Fake cans can be fun.
(Actually, my mammaraydar says Salma’s were real here.)
But if you do opt for pricey body work to look more like a Barbie doll – then what’s the point in adorning the top of your rib cage with two snack baggies filled full’a salt water… if you can’t even enjoy them? If you go super-big, can you really enjoy life without wondering whether you’ll crush your lungs as you slumber? Or pop ’em during a massage? Granted, triple L sized boobs could probably help you survive in the event of a water landing – but I’d imagine they’d make for a pretty back breaking day-to-day. Is it weird that the professional titty slicers even let people take it this far?
Maybe the MILFAGS (Mom I’d Like To Find A Good Shrink) below can explain to me what’s up since her cup conundrum has put her in the hole a quarter mill.
This poor lost soul and mother of six just underwent her 36th cosmetic procedure – and she won’t stop till she looks like Barbie. Alright. I’ll bite.
But, like, which Barbie is it she’s trying to mimic?
Bless her compressed little heart.
I’m being reminded of when I sit to draw a person and it begins to look like a Picasso because I get frustrated and keep screwing with it and getting all the scaling off and smearing all the lines. Except – tragically – when it’s body mods instead of Strathmore and charcoal, you’ve gotta rock it for public display. No real lady looks like Barbie, darling. Some girls come quasi-close in their early 20’s. And the chicks who do more nearly share her measurements are usually fashion models who just look like hungry cartoonish aliens so starved that in a few years, they resemble an uncircumcised dong in repose with ill fitting silicone balloons reluctantly hanging on in perilous proximity above their recent c-section scar.
Barbie’s not an idol to emulate.
She’s a non-sentient disproportionate doll.
But homegirl won’t hear any of it. She keeps upgrading dem titties more often than my iphone wants me to upgrade to whatever latest NSA-ware app is out.
Ah, yes. I fully recognize and relate to this brand of body dysmorphia.
As a kid, it was thinking red lipstick would make me No Doubt’s front woman. Even now – it manifests in mirror hating up until I step on the scale or slink into a pair of loose fitting jeans and realize I’ve lost five pounds that week. Then I realize how ridiculous that all is – from my skewed self-image to my worth-barometer being based on some Platonic ideal about the mathematics of aesthetics.
Being aware of it is def a step in the right direction – but I’d be lying if I said that with a more abundant bank account I’d not have siphoned out large sums by now for surgical tweaks of my own, based off adolescent hangups I’m still not over. And whether we’re cutting ourselves tearfully albeit gently with a razor in a tub or having the doc do it for us while we take a drug induced nap – self-sabotage as self-esteem fuel is totes our right, right?
But is our right – as a patient – really the question to ask?
A plastic surgeon’s warnings are for good reason. And successive or extreme surgeries that might threaten your life could destroy his own as well. There are some surgeons who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about vacuuming your ass fat – even when he knows you’ve had an effing heart replacement. But that’s when it gets to that super underhanded contra-indication immoral level. There’s still several levels of still-legal-but-wrong preceding that kind of unprofesh behavior.
The point here is that yes – whether it’s a woman, dude, or genital free celestial being like the dudes in Dogma – we should be allowed to elect which surgeries we want done.
(Props to Snape for bringing the tale back to Mattel.)
That said, in the quest to look like Ken’s life partner – there should also be a guard dog at the scalpel end saying which variety of surgeries they’ll perform and which they won’t – based on ethics. Ya know, kind of like that whole oath they took (which similar to all the religions that get preached but not followed – is naught but dogma of its own). That way a patient won’t end up asphyxiated by tit flesh in the night. Well, that hasn’t happened to this bish yet, but she has said she can’t use the front stove burners – due to danger of funbag fire.
I’d like to close with a few questions:
1: HTF is she putting six kids through school?
2: Were there actually seven of them- and one suffocated during breastfeeding?
3: I want to know which barbie all these bitches be bringing into Dr. LookGood.
4: There is no 4 – but until I get an answer to 3, I’m going to assume the Barbie was barbecued.