Morganna Roberts was one-of-a-kind. Part vaudeville, part exotic dancer, part prankster, part performance artist, her acts were five-star revues of wiggling flesh or unexpected comedy, depending on venue, guaranteed to put a jiggle in the johnson or pull a laugh from a crowd.
Her primary asset was a vast parcel of heaving real estate, mounted ostentatiously on the leading frontage of a rolling upper torso terrain. When her act began, Morganna's outsized bazooms led the revue, guided by perky nipples which appeared on stage 5 seconds before the rest of her anatomy arrived. She. Was. That. Huge.
She was the pioneer in the first wave of Super-Mams, entering adult entertainment venues armed with 44H cannons more lethal than Dirty Harry’s 44 Magnum. Morganna would blaze a trail for future generations of adult stars whose own topside dimensions would later eclipse hers – Wendy Whoppers (50HHH), Lisa Lipps (53EE), Toppsy Curvey (54HHH) – to present day, Beshine (59XXX) and Chelsea Charms (72PP).
An unabashed promoter, Morganna stayed in front of the curve with her trademark “Kissing Bandit” routine, bursting onto ballfields (if not out of her bra) to plant lip-locks on major league ballplayers during the 70’s and 80’s, Pete Rose, Cal Ripken Jr., Nolan Ryan, being just a few of those whose lips tasted hers. Frequently arrested for trespassing or disorderly conduct, her case was always dismissed, allowing her to run and steal a kiss another day.
Known less than for her on-stage talents was her savvy instinct for business management, a skill honed by her accountant-husband of many years. It’s a well-established fact among exotic dancers that bigger hooters = deeper cleavage = more Tip$$, and like her other amply-endowed sisters-in-trade, Morganna collected enough to build a small empire. But unlike other dancers who made cash deposits brick-and-mortar style, she managed her cash-flow with an efficiency that Price Waterhouse Coopers would applaud, by installing a debit card swipe device in the dark recess of her cleavage. No more fussin' with nasty, beer-drenched, dead Presidents! Just slide that plastic 'tween those bad-boys, thank you very much, I appreciate yer binness!
She retired in 1999, on the eve of the new millennia, just in time to escape the crushing tsunami of the neo-bosom parade. Just as well. The field was starting to overcrowd with super-hyper-mega-hootered hotties, leaving no country for old mammaries, and asking the only question that mattered: are these new boobs for real or are they mammarex?
In the mid-80’s Morganna performed at a night club in Metairie, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans on the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain. I saw her show and had the chance afterward to ask her the only question on my mind: real or not? She assured me they were real and autographed a photo attesting to that. The picture got lost later on, somewhere along the way during my move from New Orleans to Houston. Lost is testimony of the authenticity of her boobage. Not lost is she's one tough act to follow.