About three weeks ago my computer crashed and died. I brought it into a mac surgeon but it was too late. He used the term ‘paper weight’ as he handed it back to me, letting me know that if one day I’d like to sell him the screen, he may be interested, as it wasn’t too jizz encrusted.
Hey! Speaking of jizz encrusted, head down to punk rock night at the risqué café on Clark and Sheffield tonight. I’ll be your host for punk rock, dollar tacos and super cheap cans, plus, a special so radical I CANT even tell you about it in print! Oh, and I think there’s some bands playing tonight too. Could be cool. I don’t know much about ‘em, but they’re apparently on tour. Come on down. Free admission. Stripper pole.
What was I saying? Oh yeah, my computer died. The result is that I have to use my wife’s computer, which thankfully is here due to her being home for maternity leave. The big point here is that sometimes she’s on this thing, and I end up unable to post my blog until four in the afternoon (that’s after some of you have already left work!) So, sorry about the delayed state of affairs here. My mainframe is down. I’ve got the very best people in the BSC I.T. department working on it, but for now I’m bumming this computer like it was smokes outside the denny’s after goth night at the youth center. You know what I’m sayin, right?
So what do you guys think about fake cans? I think they’re all right, personally. I know, I know. It’s surgery that pretty much plays into the phallocentric hegemony and exists to satisfy men’s unrealistic ideals of blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. I get it. You don’t like ‘em. Well, I like ‘em just fine. How bout that? Oh, go ahead and throw your stones. I’m sure you’re just perfect. Jeez.
Now, I’d never encourage anyone to get fake boobs out of the blue, pretty much because it’s just a rude and fucked up thing to do. I mean, the deal is pretty much as follows when it comes to people’s appearance: don’t tell someone they need surgery to fix it. Period. It’s not cool to say “hey, you could use some hair plugs” or “have you ever thought about stomach stapling?” or “holy shit, if you got your jawbone filed down a little you’d be a stone cold fox!” That’s not polite. Under any circumstances. I don’t think that really needs to be said, right? Only the spencer pratts of the world would invent, prey on and goad someone’s insecurities like that (and those creepy Hollywood doctors who say shit like “babe, you’re a ten. Buuuuut, I could make you an eleven[what a dick])
However!!!!!!!!! if someone you know is real fat and they’ve tried lots of things and they’re at the end of their rope and they say “I’m thinking about the bariatric surgery,” I don’t think it’s out of line to be supportive. I mean, sure, there are lots of way better ways to lose weight and I think that surgery is often abused and it really sets a wacky precedent in this country when you’ve got people getting gigantically obese due to just cashing in and indulging every single urge for dingdongs and judge Mathis that they’ve ever had and then using surgery to “get out of it” BUT being fat is really unhealthy, and if you think that’s your answer, well, nothing motivates like success, and fuck, I dunno. I’m not gonna shame you. Being fat is rough and getting skinny ain’t easy.
“but we’re not talking about fat people, Beex! (not that I agree with your totally bullshit lazy American stance on bariatric surgery either, by the way!) We’re talking about women augmenting their tits in order to satisfy some unnatural ideal!”
Sure we are. Here’s the thing: tits are important. You can pretend all you want that tits are nothing but potential food sacks that ride around on the front of women and there’s a few gross men here and there that leer at them but otherwise they’re just a part of the body and beautiful no matter what and blah blah blah, but the truth is much MUCH different than that and you know that it’s true. Yes you do. Now who’s being naïve?
Women obsess over tits as much as, if not significantly more than men. Women check out each others tits and probably are more catty and tit-fascinated than guys for this simple reason: guys pretty much like tits. Big tits, small tits, fat tits, pointy tits whatever the tits, we’re okay with them in general. Oh sure, there are ‘big tit guys’ and ‘small tit guys’ but really, in the great scheme of things, tits are pretty cool. We’re okay with them. Women on the other hand will judge the shit out of some tits. “Too big! Too pointy! Wear a bra! Those things are sloppy/floppy/uneven!” And they know what they’re talking about. Tits make or ruin many an outfit, many an evening and many an impression. Tits are, like it or not, very, very important.
There are some tits, however that just defy all laws and are gross. These are the really bad tits brought about by I dunno what, but you know the ones I’m talking about- The wrinkly droopers, the veiny white electric bags, the French toast slabs et al; these are tits that even men can’t deal with and guess what? Walking around with these kind of tits tends to be devastating on the psyche. Result: unhappy woman with gross tits and confidence issues so severe that a tit job is the least of her worries.
And when you’re unhappy with your tits, it’s like being unhappy with your haircut. It’s gotta be humiliating just walking around with tits you can’t really stand behind. Appearance is closely tied self esteem and to happiness, and that’s not to say that you need to obsess over your looks, but if you’re not happy with your looks, it’s very easy to be unhappy in general, and that’s where can enhancement (or Canhancement) comes into play.
(and before you get all excited, I’m not saying there’s any idealized standard for how someone has to or should look in order to be happy. I’m simply saying that in a subjective world, if you are cool with being fifty pounds over weight, and suddenly you’re seventy five, or if you’re cool with having a Kevin spacey type widows peak, but suddenly you find that you’re doing the Ed Harris toilet seat look, well, that’s not easy to deal with. This isn’t about crazy ideals. this is about personal happiness and standards, folks.)
Sure, there are terrible boobjobs out there. There are also great ones. There are people who regret getting new boobs terribly. There are also scores of women who say it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them, and you know what? That might sound shallow, but I don’t think it is. Yes, it’s surgery. Yes it’s cosmetic, but to pretend that the way you’re born has to be satisfactory to you is to kind of be a hardline asshole. She just wants some tits. He just wants a full head of hair. Give ‘em a fucking break. Life is cold and scary. Let ‘em fix it if they don’t like it, you cruel appearance-ists!.
Finally, there’s the whole thing about them ‘looking fake’ or ‘feeling fake’ or whatever and let me tell you, that’s just the last cry of the self righteous dipshit. If your tits are saggy and gross and you hate them, looking a little fake is better than looking the way you’ve grown to despise over time so much that you’ve arrived at toying with the idea of surgical enhancement. Feeling fake? Who’s that a problem for? Show me a guy who’s feeling tits and I’ll show you a happy guy. Period. He’s not bummed about the way they feel. He’s so stoked he doesn’t care. It’s true. I’ve touched both kinds of tits, and they’re both great, folks. No complaints.
I dunno. Again, I’m not one for encouraging surgery, but I’m sick of people talking about fake tits like they’re this horrible indicator of a sick depraved soulless bimbo. Sometimes a girl just wants her dress to hang awesome and have some tits that go with her shoes.
Is that so wrong?
See you tonight.
