Woohooo! My sweaty fist holds a $600 tax rebate, thanks to (a) Uncle Sam; (b) countries who passed the basket to lend us the moolah; and (c) the kids who’ll inherit the debt. How lucky that I don’t need my rebate for the mortgage or groceries, and can GO SHOPPING!
I could “green” the house for energy efficiency. Or upgrade my old ten-speed with a Boomer-friendly model, and bike to work. Think: Tricycle with padded tractor seat and “Born to be Wild” mudflaps. Sensible, yet classy.
Sadly, I’m neither sensible nor classy, and I secretly want plastic surgery. But so do millions of Americans! Okay, maybe not millions, but a few shallow and insecure types like myself. What to get… Liposuction? Collagen injections? Implants? Perhaps, a dimple transplant, harvested from acreage on the lower back forty and sewn to one side of my smile—masking a chronic facial tic.
Bye-bye, silicone! Doctors can now remove a patient’s cerebellum, divide it in half and transplant the tissue to the upper chest area. So, fellow cowgirls, y’all mosey on in for a Brain Allocation and Resection for Buxom Infusion and Enhancement, or BARBIE. And guys, beef up your pecs without exercise! Ask for a Kryptonite Enlargement for Nerds. That’s right, the KEN.
Why the cerebellum? Turns out, it’s the portion of the female brain that stores batting averages of all MLB players. And in males, the cerebellum houses neurons that map the complexities of changing a roll of toilet paper. Thus, our unused gray matter is an ideal donor site for achieving the coveted looks of BARBIE and KEN.
Surgeons can also mine the brain’s parietal lobes and implant the tissue in our lips. This exciting technique is known as the Glamour Upgrade for Perpetual Pout in the Epidermis, or GUPPIE. To the modern woman, “plumpers” aren’t just a brand of hotdogs – they’re the sexy “bee sting” lips made popular by Angelina Jolie and Donald Duck.
Anyone besides me thinking of transgender surgery? There’s still time before the big family reunion next month. You realize, heh heh, what a hoot this will be.
On the other hand, postponing the gender adventure for a while may save us a dime or two. For, in the realm of hormones and aging, Mother Nature can be whimsically passive-aggressive, giving goatees to gals and breasts to men—absolutely free! It’s The Crying Game, seniors’ version.
I previewed my own dismal fate while watching my grandmother age. Famine, flood, and pestilence? Lo! I fear them not! But the coarse black hairs sprouting from grannie’s chin, ears and out the top of her nose…?
FREAKED! ME! OUT! If her genes prevail, my golden years will be golden retriever years. Dang, I really ought to invest in a decent pair of tweezers.
So how much plastic surgery will $600 buy? Hopefully, enough to halt my skin’s relentless sag toward the profile of a giant flying squirrel. Yesterday I consulted a doctor handing out snacks in the produce aisle. He was a strapping young lad in a white smock with MOOSE embroidered on the pocket. An odd name for a surgeon. And he stood by a sign, “Mayo for Sale.” Mayo?? Never knew the clinic was having problems. Anyway, I arranged for Dr. Moose to Bissell my buttals and Hoover my hippers. Don’t worry, I made him promise to use the crevice attachment in the corners.
But, alas, $600 will only buy a nose freckle dermabrasion with a floor sander. So, I’m calling my Avon lady.
You know the crescent cleavage shadows airbrushed onto photos of busty babes? Well, I want those. Not bigger breasts, but the brown crescents drawn between them. Oh, and a slimming vertical stripe down the outside of each leg. I’ll look so mega hot. From a distance. Thank goodness, my Avon rep gives discounts on body paint in bulk quantities.
With $600 to blow, I’m thinking 12-gallon drums.