Doctor, Doctor: Gimme My Designer Vaginer

People who still read the newspaper, I think, do so for lots of different reasons.

I think a lot of people who read the newspaper do so mainly so they can feel superior to those who don't. (Isn't that an obnoxious thing to say? If you want more, raid the archives.)

Of course, nobody feels more superior than the people who still read the newspaper in print. But we know what they're up to. They're the kind of people who refuse to get cable and microwaves, just so they can stand on ceremony and talk about what purists they are and how they delight in and concurrently suffer for their insistence on eschewing technology.

People like, oh, my parents.

Dickheads.

Some people read the newspaper to find out who got shot or stabbed or raped or arsoned overnight. If you're not a nightowl, you know that a lot happens in the smaller and larger world after you've rubbed Noxzema onto your hands and/or onto your lover's erect penis and gone to bed. Waking up and checking out the newspaper is like finding a veritable gold mine of stray bullets, sirens, semen, and aggravated battery.

Other people read the newspaper to see what that bald-ass motherfucker, Ziggy, is up to, and to see if he's been hired by Ikea to star in a new series of their Ektorp instruction manuals with the strange-looking potato people.

I read the newspaper. Kind of. Over the course of the last year, I consult http://www.philly.com/ and http://www.nytimes.com/ mostly to see if there is appropriate blog fodder, but I'm also semi-interested in who got gang-banged and bang-ganged overnight. In Philadelphia, lots of people do, so it's good to try to keep track if you can. It's not easy.

Sometimes, though, I'll check out a feature article or two if a title piques my interest. That is, after all, what titles are supposed to do, as I learned in 4th, 6th, 8th, 10th grades, and again in Journalism 210: "Media for the Chromosomally-Challenged" intro class in college. You never know what you're going to find. A local high school's scabby, bespectacled tech gurus are secretly webcam photographing young, lithe students doing homework on their laptops in their tank-tops and underoos... two rabid raccoons are on the loose causing havoc with ritzy resident's toy poodles and pomeranians... some crazy white woman is recruiting for the Taliban...

Oh, and friendly, resourceful, creative plastic surgeons in my neighborhood are helping out women with deep pocketbooks by giving them "designer vaginas."

apussysayswhat?

That's right, Pussy. You heard me. Designer vaginas.

Here's how it started...

Like all things that are now absurd, ridiculous and ethically dubious, this particular practice started out innocuously enough as a way to assist women with actual medical problems, like a vagina that looked like it had been put through a wheat thresher due to the passing of obese triplets or a panther child. Women with certain urinary tract conditions have been helped by physicians who have reconstructed various components of both the interior and exterior urogenital system.

And that's very nice.

But, just like facial plastic surgery, which was originally intended for burn victims and car crash survivors and people who stood too close to turbo-prop plane propellers, the practice of vagectomies (my word-- patent-pending) has gone, well, awry.

Enter: financial crisis.

Now, if you're a wealthy individual, and you've been advised by your Wealth Management Consultant that you need to tighten your purse-strings, what's the first thing you're going to cut, after downsizing from a Maserati to a Maybach, donating a small selection of your mink stole collection to science, and selling off your least attractive female child to a hairy-chested guy named Manolo?

You're going to give your plastic surgery budget a little nip and tuck.

After all, you've probably had your ass lifted and your cheekbones cracked and your eyelids stapled and your tits re-woodblocked-- so, really, there couldn't be that much left to do besides sandpapering and varnishing your forehead.

Enter: the vagina.

"Because of the recession, most cosmetic surgeons are doing far less [business] than they have in previous years, but I'm busier than ever," said one area plastic surgeon who partially credits vaginoplasties and labiaplasties with his practice's success. "Women want to look good all over and feel better, too."

Well, doc, they sure do, don't they?

Now, if you want the "perfect vagina" you can get one that's totally made-to-measure. Your dumb-ass, lumbering ox of a lover can't find your G-Spot? Apparently, some plastic surgeons can give you a "G-Shot" which is exactly what you're hoping it isn't: a shot of collagen to surgically enlarge your G-Spot. Maybe they can even coat it in neon reflective paint to make it easier to see in the dark, too.

If that image isn't disturbing enough, what pops into your cooch when you think of the word "hymenoplasty?"

That's right: they can make you a brand new hymen, so no one will ever have to know. Think of the possibilities! It's positively clit-boggling.

Critics say that these practices are tantamount to genital mutilation but, surprisingly, the plastic surgeons don't seem to phased by the critique. It must be all that money they're making from desperate housewives who want their "vaginal area to feel like a teenager, really. It's like back to its original state," one local hausfrau said.

Really? Back to its original state? That sounds a far lot younger than "teenager" to me, and that makes me positively ill. Your husband must be a very sick individual if he thinks your vagina going back to its "original state" is a good thing.

Life's funny, you know? I went to the vet yesterday to have our new puppy, Molly, all checked out. The vet was all but awestruck as he entered the room, spending a moment or two just to gaze at her.

"You know," he said, "she's just beautiful. I'll bet her genetic make-up would be very interesting."

I smiled and rolled my eyes at the same time, to indicate how I felt about pursuing that particular avenue of financial ruin.

"Well," he said, "if you ever run into a large sum of money that's just burning a hole in your pocket, and you can't think of absolutely anything else reasonable or prudent to spend it on, maybe you'll spring for it-- just for the heck of it."

I nodded my head and stroked Molly's head.

Or maybe I'll just get cockectomy to make the tip of my penis resemble the head of a bald eagle.

Brother, Can You Spare $1,000,000.00?

Well, it's official: former "Price is Right" host Bob Barker has officially lost his fucking mind.

It seems that the generations of exposure to "Plink-o" American cars with roll-up windows and California Emissions have taken their toll on this poor guy. Maybe he got punched in the face one too many times by Happy Gilmore-- I don't know, but something's finally cracked his nut.

I just read in The Philadelphia Inquirer, my hometown newspaper that I read every time I feel I have a brain-cell to spare, the following headline:

"Bob Barker Donates $1 Million to Save P.A. Pigeons."

And I thought to myself,

"Oh. That's nice. He'll be in an assisted living center in a matter of weeks, wearing a mung-stained terrycloth bathrobe, ranting loudly about the price of a jar of mayonnaise in 1932 and "the goddamn Japs" while a Jamaican Certified-Nurse-Assistant tugs on his arm, his eyes glaze over and his penis hangs out the fly of his smelly pajama bottoms."

Call me a negative nellie, but I'm really a goddamn wizard.

Honestly, though, I think it's great that Bob Barker wants to save the pigeons. Awesome. Power to the pigeons. Whatever. But I can't help but think that $1 million dollars could be better spent elsewhere. I mean, hey-- it's his money, he can do whatever the hell he wants with it, right?

But, I mean... pigeons?

I just don't get it. Not when there are millions of homeless, widowed, orphaned Haitians, poverty-stricken Americans, homeless, battered women, retarded kids, throngs wasting away from cancer and AIDS and fibromyalgia (that's a joke-- we all know that shit is made up), police and army widows, unemployed masses... I mean, this modern society has causes coming out of its aching, American ass-- and he picks pigeons?

Well, maybe I shouldn't be talking. I picked dead cops. We all pick something. Well, those of us with a conscience and a modicum of disposable time and income do. The rest of you shitheads just sit at home and watch "Teen Mom."

And I don't blame you. Fuckin' Farrah, man. Awesome.

I don't know what it is about this that bothers me so much. I mean, I don't think there should necessarily be authorized, organized trigger-happy pigeon shoots, used as a convenient excuse so that back-woods bumjobs in the Pennsylvania sticks can obsessively cling to their absurdly outdated 2nd Ammendment right. But, $1 million dollars? Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that this is what a man who ended every episode of his game show with the phrase, "Help control the pet population by remembering to have your pets spayed or neutered."

I mean-- his game show, people. That's how a game show ended. Every time, for thirty years. A game show. And nobody thought that was weird. What does that say about us?

Maybe I thought he had his shit more together than he really did, mentally speaking. Maybe I thought a guy who deliberately surrounded himself with incredibly well-endowed, thoroughly boneable bimbos every working day of his life was smarter and shrewder than he really is. I mean, what have pigeons ever done for Bob Barker? Why should they benefit from the contents of his extremely deep pockets? It just doesn't seem fair. Why doesn't he just sit in the park and feed them goddamn breadcrumbs and shit like every other unemployed old fart his age? They'd be much happier eating his crumbs than receiving his dough.

One thing is for sure, every time somebody goes out to their brand new car and finds it covered in thick, sloppy, streaky white bird schnarz after parking under a tree or a telephone pole, and every time some child gets its lips pecked off by some crazy fucking diseased fluttery urchin of the streets, make sure to send Bob Barker a thank you note. Maybe, if you include a SASE, he'll send you some money to get your car washed or get your kid's lips sewn back on.