One Word. Plastics.

If you do a Google search for ‘bad plastic surgery’ you’re going to be sorry. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it. Because you’ll be so angry at these lame brains and you won’t be able to get a hold of their email addresses to send them a note that says, “What, are you stupid?”

People who have had botched plastic surgery are all over the Internet with their sob stories about how a reputable Hollywood plastic surgeon that came highly recommended by the receptionist in their chiropractor’s office made them look like a comic book character - and I’m not talking about Xena or Wonder Woman or that hottie Brenda Starr. I’m talking about Jessica Rabbit.

Doesn’t this woman look like Jessica Rabbit with a more conservative haircut? A doctor did this. A medical doctor.

People who have had bad plastic surgery love to post before and after pictures to go along with their tales of woe. The before picture is beautiful, perfect features and the after picture is . . . wait a minute, scan back to the before picture . . . it’s perfect. Big, youthful eyes, small nose, perfect mouth, no disfigurements or signs of aging or ugliness. She’s right - she started out beautiful. If she was so beautiful, why did she go to a plastic surgeon?

See? I told you you’d get mad. (No, I don’t have her email address.)
"Look at how cute I was! I was adorable! And then look at how bad I look now. This is someone else’s fault, preferably someone with lots of money. Because I had to give up my acting career - I can now only play Extremely Surprised Young Beautiful Girl."

A medical doctor did this, too. A person who got into medical school and went there and got a medical degree and became a doctor.

I’m told that getting plastic surgery, for some people, is like getting tattoos. You think it would be cool to get a little butterfly and then that goes so well, that you decide to get a Kaballah symbol for the key of righteousness. Before you know it, you can think of all kinds of things that you hold so dear to your heart that you must get them onto your skin. Next thing you know, you have a chess board tattooed on your face and a mural of the history of the Ottoman Turk Empire covering your torso. That little butterfly gets crushed by a mallet.

(You all know how I feel about tattoos. I almost got a temporary tattoo last Friday in South Beach. For $10 I could have gotten an x-x-small tattoo that lasts a month. My husband egged me on, saying, “Come on, do it. Do it. Come on, get one. Come on, do it. Do it, do it.” He even walked me over to the temporary tattoo store twice and turned the pages of the catalog for me. The South Beach atmosphere - you know, the one where you start out thinking you look really good but when thrown in with all the South Beachers, alll of whom have been in at least one major motion picture, you and your life seem very beige - seemed to have turned a normal guy into one who wants his wife to have a tattoo. I said I would do it if it was a Fun Event, with girlfriends and matching t-shirts and photo ops and something I could gush over with someone on Facebook. [OMG! Can you believe we did that?!!!! LOL!] But even my daughter didn’t want to get one with me. I think she was looking for a Fun Event, too, and it didn’t include her mom.)

But enough of the analogy. Let’s get back to plastic surgery.

You might start out saying Geez I’ll just get that nose job I’ve wanted since freshman year, when someone wrote SCHNOZ! in my yearbook. And a little Botox and then I’ll be perfect! Then your nose looks so good that you start to feel bad for your chin, which is starting to look turkey-like, so you go back under the knife and make a little improvement there. Then your face looks so good that you start to feel sorry for your boobs, so you get the boob job. Before you now it, you look like this.

All done by medical doctors, with medical doctor degrees.

Then a small nose seems like an unattainable goal. It’s still there! He keeps chipping away at it and that nose-shaped bone just seems to jump off my face when I look in the mirror. On the other hand your lips are disappearing into your face and have become flesh crayon lines, despite the chicken fat that your doctor keeps shooting into them. Not big enough. Not small enough.

Then you’re addicted to plastic surgery. You’re stupid and completely responsible for turning God’s temple into a holy mess, but I can’t help but think these freaks wouldn’t exist without doctors who agree to do these surgeries. (Except for the Asian lady who injected herself with cooking oil. She has no one to blame. Or sue.)

I’m at the end of this blog and I haven’t had a chance to use this photo, so here it is. A woman who claims she had surgeries to make herself look like a cat, because her husband likes cats. In the divorce proceedings, he said: “I said I like cats. Cripes, I was just making conversation.”

I wonder who did this? Hmm, let’s see . . . who could it be . . . oh yeah, that’s right, a doctor.

To close, I’d like to quote Courtney Love, which I may make a habit of:

“My mouth still looks wonky.”

Ya think?

Labels: , , , , ,