There were only two of them, but they made a whole frontage: huge, compelling, pneumatic. They burst out of tight red dresses—preferably red—or teased among feather boas, or flanked a dizzying cleavage that plunged to tantalising depths. These were celebrated, American breasts, engineered by silicon to be as broad and bountiful as the prairie. With them, a girl from nowhere—or from Houston, Texas—could do anything. The body behind them waxed and waned, sometimes stout as a stevedore's and sometimes almost waif-like, matching the little-girl voice; but the Breasts remained.
That's from Anna Nicole Smith's obituary in The Economist. Yes, you read that right: in The Economist. We don't even know why we bother.