I've been thinking a lot about bizarre freak of nature Chesty Morgan. Born Lillian Wilczkowsky in Poland, she came to America and starred in three movies. As you may have guessed, Chesty's sole selling point was her mammoth, 73-inch breasts. Hanging from her chest like two watermelons, they made the amphetamied-out Pole a natural for director Doris Wishman's bizarre band of sexploitation movies. Chesty only appeared in three films, and then she disappeared. Nobody knows where. She could have been a Russ Meyer girl, but she lacks the spirit of his buxom women; she staggers through her films like a glazed amphetamine addict being given commands like a dog; all of her dialogue was dubbed over to hide her thick accent. She staggers around in ill-fitting clothes, occasionally whipping out a boob as the plot demands.

Having a talent is a lot like having a pair of enormous, weighty tits. You can't hide them, you can't deny that they're a part of your life. Every waking moment, it weighs upon you. I wonder if Chesty really appreciated what she had, or if she regarded her unique talent as a burden to her. In her films, she treats her breasts in a disturbingly unerotic fashion; they just lay there on her chest, occasionally she'll clumsily manhandle them in a sorry imitation of sexual pleasure, while dubbed-in moans echo through the soundtrack. In "Deadly Weapons," her first film, she uses her mams to suffocate gangsters; in "Double Agent 73," she uses a spy camera implanted in her left breast to photograph enemy agents. All Chesty has going for her is her enormous, natural boobs. And yet, somehow that's enough.

All my life I've been told that I have "talent." It hasn't done me a whole lot of good. You can buy Chesty's movies from Something Weird Video.