While the ladies were here for lunch yesterday, the conversation turned to the tendency of the mammary parts to migrate south as the years go by, but since they are one of them relatively flat-chested and the other one not a birth-mother of children, they really don't know. However, this did give me the opportunity to repeat one of my all-time classic one-liners, which is this:If I ever had a third child, I would need to wear a brassiere anymore, just a belt.
which I'm sure I said first circa 1985.
So it just so happens that the Chum, who will only forward me truly amusing email crap that people send her, got this one just last night after she got home and so had to pass it on. I may have seen this before, maybe you have too; it's certainly not original here. It was the end that particularly gave us giggles.
This is a heads-up to those friends who haven't experienced it yet, and an explanation to those friends and family who have.
Most of you have read the scare-mail about the person whose kidneys were stolen while he was passed out. Well, read on. While the kidney story was an urban legend, this one is not. It's happening every day.
My thighs were stolen from me during the night 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 mine for years? Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine?
I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. 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 butt was next. I knew it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear end (although badly attached at least three inches lower than my original) to the thighs they stuck me with earlier. Now, my rear complemented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.
It was two years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning I was fixing my hair and I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced one section at a time. How clever and fiendish.
Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age is supposed to creep up, unnoticed, something like maturity. No, I was being attacked repeatedly and without warning.
In despair, I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?
My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now resembled.
That's why I decided to tell my story. I can't take on the medical profession by myself. Women of the world wake up and smell the coffee. That really isn't plastic that those surgeons are using. You KNOW where they are 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?
I think I finally found my thighs...and I hope that Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!
This is not a hoax. This is happening to women in every town every night.
WARN YOUR FRIENDS.
P.S. I must say that last year I thought someone had stolen my breasts. I was lying in bed and they were gone! As I jumped out of bed I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept.
Now I keep them hidden in my waistband.
