Has this ever happened to you?

My thighs were snatched from me during the night of June 3rd.

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 wholly, 
if imperfectly, mine for years?  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 and flesh 
that turns to bumps in the night.  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 derriere -- 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 2 years 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 was supposed to creep up, 
unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity.  No, I was being 
attacked, repeatedly and without warning.

During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms -- female arms.  
I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public 
nor 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 right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed particularly 
cruel to take just one).  And my eyes began to remind people that they 
needed a new pair of Hush Puppies.  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 ain'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 buttocks raising.  
Look familiar?  Are those your eyelids on that movie star?

I think I finally may have found my thighs.  I hope Cindy Crawford paid a
really good price for them.

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