Applied Contemporary Thinking

by Judd HAMPTON
 

Don’t just stand there. Whiten your teeth. What’s the matter? Don’t you want a dazzling smile? Everyone knows happiness comes from luminous teeth. So get on it. Or else no one will love you. And see a dentist about capping those crooked incisors before someone gets hurt. In this bubble-gum-glossy, self-reflexive society, your smile should suck on-lookers into a vortex of white oblivion they can never hope to escape from. Besides, you deserve a classier set of choppers than that bucktoothed bitch, Wanda Erickson, down in payroll.

The consequences of your inaction may be irreversible. Look in the mirror. Time and gravity are upping their payments. Consider your breasts. They must be perky in order for you to survive. Like Darwin says. “Organisms best suited to their environment exhibit desirable characteristics.” Today’s young hipsters equate drooping breasts with dying alone, unloved, in a house overrun with cats.

Here’s a simple test. Take a pencil. Set it at the base of your breast. A pencil held in place indicates unacceptable sag. A falling pencil means adequate perk, although your breasts are probably too small to attract anything better than migrant steel workers. Either way, you’re going to want to do something. Don’t worry. Breast augmentation is a simple procedure whereby saline sacks are crammed through your belly button and moved endoscopically into place. Don’t look so aghast, sugar-pie. Hardly anyone dies.

Why aren’t you thumbing through the yellow pages yet? What’s the matter? If you consult with your television or any number of lifestyle magazines, you’ll find evidence confirming your substandard looks and unhappiness. What do you think those unsightly bulge defects on your thighs and hips mean? Means you’re fat and miserable, honey.

Here are some options. Eat right and exercise. With this traditionally accepted weight loss method, results depend on stolid commitment, inversely proportional to daily comfort food requirements and recurrence of phrase, “Oh, what’s the point?” But let’s face it. You lack the dedication to follow through. So how about drugs? Pharmaceutical therapy can fix your life with an easy-to-swallow pill-style caplet that perhaps won’t give you cancer. Here’s what Euphoridra says. “No more excuses for being fat, ladies. With our patented formula, Euphoridra is clinically proven (statement unverified) to flush nutrients past absorption zones while simultaneously providing subject with light caffeine-style buzz.” Side effects include manic episodes, lethargy, shakes, explosive diarrhea, and “edginess.” Not for you, sugar-lump? How about surgical refitting? This quicker-fixer-upper’s results depend on the skill and sobriety of your surgical team. Avoid “refreshment” vacations in Katmandu. Shed thirty pounds in five minutes to become the envy of that contentious bitch, Wanda, down in payroll (we’ve seen the way she sizes you up). Drawbacks: some bruising and death.

So now you know.

Listen, time and gravity are undercutting your foundation, sweetie-pie, making a fleshy landslide of your once appealing figure. In today’s hopelessly narcissistic, image-driven cityscape, your survival depends entirely on your ability to look “doable.” The mere sight of your body should drive men to tears and acts of brutality. Remember, if men are not scrambling over their coworkers just to stand beside you in the elevator, you’re probably due for some old-fashioned knife time. Don’t overdo it. Celebrity is required to endure living as a full-size porcelain doll. Keep in mind that beneath a shallow fa├žade of knuckle-biting beauty lingers a woman without need of personality. Doesn’t that make things easier?

Well, don’t just stand there. You know what to do.

Seriously, how do you expect our species to carry on if you don’t make an effort? Maybe we should we speak to Wanda Erickson down in payroll, tell her you’re an outmoded prude bent on human extinction.

Now stop wasting everybody’s time and polish up your baby-maker. What do you mean why? Because Darwin says so, that’s why. What do you think looking so good it hurts is for, sweetheart? Of course propagation of the species. Don’t say, “Well, maybe I’m not ready to have a child.” Listen, none of us is ever ready. This is your duty. Sort of like voting, but more like movie theatre hand-jobs.

We can’t help but notice you’re still standing there. What’s the matter? Don’t feel pretty? Don’t feel fresh? Don’t feel adequate? A wide range of products is available to help you cope, and well, sure, many of them “adjust” your personality beyond recognition, but most simply cause cotton-mouth, blood clots and headaches too soul-crushing to bear sober. A small price to pay to hedge natural selection, Charles Darwin might suggest.

Fine. Be that way.

We cannot be held accountable for your failure to act. Consequences of your inaction may include chronic weeping, loss of will, passionate and overwhelming jealousy toward Wanda Erickson down in payroll who apparently “has it all” and untold hours standing before a mirror, lifting, always lifting, all the parts fallen to gravity’s hand.

Cheer up, buttercup. In the future women will live in anti-gravity environments suitable for nonstop swimsuit wear and frolicking. These “women of the bubble” will pave the way for a society so image-conscious that failure to bathe in Oil of Olay three times a day constitutes self-hate crimes.

See. Things aren’t so bad. So give us a smile. Show us those pearly whites.

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