Before we start roasting this dude over an open flame for copping a feel from a plastic and fiberglass inanimate sculpture, I think it’s important to remember that you’ve done the same fucking thing.
Granted, you were with your friends at the mall and tried to make it into a joke, and it was, most of it. But there was definitely about 14% of you that said to yourself “she’s got a nice set of cans I’d like to smother with greasy paws.” Ya bro, you called it a ‘she’. And after you’re done groping the sculpture and your friends get a good chuckle and your dinkey moves a little bit, you go to the Food Court, get a couple free samples from the Chinese joint, sit down and wonder what Debbie’s hopes and dreams would be if she were a real life human. You named it Debbie dude. You named the plastic mannequin Debbie. You then get the sudden urge to put a shirt and pants on her and whisper into her ear “you’re better than this,” before telling your friends you’re not feeling well and take off with her riding shotgun in your 1992 gold Toyota Camry. When you arrive home you take Debbie straight to your furnished basement where you two make sweet human-mannequin love before the noise of the couch shifting causes your mother to open the door and yell “MATTHEW DANIEL KEOHAN what in the HEAVENS is going on down there?!” to which you hurriedly reply “I’m working out mom! Coach says I got a shot at third string this year.” You then look over at Debbie and give her a sly smile to which you’re absolutely sure to this day that she returned the smirk.
That’s obviously just a fictional hypothetical to prove a point about what you probably did your junior year of high school, so give this man a goddamn break bro. He is you and you are him.
missyoudebbie.