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Wednesday, October 21, 2015

THE DISINTEGRATION OF FISHDUCKY (PART 2)

One (or more) of these is me.
Can you guess which one(s)?







My thighs were snatched from me during the night of March 22nd, 1970. 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? Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine?


I spent that 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. 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 derrière--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 two years later 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 hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, a section at a time.


Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age creeps up, unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity. No. I was being attacked, repeatedly and without warning.


One spring, my attention was riveted to female upper arms. I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public or 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 arms and my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?


In short order, my boobs could hold a pencil. 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 raised buttocks. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that model? I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Gisele Bündchen paid a good price for them!!
dennydavis.net
____________________

Mid-life is when the growth of hair on our legs slows down. This gives us plenty of time to care for our newly acquired mustache.

In mid-life women no longer have upper arms, we have wingspans. We are no longer women in sleeveless shirts, we are flying squirrels in drag.

The good news about mid-life is that the glass is still half-full, the bad news is that it won't be long before your teeth are floating in it.

Mid-life is when you can stand naked in front of a mirror and you can see your rear end without turning around.

Mid-life is when you go for a mammogram and realize that it is the only time someone will ask you to appear topless on film.

In mid-life you are still a HOT babe, but now it comes in flashes.

Mid-life is when you want to grab every firm young lovely in a tube top and scream "Listen honey, even the Roman Empire fell, and those will, too!"

Mid-life is when you go to the doctor and you realize you are now so old, you have to pay someone to look at you naked.

Mid-life brings with it the wisdom to know that life throws us curves and you're sitting on your biggest ones.

Mid-life is when you start to repeat yourself and your chins follow suit.

Mid-life is when you realize that if you were a dog, you'd need a control top flea collar.

Mid-life is when you look at your know-it-all, beeper-wearing teenage and think: "For this I have stretch marks??"

Mid-life is when you bounce (a lot), but you don't bounce back. (It's more like Splat!)

In mid-life your memory starts to go. In fact, the only thing you can still retain is water.

Mid-life means that your Body By Jake now includes Legs By Rand McNally . . . more red and blue lines than an accurately scaled map of Wisconsin.


Mid-life means that you become more reflective. You start pondering the 'big' questions. What is life? Why am I here? How much Healthy Choice ice cream can I eat before it's no longer a healthy choice?
dennydavis.net















There is nothing I have left to learn the hard way, but the things I buy now won't wear out----fishducky