THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT!!!
Music: Purple People Eaters
Could Have been them!!!
My thighs were stolen from me during the night of
August 3rd a few years ago. It was just that quick.
I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone
else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of
cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel
thing to legs that had been wholly, if imperfectly,
mine for years?
Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine? I
spent the entire summer looking for them. I
searched, in vain, at pools and beaches, anywhere I
might find female limbs exposed. I became obsessed.
I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh
that turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and
angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in
jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves
struck again. My buns were next. I knew it was the
same gang because they took pains to match my new
derriere (although badly attached at least 3 inches
lower than the original) to the thighs they had
stuck me with earlier. Now my rear complimented my
legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long
skirts would stay in fashion.
It was 2 years ago when I realized my arms had been
switched. One morning while fixing my hair, I
watched horrified but fascinated, as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the
This was really getting scary. My body was being
replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a
time. Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was
supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible,
something like maturity. NO, I was being attacked,
repeatedly and without warning.
During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms-female arms. I studied them from every angle,
being careful not to raise mine in public nor
flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I held them straight out and did endless circles
that would have tightened my real arms but did
nothing for these Silly-Putty caricatures. In the
end, in deepening despair, I gave up my T-shirts.
What could they do to me next?
In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil
(it seemed particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind people that they needed a
new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck disappeared
more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now
reminded me of.
That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't
take on the medical profession by myself.
Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're getting those replacement parts,
don't you? The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted", look again. Was it lifted from you?
Check out those tummy tucks and buttocks raising.
Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie
I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope
Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them.
(you gotta love her, whoever she