Yes, I understand that breasts are something that intrigue and excite you. I understand that I have them. And I understand that to you, as you stand behind the counter in all your creepy, dirty and decidedly smelly glory performing menial tasks for very small amounts of money, these two facts would make it seem to you like a good idea to comment on the size of my breasts.
Let me make this plain: Asking a woman if her back hurts due to the size of her -- as you charmingly refer to them -- 'bodacious knockers', is not a compliment. Nor is it in any way flattering for you to never once look above the chest line, but to instead stare, fixated. Or for you to purposefully drop the bag of ice that I'm buy so that I have to lean down and pick it up.
You're lucky I paid for it, and even luckier that I was in a hurry so that I couldn't give you more of a piece of my mind than I already did before leaving, you disgusting lump of grease and sexual frustration.
You have never touched a woman in your whole life, have you, sir? Even setting aside your dubious hygeine, I find that deeply unsurprising.
In closing, I wish you veneral diseases and rodentae.
Yours in revulsion,