Traceless Turncoat, our ol' backstabbing TV babe, who's made quite the career outta selling out her boob-tube amigos (for cash and prizes, mind you) has been—horrors!—behaving herself, as of late. Too boring for words. But, wouldn't ya know it: Word got back to T.T. that her network's higher-ups were perfectly aware she'd turned herself into a Jackie Collins version of Benedict Arnold, and that she'd better cool it. That, she did.
That is until her glitzy place of employment began hiring much younger, prettier, more shapely things who just happened to have far more impressive cleavages than does our babe, Trace. Yikes! What's an averagely endowed, amoral, conniving, man-munching, nominally talented bitch to do? Surgery? Amazingly engineered push-up bras? Suicide?
Nope. But duct tape certainly seemed to be a viable option. So to the hardware store went Ms. T's horrified stylist, who didn't know whether to laugh, cry or get some spackle, too (T2's not quite as flawless as she used to be). See, Ms. T had a plan, and this is indeed what that poor stylin' worker bee has to put up with every day Traceless is glammed up for her TV show: They both go into T.T.'s private dressing room, and before the latest ta-tas-showing outfit is practically painted onto the girl's increasingly diminishing figure, the dresser wraps an entirely nude Turncoat's midsection in industrial-strength tape, winding up just underneath Ms. T's breasts, thereby turning her natural-born babies into Pam Anderson-style bazookas.
Get it? Duct tape, babes. Directly onto—and then off of, 'course—the vain honey's skin. Every damn day. Oh, and Trace is hardly subtle about the pain during the taking off process. Swears like…well, me.