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Going tits up.

Saturday, 19 August, 2006

Among the things about what we have in lieu of a society that drives me further down the road to irrevocable madness than I would achieve if left to my own devices …

… is compulsive cosmetic surgery. How many people, barring the relatively rare accident or assault victim, actually improves their appearance following such a procedure. Yes, I know the occasional celebrity gets the not-so-rare nip here and generally gets away with it. Then we have the example of Burt Reynolds who has forever denied me the joy of having an old, cantankerous Burt Reynolds around which I’ve been looking forward to for decades. We all know, or at least know of, a delicious svelte lass who has forever mutated her delicate and exquisite form in the name of achieving the North America ideal of statistical mediocrity.

Exactly why this is only coming out now, and why this is considered a discovery is beyond me.

Women asking for breast implants should be screened for subtle signs of mental problems, says a study linking them to an increased suicide risk. [BBC]

As my peers would have put it in the golden days of yore: Well, no shit Sherlock.

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