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.

This is Stupid

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a list of things that are stupid.

* Girls, take off your big sunglasses. They looked good on Sophia Loren but, for some reason, when combined with tight white t-shirts, skinny jeans, Uggs and long hair, they look stupid.

* Boys of a similar vintage-- get a haircut. Your Dukes of Hazzard-era wannabeeflowbee bullshit hairstyles look ridiculous and stupid. Males should not engage in the act of brushing hair away from their faces. Ever.

* The Smart Fortwo. It looks like a sneaker, and it looks stupid. And only one of the parts of its name is true.

* Sarah Palin: you are stupid. And, in the words of my 61-year-old Israeli mechanic, you "would have made a good prostitute."

* My sideburns. They didn't look stupid in the 1880s, but, now, they do. Fortunately, once Pirates closes, the sideburns will meet a hasty death at the bathroom sink. At least I'm not under the delusion that trends of a bygone era still look good today-- you know, like the girls with big sunglasses.

* Professional journals are definitely stupid. They are printed to justify outlandish membership fees, they clutter up the houses of educated, professional people, and nobody reads them. Except stupid people.

* "The Today Show" is easily the stupidest show I watch with any regularity. And I watch "Project Runway."

* Waiting periods for handguns as a measure to prevent people from going out and killing each other are stupid. If some motherfucker wants to kill you, do you really think he's going to be bummed out enough by a six-day waiting period to abort his plans to end your miserable existence? No. And, if he's that impatient, he'll go to any number of illegal gun sellers in Philadelphia who operate out of their car trunks or neighborhood ice cream trucks.

* Advertising in newspapers is very stupid. You might as well put a sticker with your company's logo inside your neighbor's basement toilet bowl.

* The Two Party System is stupid. This is America, Goddamnit, and, if you're filthy-rich, you should have a legitimate shot at the presidency even if you're not a Republican or a Democrat.

* Dialogue in pornos is pretty stupid and, frankly, embarrassing. Nothing makes me lose my erection faster than hearing a half-retarded himbo utter some pathetic, cheesemo line in a porno like, "I thought I was here to fix your plumbing, not your love life." Please. Leave the talkie-talkie to David Mamet and Merchant-Ivory.

* I've always thought that lines were stupid. Shouldn't we all be first?

* I kind of think report cards are stupid. My mother recently showed me one of my 1st grade report cards. Apparently, Mr. Barrett, "thoroughly enjoyed my creative writing." I mean, really?

* People who don't read this blog are obviously stupid. We humble few, the members of the My Masonic Apron fold, are the enlightened elite, although most of us are probably psychologically maladjusted.

* Teachers who sleep with their students are pretty goddamn stupid. I mean, Jesus-- get a grip, people. And preferably not a grip on your students' hee-haws.

* The speed limit, whatever the hell it is, is stupid.

* Your boss is stupid. In fact, he's a fucking stinky stupid-head. And you can go right ahead and tell him I said that. Right after you're done reading this blog. At work.

* Bra-closures are stupid. I mean-- come on. Life's hard enough, isn't it?

* Christmas is stupid. Sorry, Jesus Claus.

* Prosciutto and cheese balls/rods are stupid, but I'd eat it anyway.

* People who change lanes on bridges and in tunnels are stupid, and they're totally asking for it.

* My dog is stupid, and his tussie-hole smells. But I love that bastard.