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Sheryl Weinstein Would Like Us To Know Her Breasts Are Real, And They're Spectacular

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Or at least they were back when she and Bernie were having an affair, a hundred years ago. Now, probably not so much but the point is this: her newly released (and deeply discounted) book is nothing if not the pushing of agendas. One, to shout it from the rooftops that Bernie's penis was so small that it could fit into an electrical socket (she knows for sure because on one fateful night, they tried) and two to make herself sound like a hot piece of cheating whore ass (and maybe score herself another fake billionaire to "pal around" with). We've already been told, many times, how hot she was in the heat of the moment. Now let's discuss the bod.

We were sitting across the table from each other when I walked over, straddled him, and opened two of the buttons on my blouse. He looked down and moaned.
"Have you had surgery?" he asked.
"No." I smiled. "I have my mother to thank for these. But you can check for scars if you want."

And since we're unfortunately here, let's find out what happened next.

From my vantage point, his receding hairline was clearly visible. Bernie was nearly all gray, and his hair was starting to thin new the top. "Propecia?" I blurted out.
Bernie was not a girly man. His "How could you think that of me?" expression let me know he understood I was referring to the foam solution that is supposed to grow and retain hair. That look said it all.


Stanford Business School Deans: They're Just Like Us!

Love triangle with a faculty member and her estranged husband edition.