who end sentences with prepositions? I sure hope not! Hahahaha.) I wanted to talk to you about, well, your rack.
No, not your racket, your rack. You know, the girls. I see you take after your mom, while Venus has a body type more like your dad's. I happen to believe that Maria Sharapova's build is more reasonable for tennis, but that's neither here nor there, as this isn't about me. It's about you and your gadoinkers.
What was that? Yes, gadoinkers. No, that's not offensive. It's only offensive when a man says it. Women are allow to call their ta-tas anything they like, and I happen to like gadoinkers, although blouse bunnies and love puppets are grand names as well. In fact, if you were to write down all the names for breasts that you could think of (you may team up with your sister, if you wish), you might be surprised how ably our language caresses the two secrets of our success, and by our, I mean your.
Serena, I must be blunt. In the name of fair competition, I think its time you hobbled the girls.
Hear me out. At Wimbledon, your fastest serve was clocked at close to 130 mph. No woman has ever hit a tennis ball that hard. And no other woman has had a torpedo deck like yours, either. Coincidence? I think not. Didn't you hear the commentators talking about the "new technology" and how enormous people with tree trunks for legs will set the new standard? If this keeps going, tennis is going to be all about big breasted women serving bullets. I don't know about other fans, but I like to see you guys run around a little bit. How long did it take you to mop up Zvronareva? An hour and six minutes? I barely had time to finish my fifth martini!
Now that I have established the link between large breast size and first serves, I calculate each cup size puts an extra 5 mph on your serve. If you were to reduce the size of your chest, Serena, you would slow down this ridiculous escalation. Something in a modest B+ or C- would stop the madness.
No, I'm sorry, I don't see what Dolly Parton has to do with anything. The day Dolly Parton grabs her guitar by the neck and swings the business end at Shania Twain's head, then you can talk to me about Dolly Parton. Until then, shut your pie hole, Serena, because I'm trying to help you here.
I'm worried about you. It's a wonder you don't pitch forward. In fact, remember when you were up by a hundred set points and you netted the ball with an uncharacteristically graceless forehand that pulled you off your feet? I believe slow motion revealed gravitational pull on your upper torso. Face it, Serena. They are getting in the way. Soon, you'll be stepping on them. The next thing you know, those whoppers will be floppers, and no amount of woulda, shoulda, coulda will help you then.
Talk it over with Venus, your mother, your coach. See if they don't agree that a more streamlined silhouette will help your game. You owe it to the future of the sport.
Excuse me? Your game doesn't need any help? Well, maybe not right now, but...oh, I see. You like yourself just the way you are, and you're not responsible for the future of tennis. Well, it sounds like you've made up your mind then. I'll change the subject.
About your badonkadonk...