Silicone Mutants

04.15.09

As many of my friends know, I am disgusted by breast implants. Yes, I too enjoy large breasts, but only those of the natural variety. I’ll take a girl with natural A cups over a girl with fake D cups any day of the week. Indeed, girls with small breasts can be incredibly beautiful (as, of course, can girls with large natural breasts). People often ask, “Are you a breast man or an ass man?” Ladies and gentlemen, I am a face man.

I realize that I wrote the word “breasts” five times in that last paragraph. This should serve as an indicator of the theme of this blog.

As I mentioned in an earlier post: Breast implants are for morons. They’re tacky and tasteless. Natural is the way to go. (Editor’s note: implants are perfectly acceptable if you are a breast cancer survivor. Otherwise, abstain.) For the record, I am also opposed to breast reductions. If your back hurts, take yoga and improve your posture. No matter what, be yourself, and work with what God gave you.

Don’t get me wrong: I know a few beautiful and admirable women with fake breasts that have been tastefully and realistically done, and I sincerely hope that they are not too offended upon reading this. To these women, take heart: many men like fake breasts. I, however, do not.

And yes, I practice what I preach. For instance, in 2006 I was dating an attractive girl named Gwen who told me that she was considering implants, and a nose job to boot.

“Don’t do it,” I told her. “You’re already hot. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. You don’t need plastic surgery; in fact, it will probably make you look worse.”

Of course, being a girl who grew up near Hollywood, and thus having a skewed perspective on female beauty, she dismissed my counsel, and continued researching and saving for her operations. She brought up the subject again on a later occasion, saying she was planning on getting implants soon.

“Look, I’m serious,” I told her. “You don’t need them. I like you the way you are. To be perfectly honest, if you get implants and a nose job, I’ll stop dating you.”

She thought I was bluffing. I wasn’t. She got the surgery, and I stopped dating her immediately. I didn’t even bother to see the results. I wasn’t interested any more. Nothing kills a boner quite like the thought of a scalpel carving up a woman’s body.

Why, many of my friends inquire, am I so repelled by fake tits? Firstly, there are aesthetic considerations to take into account: fake tits are solid, rock-like, and not as pleasing to the eye as natural, bouncing breasts. I’m sure they feel weird, too, though I’ve never touched a pair and I doubt I ever will. Furthermore, though silicone beasts can be presented well in a dress or nice outfit, when the clothes come off they stick out like a pair of sore thumbs, and their garish lack of authenticity is tackily flaunted for the world to see.

Natural breasts are the work of God. Fake tits are the work of some unscrupulous Beverly Hills butcher.

But beyond these reasons, one point stands out (like a plastic rack) as the foremost cause of my disdain for silicone: Nothing screams “transsexual” like a fake pair of tits. And transsexuals really give me the creeps.

Even if I know that you are a real woman, if you have fake tits (or fake lips, or a fake tan, or obvious plastic surgery of any kind) you will remind me of a cheap Hollywood tranny hooker. And that is unattractive, because trannies are extremely creepy.

To clarify: I am not homophobic at all. I have gay friends, I have lesbian friends, and I am an ardent supporter of equal rights for the gay and lesbian community. I voted no on Prop 8. Some of the coolest people I’ve met have been homosexual. I consider homosexuality to be a natural phenomenon, as it is found in the animal kingdom as well as in human society, and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

Transvestitism (cross-dressing) may unsettle me on occasion, but at the same time gender is a largely cultural construct, ergo who’s to say what vestments and garments are inherently masculine or feminine? Also, cross-dressing has infinite comedic potential (see “Willow” and “Some Like it Hot,” among others), so it can’t be that bad.

However, I am extremely disturbed by transsexuals. Drag is one thing, but actually modifying your body surgically is taking it too damn far. To me, there is something inherently wrong, unnatural, and sacrilegious about gender reassignment surgery. Your body is a temple. Treat it like one. For the love of all that is good in this world, DO NOT SURGICALLY MUTILATE YOUR GENITALS! Yuck.

In short, my silicone phobia stems not from fear of people with a non-traditional sexual identity, but rather from a larger distaste and disgust for plastic surgery, as a practice and as an industry. Plastic surgeons are overpaid quacks who make Dr. Frankenstein appear the paragon of virtue, and they are making millions selling people things that they don’t need, foremost among them fake tits, and not least among them fake vaginas.

Of course, the notable exception would be those plastic surgeons who help people that have been maimed, scarred, or disfigured return to their normal state. Those doctors are saints. The rest, as far as I’m concerned, are scumbags.

To be honest, and I’m sure some of you might find this objectionable, I think that gender reassignment surgery should be illegal. By surgically altering your body into that of the opposite gender, you are transforming yourself into a walking Trojan horse, a human land mine. You become an accident waiting to happen. It’s dishonest, underhanded, and harmful to every unwitting partner you seduce. It’s not moral, and I don’t think it should be legal either. I am sure that many men have fallen prey to a post-op transsexual, and most of them probably had no idea.

To which many of you may retort, “Come on, guy. I can tell the difference between a tranny and a real woman!” The sad truth is, in this day and age, oftentimes you cannot, unless you are incredibly perceptive. Countless trannies go undetected every day; they are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Adam’s apples can be filed away, and tits can be added. Plastic surgery has advanced so far that a plastic surgeon (may most of them burn in hell) can transform a man into a completely convincing woman. It’s disgusting, but true. Allow me to proffer a few stories to elaborate on my point.

Story #1: Asia SF

My ex-girlfriend Rosy (at the time she was still my girlfriend) took me out to dinner in San Francisco in 2002. We were with a group of her friends. The restaurant was a fancy and trendy California Cusine / Pan-Asian place called Asia SF. The hostess at the door was a cute, petite Asian girl, and she flirted with me blatantly. Though normally I would oblige and flirt back, I was faithful to my girl (perhaps to a fault) and I maintained a polite and stoic exterior. It was curious, however, that Rosy did not seem jealous at all, as she was normally an incredibly possessive, suspicious, and temperamental girlfriend. I was somewhat amazed, and not a little impressed, that she didn’t seem threatened in the slightest by the pretty, coquettish hostess. Hmm.

We got a table in the corner of the restaurant, which was pretty hip. Various waitresses took turns singing sexy retro show tunes in cocktail dresses. Most of the women working there were fairly attractive, in a plastic / heavy makeup sort of way. The staff was apparently entirely female; there was nary a male employee in sight. Hmm.

The giveaway was our waitress, a skinny, tanned, Asian woman with sizable breast implants. When she spoke, I began to suspect that she might be a man. My eyes widened at her man voice, and I looked to Rosy quizzically. She was giggling. Hmm.

After our waitress took our drink orders and left, I voiced my suspicions.

“Honey, I think our waitress is a man!”

“She is,” Rosy laughed.

“How do you know?”

“Everyone who works here is really a man.”

“What? But there aren’t any men here! They’re all… women… Wait. Do you mean to tell me that every woman working here is, in actuality, a man?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What kind of sick themed restaurant is this? The hostess was a woman, though, right?”

“Nope. She’s a man.”

Mystery solved. No wonder Rosy wasn’t jealous. The lesson here is this: though some trannies, like our waitress, give themselves away through their breast implants and weird man voices, other trannies, such as the petite hostess, can go completely undetected. She probably had fake breasts, which would’ve been an indicator, but it was impossible to tell given her outfit, and her voice sounded normal. S(he) looked, for all intents and purposes, like a small, pretty Asian girl. Gentlemen, you have been warned.

Despite my initial shock, the restaurant was still pretty cool. The music was good, and the food was great, though overpriced considering the small portions, and our tranny waitress (waiter?) was pretty hilarious and quite witty, though (s)he did touch my shoulders a bit too much for my comfort, and took far too much pleasure in seeing me squirm uncomfortably, much to my girlfriend’s amusement. Highlights of our dialogue:

“So you’re from Hawaii, eh?” Rosy asked the mutant waitress.

“Oh, yes. I miss it sooo much. I love to surf!” the mutant gushed in response.

“Do you get some nice waves out there?” Rosy inquired.

“We get incredible swells. I looove to ride it when it swells!” the mutant responded, laying on the innuendo pretty thickly.

“I’ll bet you do,” I muttered to Rosy out of the side of my mouth.

At this point the mutant put his / her hands firmly on my shoulders, leant down into my ear, and asked, in a creepy tranny voice:

“Do YOU like to ride it when it swells?”

I almost spit out my drink.

“NO. No, I do not,” I responded, as I failed to repress a shudder. “I, uh, don’t surf.”

Guys, I would recommend taking your friends to this restaurant as a joke and not telling them the place’s horrible secret. Wait until they get hammered and start hitting on a waitress, all of whom will doubtless be very receptive, and then break the news to them afterward. It is pretty much the best prank you could ever pull on someone. Trust me, most dudes won’t even think twice.

Story #2: the Blind Date

When I was fresh out of college in 2004, I briefly worked as a waiter at the Rock Bottom Brewery in Campbell. One day I was serving a couple out on a lunch date. The man was nerdy, balding, and ugly, and his date was an attractive and exotic looking woman. My coworkers and I remarked to each other, “How the hell did that dweeb get a girl like her? He must be rich.”

The guy himself seemed to know that he lucked out, as he was grinning like a kid in a candy store. You could tell he was buying, and that he was proud to be on a date with her.

However, when I inclined my head to hear her speak, as she spoke rather softly, something about her voice seemed a bit… funny. And on closer examination, her large breasts appeared to be of the silicone variety. Hmm.

A friend of mine, another waiter, took me aside as I entered the kitchen. “Check out the tits on table 12,” he said.

“She’s a man,” I replied, to which he laughed, thinking that I was joking.

“No, seriously, she’s a man,” I continued. “And I don’t think her date has the slightest idea. Go look for yourself. Her tits are fake. Pay close attention to her voice.”

There was a great controversy in the kitchen, as he called bullshit and brought the dispute to the attention of a few more of our colleagues. But one by one, they all looked closer, paid acute attention to her, and did some recon work. One by one, they all returned to me with the same conclusion I had reached: that she was really a man, and that her date appeared to have no idea.

Keep in mind that most of these people probably never would’ve noticed, and thus lived in blissful tranny ignorance, had I not brought the matter to their attention.

When I brought the couple the bill, I was faced with a moral dilemma: I was convinced that this poor sucker was dating a tranny without knowing it, but what can I do? Do I write “Your date is a man!” on the bill? Maybe he won’t have the heart or good sense to face the truth, and instead will be deeply offended by me, and complain to my manager. Or maybe he knows she’s a man, is into that sort of thing, and will be deeply offended by me and complain to my manager.

I ended up letting sleeping dogs lie, but I imagine that this poor sucker wined and dined this alleged woman countless times before getting head from a man without knowing any better. It’s tragic, really.

Story #3: The Girls from Thailand

Later on that same summer, I got a call from one of my buddies from college. Let’s call him N.

“Hey man, some friends and I are headed to Santa Cruz tonight, and we’re gonna be driving by your neck of the woods,” N said. “Do you want us to pick you up?”

“Hell yeah!” I replied. I am always down for a trip to downtown SC.

N, his friend B, and some other friends swung by my parents’ house to pick me up. In the past, there had been awkwardness between B and I. Specifically, he glared at me profusely for an extended period of time one night sophomore year as I sat next to my girlfriend, whom he had apparently been conversing with for a little bit before I arrived. To be blunt, he was a total and blatant jealous hater. However, he had since put down his bottle of hater-ade, and we were getting along well. He turned out to be a smart and well-traveled guy, and I enjoyed his conversation.

We partied that night at the Catalyst, an excellent venue. At one point, a large group of Asian girls entered the club, and immediately made every other woman there seem bland and underdressed in comparison. Most of the girls were easily 7s, and at least two of them were 9s or 10s. I’m telling you, these girls were gorgeous. Every single man present stopped what he was doing to gawk at these ladies, who were clearly not standard Santa Cruz fare.

One of the girls, tall (for a girl) and tan, with shoulder length reddish-brown hair and an impressive rack bulging through her pink sweater, caught me checking her out and gave me a flirtatious smile. Now, just to be clear here: I have had the great fortune of hooking up with a decent amount of beautiful women in my life, and I have long since overcome any shyness or anxiety that a man might feel in approaching an attractive female. But even I was taken aback by her smile, shocked that this incredibly sexy woman had taken an interest in me before I had even demonstrated any value, and momentarily at a loss for words and unable to approach her in my surprise.

N, his friends and I made our way upstairs to the bar. The Asian babes circled, and were fielding an immense amount of attention from the male population at the Catalyst. I bought a round of drinks, and we started boozing it up. The prettiest girl there, one of the Asian babes, took a seat at the bar as I watched her. She had long, jet-black hair, a beautiful face, and a lean, curvaceous body with impressive breasts.

She was a total knockout, and she made me forget all about her friend with the pink sweater.

I walked over to the bar, ostensibly to order another drink, and I began to talk to her. I don’t recall our conversation, but I do remember that she laughed at my jokes, touched me a lot, and was basically on my jock from the get go. I forget her name, but she told me that she was from Thailand. She was incredibly seductive, she looked absolutely spectacular, and she didn’t seem to mind when I touched her thighs. After we hung out for about ten minutes, we were talking about sex.

Holy shit, I thought. I can totally bang this chick, and she’s a complete babe! I was stoked, and a bit taken aback.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been hit on by beautiful women before, but keep in mind that this was at a time when my game was not at its peak. I was a recent college graduate who still lived with his parents, and this was not without resultant negative effects on my confidence and my love life. Accordingly, her attention and flirtation were somewhat without precedence given my situation then, and I was a bit surprised that she liked me so much.

That said, it appeared that I was going to fuck this raven-haired goddess without even trying. It was a miracle. Then N came over and joined us.

I was happy to hang out with him, but he was being a bit of a cockblock, and he was totally scheming on the girl that I had been connecting with. She was receptive to his advances, too… almost as receptive as she had been to mine. This pissed me off, and I grew angry at N for swooping in and stepping on my toes.

To hell with it, I thought. He is a guest in my domain, so to speak, so maybe I should just let him have her. I can go find that girl with the pink sweater… she was pretty hot.

I excused myself and wandered off in search of other girls. There was a pretty, petite brunette sitting nearby, a white girl, not connected to the Asian invasion. I sat down with her and we began to talk.

“Your friend totally just cockblocked you, man,” she told me.

“I know!” I could already tell that I liked this girl.

“It’s all good. You probably aren’t missing out on much, anyways, and now you have me to talk to.”

Agreed. We talked for a while; she was cool as hell. She was so cool that I didn’t even hit on her; we just hung out and had an honest conversation. I didn’t want to ruin our good time with a sexual agenda. I really wish I remembered that girl’s name; she was pretty, smart, and laid back. Truly, quite a catch.

As we spoke, I noticed tan, pink-sweater girl again. She was at the bar, making out with some beefy dude who could best be described in the parlance of our times as a “bro.” He had a trucker hat on, skate clothes, big muscles, community-college educated… you get the picture. I was a bit jealous of him for making out with that babe, but whatever.

“It looks like my friend is getting some action over there,” the cool girl remarked.

“Indeed he is,” I agreed.

Eventually, the two of them stopped making out, and the bro came over to join us. He seemed visibly shaken, and he began talking to the girl, who was apparently a friend of his.

“Dude!” he told us. “I was making out with that girl over there, the one in the pink sweater--”

“Yeah, we noticed,” the girl interjected.

“Anyways, I was making out with her, and I reached in between her legs… AND I FELT A DICK!”

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed.

“I’m telling you, SHE HAD A DICK!” he whispered loudly to us. From the look of sheer, unadulturated horror in his eyes, I could tell that he was not bullshitting us. I, for one, was flabbergasted.

“And to think that I was over here, hating on you for making out with her,” I told him. "Thank god it was you and not me.”

We looked over at the girl. She still looked like a girl. It was hard to imagine her having a penis. But, apparently, she did.

Our female friend was pretty nonchalant about it.

“Yeah, I knew that half of those Asian girls were trannies,” she told us.

“You did? How? And why the hell didn’t you tell me?” the bro asked.

“I was hanging out with them earlier,” the girl explained. “We talked. They’re all on vacation from Thailand. They confided in me that half of them were really men, in various states of transition to womanhood. I didn’t want to gossip about them, and I didn’t think that the one you were with was a man, because half of them are really women.”

The songs “Lola” and “Dude (Looks Like a Lady)” sprung to mind. In hindsight, we had been warned by the minstrels of rock & roll.

Keep in mind that I had spotted trannies before, but never in my wildest imaginings would I have guessed that this girl was one... had the bro not discovered her bishop, so to speak.

Soon, the bar closed, and everyone went outside. I rejoined N’s friends, and we began looking for him. Apparently N had been macking, because he was about to hop into a cab with the black-haired girl that I had been talking to.

“Dude, we’ve got to talk. Come over here for a minute.” I dragged him away from the girl and the cab, towards his friend B who was waiting on the sidewalk.

“What’s up, Shamey Bear?” N asked me.

“Your girl’s friend, the one in the pink sweater, is a man. One of the meatheads made out with her, and he felt a cock on her thigh.”

“Hmm,” N replied noncommittally, eying me warily.

“With this in mind, we have to consider the possibility that the girl you are about to leave with might be a man, too,” I explained.

“She's from Thailand, right? You know that I’ve spent some time in Thailand, man,” B offered. “There are a ton of trannies over there. We call them ladyboys. A lot of them look just like women.”

“Well, she doesn’t seem like a man to me,” N said.

“She might not be. Word on the streets is that half of the girls are ladyboys, but the other half are real women. The question is, do you really want to take that risk?” I postulated.

“I think I do,” N replied. He was comparatively sober, and B and I were intoxicated. He doubtless thought that we were being drunken, paranoid idiots. “She’s staying at a house in Capitola. If I leave with her, can you pick me up in the morning?” he asked.

“Uh, sure, man. No problem. I’m not gonna leave you stranded down in Capitola,” I offered, lamely.

“Thanks, man. I’ll call you tomorrow.” N quickly took his leave of us, and hopped in the car with the pretty Thai girl (ladyboy?), her long black hair flowing down over her large breasts, and the cab took off. B and I shrugged, and rejoined the rest of N’s friends.

“Well, we warned him,” B told me. “Not much else we can do.”

It probably seemed to N like I was trying to cockblock him, jealous because she had chosen him instead of me. Hell, it even seemed a bit like that to me. Except that I wasn’t trying to cockblock him. I was trying to help.

* * *

That night, N’s friends drove me home. The next morning. I woke up early after receiving a call from N. I drove though the mountains on Highway 17, past Santa Cruz, and into Capitola. It was a beautiful, misty morning. The trees were green and glistening with dew, and the air was fresh and clean.

Now that I had sobered up, I was actually a bit proud of N; she was gorgeous, and he had spent the night with her. B and I were drunk, and we must’ve been tripping; I was a bit jealous, after all. She probably wasn’t a man. She didn’t look like a man at all! Indeed, N had stepped his game up a little. It was inspirational, really. If he was pulling girls that fly, then why shouldn’t I?

I picked him up at a small, quaint house a few blocks away from the beach. The sky was grey and overcast, and the ocean looked beautiful. He hopped in my white Honda Accord and we drove off.

“Congratulations, man,” I told him honestly. “You left with the hottest girl at the bar.”

“Yeah, she was really attractive.”

“She didn’t have a dick or anything, did she?” I joked.

“Naw, man, she didn’t have a dick,” he laughed.

“Phew, that’s a relief. I wasn’t trying to cockblock you last night man, I was just trying to look out for you, that’s all,” I told him.

“I know, man. It’s all good. Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem, dude. Were those tits real?”

“Naw, man. I’m pretty sure they were fake.”

“That’s too bad,” I replied, as nagging doubts entered my mind again. “So was she good in bed?” I inquired.

“Well, we didn’t fuck, but we did other stuff. It was kind of weird, really: her pussy didn’t get wet by itself, so we had to use lube.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I guess she has this medical condition where she can’t naturally lubricate, so we had to use lube.”

I am now almost completely convinced that she was, after all, a man.

“That’s pretty weird, man,” I told him. “What kind of pussy doesn’t get wet naturally?”

“Yeah, it was a bit strange, actually,” he agreed. Then he went balls out and confronted the figurative elephant in the room:

“I think I have to accept the fact that I might’ve just hooked up with a post-op transsexual,” he admitted.

Ouch.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Every dude there wanted to fuck her anyways. And I won’t tell anyone.” Which is why I describe him in this tale merely as N.

I didn’t want to delve into the ramifications of this incident too deeply at the time. The fact of the matter was that my friend had left with the prettiest girl at the bar, and rest assured that 9 out of 10 guys at said bar would’ve agreed that she was indeed the prettiest girl there. (The 10th guy would’ve nominated her friend in the pink sweater, or the cool brunette that I was talking to.) My buddy took a big risk: either he was going to hook up with the prettiest girl of his life, or he was going to hook up with a man.

Though there’s no way to be completely sure, I suspect that his gamble was a failure. That said, I do know that every man at the Catalyst who saw him leave with that girl was jealous (save for B and I, of course, who suspected foul play).

I never thought I’d say this, but N, thanks for cockblocking me. You jumped on the grenade, and I am thus indebted to you.

Story #4: The Hotel Bar in Hollywood

One night in the fall of 2007, three friends and I drove out to Hollywood for a change of scenery. These friends were Austin, Nick Sonners, and another friend of mine, whom we shall call V. At my urging, we ventured into a swanky hotel, whose name escapes me at the moment, and had a few drinks. The hotel had two decent bars, a cobblestone valet driveway, as well as a vast conference room in the back that was hosting a fancy awards meal in which a bunch of old, rich, white people had hired the Beach Boys (!) to perform for them as they dined. I crashed this black-tie event for a little bit, but then rejoined my buddies at the back bar. But that’s neither here nor there.

When we entered the second bar of the hotel, which was kind of a loungey / restaurant type of place with futuristic couches and clear glass tables, there was a lot of talent present, predominately of the cougar variety. We ordered our drinks, and then took a lap of the place as we headed to a vacant couch and table. En route to our table, my friend V and I scoped on two young women enjoying some light fare along with their girl drinks. One of the girls was a curvy brunette. Her friend was an anorexic blonde with silicone tits.

Needless to say, I’m not into anorexic blondes with fake tits, so I scoped on the brunette. My friend V, however, being non-white, thus has a fetish for blonde white chicks, kind of like a forbidden fruit type of deal, or maybe a “grass is greener on the other side” situation. You know what I mean.

“Oh man, that blonde girl is smoking hot!” he confided to me once we sat down.

“Eh, she’s not my type. Too skinny and plastic. Her friend is cute, though.”

“Man, you can have her friend! You’re nuts! So are you going to open conversation with those two or what?”

In social situations, specifically regarding wingman duties, I often serve as a sort of battering ram when it comes to approaching women: I break down the gates, and then my friends rush in. This is because I have no fear of striking up conversation with complete strangers.

“I don’t know if I can help you on this mission, man,” I told him. “She ain’t that fresh anyways. She looks like just another Hollywood coke slut to me. I cringe at the thought of how bad her conversation must be.”

“I knew you weren’t into skinny girls, dude, but you’re tripping,” V replied.

I paused to eavesdrop on the girls’ conversation. It sounded normal enough: standard, boring girl fare… that is, until the blonde began to speak.

Man voice. Complete and total man voice.

“Dude, that girl you just described as ‘smoking hot’ is, in actuality, a man,” I informed V.

“Shut up, man. You’re crazy.”

He began to launch into a verbose argument debunking my theory and criticizing my taste in women. As he did so, I inspected the blonde more closely. Fake bleach blonde hair: check. Fake silicone boobs: check. Skinny, Auschwitz-esque frame completely bereft of feminine curves: check. Man voice: check.

And, drum roll please… Adam’s apple: check.

“She’s a man, all right,” I continued. “If you don’t believe me, we’ll take a slow lap past their table on our way to the bar for refills. Listen to her voice attentively, and look at her more closely. You’ll see that I’m not bullshitting you.”

After V burdened me with five more minutes of protest and argument, we rose and walked past the table again. The blonde’s voice sounded like the voice of a man trying to sound like a woman. It was almost laughable, really. By the time we were at the bar, V was practically shitting himself.

“HOLY SHIT, YOU WERE RIGHT! I can’t believe it!” he whispered loudly. “She is a man!”

“Told you. That’s why you can’t fall for fake blonde hair, fake tits, and an unnaturally skinny body. Those are all illusions designed to conceal the truth. Peripherally, she seems like just another skinny, leggy blonde woman. I’m sure nearly all of the people in here haven’t even thought twice about it. The possibility that she’s really a dude hasn’t even entered into their minds. But if you look a bit more closely, you can tell that SHE’S A MAN, BABY!”

In hindsight, I really should of made fun of him more for this. After all, he did describe a blonde mutant tranny as “smoking hot.”

I figured the lesson stung enough, though.

Conclusion

In short, now you understand why I like my women natural, as fake women are, oftentimes, literally fake women. In Los Angeles, it’s a goddamned epidemic. I have no interest in silicone mutants. Stop transforming yourselves into androids. It sickens me.

Gentlemen, as these four stories illustrate, fake tits are the easiest indicator that the woman you are talking to may have once been a man. Accordingly, move slowly and cautiously around silicone, and stay attuned to other warning signs, such as an odd voice (usually best detected on the phone, when you are undistracted by the illusory woman’s appearance), or a woman who seems waaaaay out of your league inexplicably hitting on you, or a girl who needs lube just to have normal vaginal sex, and feeds you lines like “I can’t lubricate naturally. It’s a medical condition.” And if you see a girl who's had a lot of work done, keep in mind that there might be a dude under all that plastic surgery.

Ladies, don’t get breast implants. They just make you look like a transsexual. Accept who you are, and love yourself the way you are. There is no need to go under the knife. You don’t need plastic surgery to be beautiful. Don’t do it!

And guys, don’t become transsexuals. Dress in drag if you must, but don’t get gender reassignment surgery. It’s just twisted, man, completely twisted, and a crime against nature to boot. I have no problem with you if you want to smoke pole; that’s your choice. But if you do, it should be consensual. Hooking up with a man who is under the mistaken impression that you are a woman is an incredibly fucked up and dishonest thing to do, and it will doubtless result in emotional scarring. Do the right thing. Be true to yourself, be honest with your partners, and love the genitals that God gave you.

And to the plastic surgeons who make millions of dollars by performing such ungodly procedures: you all ought to be hanged for malpractice.

In closing, plastic surgery is unattractive and unnecessary. Let’s rekindle a natural standard of female beauty, and abandon the unhealthy and unnatural aesthetics that have degraded our culture and transformed our women (and men) into rubber cyborgs. It is a blight against humanity, and it’s going to take a shift in values to stop it.

It’s time to go natural.