I was a little disturbed. I thought how nice it’d be to have a massage and a facial peel. What’s disturbing is an unnamed source (an ex-friend) suggested that a facial peel wouldn’t give me what I was looking for, and he recommended a face transplant.
This is what it’s come to for the common man, the proletariat, those of us not working in Hollywood.
I mention Hollywood because I’m attuned to its celebrity magic. (I read People magazine, but only in doctors’ offices, just like every other American.)
I’m in awe of Hollywood stars and their hot bikini bods, Hollywood stars in their hot gardening gloves, and still-hot Hollywood moms with teenagers.
It must be true because I read it.
I wasn’t even aware of a virulent, Hyde-like disease that strikes all mothers when their kids evolve into adolescence, a contagion that makes the neck skin sag—gobble, gobble!—the stomach inflate, and those once outstanding glands droop to where they slap against the thighs.
My wife always seems surprised by how great older stars look on TV, and I always tell her that it’s the makeup and lighting and that they never fly coach.
Of course, personal nutritionists, trainers and plastic surgery might also play a role. (The closest I come to plastic surgery is having moles removed.)
But after a bit of introspection I’m questioning whether celebrity moms actually give birth at all. I mean, we know Madonna buys her kids.
In doing a little research, I’ve combed millions of entertainment sites, checking the endlessly, taut bodies of these stars, and never once have I spotted an errant stretch mark.
How can this be?
Was F. Scott Fitzgerald so right when he wrote, “Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me"?
But it doesn’t stop with just buying babies on the black market.
I know Joan Rivers and Kenny Rogers are both dead, but then I see them on TV, with their bodies twitching and their faces immobile, and I’m confused. Are they really just wax dummies?
And I’m impressed with someone like Pamela Anderson, who has made a career out of being a washed-up lifeguard, but with her own set of artificial, flotation devices.
And I see where future star Bristol Palin (it pays well to be related to a infamous moose hunter) didn’t have plastic surgery to thin her pumpkin face; it was corrective jaw surgery. (I also think she actually gave birth, but only because she was pregnant before she found stardom.)
She also named her child Tripp, a somewhat normal name confirming her as a birth mother.
See, it only adds to the suspicion when star moms name their alien babies Apple, Lourdes, Sea, Rumor and Scout (Demi Moore bought this one from the Cherokees).
So maybe Fitzgerald was right.
They are different from you and me. And they know it.
And the next time you see me, you won’t know me.
Because I’ll look just like George Clooney.
