Okay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd. By ‘normal person’ standards, anyway — if you’ve been reading my shit for any length of time, on the other hand, it probably won’t seem out of the ordinary at all. Tame, even — there’s only nudity in the middle part of the topic, and no boobs at all until the end.
When, to be fair, there are rather a lot of boobs. Which ends up being the point, actually. Look, maybe I should just start over. Forget you saw any of this — I don’t want to give away the ending.
(Like one of my posts ending in a heaving mound of breasticle talk would be a ‘surprise‘. This is not a ‘whodunit’, people. It’s not even a boob-dunit.
Heh. Boobdunit. I’ll have to remember that.)
All right, seriously, that’s enough — I’m starting over now. Just scratch everything from your memory starting from right… right… wait for it… now!
Okay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd.
(So far, so good, eh? I’m rather proud of myself this time — I didin’t go on and on about the ‘little odd’ part at all. As a matter of fact… oh. Oh, dear. I’m typing this out loud, aren’t I? You’re seeing every little bit of this aside out there, aren’t you? Well, piss.
You know, sometimes it’s as though I don’t have a brain at all. I’m convinced that there’s a little hamster or pterodactyl or something pedalling on a wheel in my chest to keep the breathing and the heartbeat thing happening. If I had to depend on my brain for anything really important, I’d have lurched over dead by now. Lousy fucking brain.
Come to think of it, an animal in my chest cavity would explain the occasional shooting pains, too. And the scary noises. I really should look into an X-ray one of these days.)
Okay, forget that whole bit, too. You were never meant to see any of that. Let’s just call it ‘Take Two’, pretend it didn’t happen, and never look each other in the eye again, shall we? Three’s a charm, then — here we go:
Okay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd. But have any of you heard of this show called ‘Ambush Makeover’? Because it’s really got me in a tizzy, frankly.
Now, I haven’t actually seen the show, myself. For one thing, it’s one one of those ‘women-only’ channels, like Lifetime, or Oxygen, or the LPGA Network. And for another, it seems to be on during the daytime, so I’ll probably never end up watching it. Now that I’m gainfully employed again, I’m not near a TV during the midday hours. And when I was out of work… well, let’s just say that I will stoop to some pretty low levels — and I have, people; somehow, I’m sure that’s not difficult to fathom — but I will not be caught watching the crapcasts that are shown during the day on television. No soap operas, no Judge Judy, no ‘very special Montel‘ shows for me. Nuh-uh. I ain’t goin’ out like that.
And besides, I’ve got an internet connection here, and an enormous hard drive. And seven hundred gigs of internet porn beats the caboose off some bullshit soap opera any day of the week. And twice on Tuesdays.
(And yes, ladies, you heard me — it’s an enormous hard drive. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Oh, it’s real. And it’s spectacular!)
Anyway, circling back to the topic before I have to start over again, something about this ‘Ambush Makeover’ show just gives me the creeps. I haven’t seen it, and yet I’m disturbed by the very concept.
(It’s a little like trying to think about your grandfather’s penis. Um, you know, for example — I just want to make sure you folks are feeling what I’m feeling, here. That’s the mark of an effective writer, no?
So remember, just think of something you haven’t actually seen, but that is creepy and disturbing to consider, nonetheless. Like your grampa’s ‘wee wrinkly winkie’. Just as a ‘for instance’. Help me help you, folks. Help me… help you.)
So, as I understand it, the concept of this ‘Ambush Makeover’ thing is this — the people running the show pick out some ugly duckling (pointed out to them by a close personal ‘friend’ of the subject, no doubt), and shower the person with wardrobes and hairdos and loofah rubs and such until he or she is deemed fabulous. It’s a bit like Queer Eye without all the strutting, or Designer’s Challenge with a frumpy person as the victim, instead of a dreary, cluttered room. Or it’s like Home Movies, only without the voiceovers, and the quirky sense of humor. And it’s not animated. And the same people don’t show up on each episode. And… um, stuff.
(Okay, look, that Home Movies analogy was way off, okay? I mainly just wanted to work it in there, since I’ve started watching it again recently, and I really dig it. But it didn’t really fit, so just ignore that part. Hey, I was right on with the other two shows — what the hell do you want from me, anyway?)
But what really lathers my nipples — and not in a good way, if that’s possible — is the premise of the whole enterprise. They’re basically grabbing someone off the street and saying:
‘Hey. You are one ass-ugly bit of fluff, you know that? And frankly, someone you know and trust and hold dear to your heart can’t stand to look at your hideous mug for even one more day. So we’re here to fix your sorry Elephant Man ass, whether you like it or not. Deal, bitch.‘
Now tell me, folks — is that really the message we want to be sending in today’s society? ‘Get pretty, or we’ll get you pretty’? Frankly, I find the whole thing disturbing. I’m sure part of it is some sort of ‘everyone is beautiful, in their own way’ moral outrage, and that I’m railing against a society that puts so much emphasis on the unattainable goal of perfect beauty. A piece of me is probably concerned more for the emotional well-being of these people, and yearns to break the loop of negative reinforcement about their bodies and their appearance that must haunt them every day.
Mostly, though, I just don’t want my sorry ass pulled into some van and dropped off at a salon for primping. That is not the sort of shit that I want to have to worry about, on top of all the other neurosis and phobias that I have. And the more shows like this that there are, the more likely that someone I know is going to decide they’re fed up with seeing my bad haircuts, my unmanicured nails, and my sloppy rugbies and jeans, and subject me to the hellish nightmare of a forcibly foisted fascist fashion-fest. (Fuckers!)
But honestly, it’s not just me I’m concerned about. Seriously, think about it — now that the trend has started, where will it end? Surprise bikini waxes? Surreptitious liposuctions? ‘Ambush Boobjobs’?
I can just picture it now — young women whisked off the streets and stuffed in a van, with their husbands or boyfriends beaming from the sidelines. Cut to the operating table, with the girl under the knife, and the guy waving bags of saline in the doctor’s face:
Dude: A ‘D’! ‘D’! I said, make her a ‘D’ cup, doc!
Doc: I canna do it! She canna take much more, sir!
(Because, you know, all plastic surgeons specializing in breast enhancement surgery talk like Scotty from Star Trek. Yeah.)
Dude: Forget the rules! Damn the torpedos! And to hell with the boobslings! Here — put this one in. And this one. And here’s another. Stuff ’em in there — woo hoo!
Doc: Ay! Take cover, men — she’s a-gunna blow! Aiiieeeee!
Okay. Maybe it won’t go quite that far. I’m just saying, people. You can never be too careful. So please, if you ever see a bunch of people trying to stuff me into a van, please, for the love of all that is shiny and smooth, help me fight my way out of it, would you? When I’m ready for a goddamned makeover, then I’ll schedule one myself; I don’t need some cock-knobbed television show to do my dirty work for me. Let’s fight the power, folks!Permalink | 6 Comments