Not too long ago while channel surfing, I came across something more frightening than my Aunt Darla that shaves off her eyebrows and then draws them back on every morning at 8 am with a palsy shake and a martini. More shocking than anything Paris Hilton will do over the next few years, I think. What could be worse you ask? How about this: a 15 year-old girl screaming at her cowering parents about her $250-thousand sweet 16 party where 50 cent will sing and she’ll get 2 cars she can’t even drive yet?

The mother was busy buying her a dress more expensive than a year’s worth of mortgages and in return this grateful young girl was screaming at her mother that if everything isn’t perfect for this party she will hate her for life. Yup, that’s entertainment folks.

Pity the man that marries this screwed up chick in a couple years. Now the first thing we normally do is blame the parents. Screwed up parents equal screwed up kids, right? I usually don’t buy into that theory. But in this case, someone should take those two new cars and run them both over. In a world filled with more reality than any of us ever knew existed, how much reality is too much?Is it any wonder why 3/4 of the world’s peolpe hate us for our over indulgent, natural resource sucking, global warming causing, spoiled lame asses?

When I watch shows like this, I hate us. Who decided this should ever be broadcast on television? Well in retaliation, I’ve come up with a few new reality shows I’d like to see. I’m not sure how they’ll do in the ratings, but I’m definitely sure they’ll make me feel better. First, how about “Beating Celebrities with Sticks?” I mean who doesn’t want to take a swing at Paris Hilton? Tom Cruise? Lindsay Lohan? What could feel better than wailing a branch at some spoiled, whiny, over paid, talentless know-it-all celebrity?

Or what about “I’m Anorexic and I’m Proud?” This is a great show for people starving for attention. You know all those people that feel skinny is their greatest accomplishment in life? If this is true, I have a whole country of accomplished Ethiopians we can feature. Look at me, I’m a size 2! Well look at me, I’m a size 22 and pass the donuts.

How about “Catch Me if You Can?” In this show, we get to strip away all the legal crap and let the people vote for who’s guilty and who isn’t. We can start with O.J. Simpson. In this show, circumstantial evidence counts, like we have a bloody glove, a footprint, dead bodies, a motive and he’s running. Guilty? You betcha. Or when a grown man admits “I sleep with young boys” and a jury says well, that’s okay we’re quite sure it’s purely platonic. In my show, there’s a bonus round where we get to hunt down, sequester (tie-up) and beat jury members that let the guilty run free. I’m selling this one to FOX.

Another show for Fox, “Who Wants To Marry A Crack Whore?” To hell with millionaires, they’re just too complicated. Marry a crack whore and you’ll always know where you stand. Just imagine the fun we could have with the elimination rounds.

Finally, my own personal favorite, “Shock a Network Executive.” In this show, we get to blast network executives with varying volts of electricity for bringing the most begnin, banal, garbage to the airwaves. Let’s start with “The Simple Life”, for simple-tons, “Celebrity Fit Club”, otherwise known as let’s take a gaggle of fat washed-up celebrities and try to kill them by making them run up mountains, and “America’s Next Top Model,” where none of the winners actually become top models and we get to watch tall beautiful women that have the world by the balls complain about the bump on their nose.

So in a world where the only true reality is the one we make for ourselves, just how much reality is too much?

My grandparents were immigrants from Russia. My grandmother on my mothers side had 12 children that included 2 sets of twins. My father’s mother had 11 of her own. I’m surprised any uterus could withstand such abuse without dragging behind you like a dead cat hanging on a leash. But they did. And how?

Because these people were tough as nails. They were from the Old Country. Grandchildren of immigrants know all about the Old Country. And they didn’t get their own TV show for having a bunch of kids. Maybe because TV wasn’t invented yet. Or maybe because if they did, it would go something like this:

Kid 1: I don’t like deer meat.

Grandma: Your father killed it, chopped its head off and dragged it 5 miles through the snowy woods and back here so you would have something to eat. He spent 6 hours gutting it and ripping the meat from the bone. Eat it or eat nothing.

Kid 1: But I don’t…

Grandma: What you don’t– is have appreciation. Go to your room without any supper. Anyone else?

Kid 2 through 11: No ma’am. Bambie’s delicious. We love it. Thank you Ma.

Grandma: I didn’t think so.

And just like that, dinner conversation was over. Later, Grandma would cut her own hair with a paring knife and vacuum cleaner. And somehow, it still looked better than Kate’s over-bleached, uber-chic “what the hell happened to the back of your head” $200 salon cut.

The next day you would find grandma in the garden, 7 months pregnant, growing an entire produce section worth of fresh vegetables. She would dig, fertilize and pull weeds all the while banging the heads of garter snakes that got in her way against the nearest rock. One time she even beaned a rattler with a shovel, kicked the fanged-head in one direction and swung the body onto the compost heap. Let’s see you do that Kate…or John for that matter.

Now, kids 1 -11 had their own list of do’s and don’ts. The eldest took care of the babies while both parents worked from sun up to sun down. That left kid 2 through 7, 8 or 9 depending on what year it was to do things like keep the house, keep the yard, and generally keep out of the way. When Aunt Patty acted up (she would be diagnosed as ADD today and put on Ritalin), Grandma’s solution was simple; run around the house. So Aunt Pat would frequently run around the house like the village simpleton until she fell over from exhaustion in the flower bed. Complex psychiatric situation solved and without meds.

Now I wonder if all this crazy would make a good TV show? I’m thinking I would find it infinitely more entertaining than most reality TV. I know the neighbors did. But they had the good sense to come by with a tuna casserole and share their own versions of crazy with my grandparents behind closed doors. I’m sure Grandma and Grandpa would have the good sense not to put this menagerie in the public eye. After all, while certain celebrities like Julia Roberts fight tooth and nail to keep their children out of the limelight, just what kind of parent’s shove their kids right out in it?

The problem is, kids grow up. I can’t imagine being in the lion’s den called junior high with teenage hormones raging all around me and having to try and find my way in the world when all of the family dirty laundry for years was some 10 million peoples entertainment.

Have you ever heard someone say, “It’s my body, I’ll do what I want with it?” I remember saying that to my Mom and Dad when I thought about all the options I had to color, cut, stick, poke and just go ahead and generally maim myself. I actually believed this was my body…that I owned it. Years later I would look in the mirror and think,”Who the hell is that?” After living life a bit, you one day come to realize it’s really not your body at all. You don’t own it. You’re simply renting. You can’t change any of it, so it’s obviously not yours. I didn’t choose this particular nose. And I want to be taller. And what’s with this hair? A cowlick for God’s sake? Who chooses that? If this were actually MY body, I want in no particular order:

- To be 6′ 3″
- The waist of a 13 year-old girl
- 18″ Biceps
- Brad Pitt’s Chest
- His Wife’s Lips
- Hugh Jackman’s anything

So, if this isn’t really my body at all…then who’s is it? Scientists say we descended from apes. And apes are in the monkey family. And if that’s true, why didn’t we keep the tail? Can you imagine the fun we could have with that? Theologians suggest we are created in God’s image. I wonder if God has a pot belly or scoliosis? I know my parents had something to do with it. But how much really? My dad was a steelworker and my mom was a waitress. I can’t weld and I can’t balance a tray to save my life. I look a bit like both, but mostly nothing like either. I can’t imagine anyone could have ever conceived the miracles that happen within our bodies every second of every day. That had to come some from somewhere else.

So, if this is all true…who the heck is our earthly landlord? And would he really be happy with me mangling his creation? Or sticking pins in it? Or posting it on the Internet with Kim Kardashian? Or just plain embarrassing the rest of the human race from which we are all connected? I know if I was a landlord and my tenants painted my house the wrong colors, hammered holes in it all over the place or used it as an opium den (my fathers favorite term, God rest his soul) I’d be pretty P.O’d. I mean doesn’t this simply devalue our earthly rental property?

So the next time you think that this body is really yours, think again. Think about how little control you really have over it. Think about how you can’t keep your boobs from sagging or your prostate from enlarging. Or that Thanksgiving neck. Or hair that won’t grow on your head but happily sprouts out your ears. But most importantly, think about the miracle that allows you to breathe, think, speak, move and feel. Think about how the miracle of modern science only knows about a thousandth of one percent about how any of it really works at all.

Then, think about how really perfect you are…right now…today…just the way you are. And when you come to realize just how true that is, how all of this really has nothing to do with you at all….then take one big breath and exhale. You’re doing just fine. Then stop thinking about all of this before you get a headache.

“Love doesn’t always die with a loud bang, but rather, maybe even more sadly, with a whimper.”

A recent comment to my last post asked for a comment on the above statement. And, since I’ve never been asked to comment directly, I felt compelled..well flattered actually, that someone was actually engaged enough to ask.

So here’s my take on it. Love doesn’t die…period. Hope dies. Faith dies. Expectation dies. Desire dies. Grandma dies. The dog dies. Love, nope….not possible. Now, before you all comment to the contrary, hear me out. And trust me, I’m not an 18-year old quivering virgin. I actually haven’t quivered in years. Tremors maybe. Quivers no.

Remember the adage, “God is Love?” If you believe in a higher being, a spiritual guide, a universal oneness, then you must come to the conclusion that love doesn’t die. How could it? It would bring the destruction of entire religions, philosophies and cultures. There would be no more really good love stories. Hollywood would crumble. Most of us would just pack it in right now. In my own life, I can honestly say that I still love everyone that I ever started out loving. Maybe I’m just lucky. Or is it something else?

I believe I’ve chosen to love for all the right reasons, and this goes for friends as well as lovers. What are the right reasons? Well, to begin with, those chemical ones that no one can explain. Then layer on all the beautiful quirkiness that make each person we meet so special. Include generous portions of want, not need. Add a dash of tolerance, remove too much expectation and you have a pretty good recipe to start.

People will disappoint you. It’s inevitable. Why? Because they can. We all have our list of basic human needs, unfortunately, they are rarely the same for any two people. In fact, they are never really the same at all. It’s a function of testosterone and estrogen. They don’t chemically exist well together without some hormonal imbalance. Just remember the commonalities that bring us together must simply remain stronger that the differences we might allow to tear us apart.

I know a girl that lives for attention. She has to be the prettiest, the smartest, the most everything. Even when she’s wrong, she’s right. She needs to live every day in Perfectville. Even the idea of one single flaw or deviation from the perfect train can bring her to complete and utter dysfunction. Her boyfriend is a drug addict. Why? Because no one should ever take on the task of being everything to another person. It’s too much pressure. So, he’s chosen to disappear in the only way he could figure out; self-medication. This philosophy holds true of friendships as well.

People will let you down. It doesn’t mean they don’t care. It just means that they’re not wearing your matching “LOVE” t-shirt today. Don’t judge them. Love them for who they are with all their glorious flaws and everything that makes them truly unique…and I suspect they’ll do the same for you. What you put out there is what you get back…so just put it out there.

I’ve never understood why people are so afraid of that concept. Say what’s actually on your mind. Tell someone you love them. Or you’re mad at them. Or you love their hair. Buy a friend a gift. Take a friend to lunch. Do a silly dance in the middle of your office. Break into song. (Just stop picking your nose in your car at the stoplight. As much as it doesn’t seem so, the windows are actually transparent. I can see you and that’s just gross.)

Stop worrying about reciprocation or how it will be accepted. Live, just live large, great and a memorable life. That is what everyone will be talking about after you’re gone…from the room or from the planet.
How absurd it would be for us to believe that people should do what we want them to, behave how we want them to, say what we want them to in any particular situation. Do any of us do exactly what everyone in our life asks of us at any given moment or in any given situation? Nope…and don’t kid yourself by saying you do. Because you don’t. No one does. Not even my dog does that and he loves me unconditionally.

But more importantly, I don’t want him to. I want him to poop on the carpet every now and then. Or chew up a shoe. Or bark at two in the morning. Why? Because if love was really that predictable and controlled, I don’t imagine it would be all that much fun.

There was a time when a person spoke to you and they looked you straight in the eye. That one look would tell you everything. You would know if they were telling you the truth. You could see if they were happy, sad, preoccupied, nervous, or tired. Sometimes, you just wanted to see if they were stoned again and didn’t include you. Whatever the reason, you were both present and in the moment.

Today, our communication devices are diverting our eyesight and attention away from each other and onto our tiny little digital displays. And while we’re busy looking down, we could get hit by a bus. Or trip over a bag of money. Or miss the simple eye contact it takes to initiate an exciting new romance or what could turn into a life-long friendship. With the advent of modern communication technology, have we lost the ability to truly communicate?

I was walking out of the bank today when I heard a hearty hello coming from beside me. Politely, I turned to respond. Didn’t I feel like a dipstick when I noticed the Bluetooth earpiece? We’ve all done it. We go to respond to someone we think is talking to us and then we feel bad or embarrassed when we realize they are not. We actually take the time to feel bad or embarrassed for trying to be polite and friendly to some shmuck that’s polluting the air with his mindless drabble and unwillingly including us. What’s wrong with this picture? I think these are the guys that should lose an ear or two to Mike Tyson.

Later at the gym, I listened to another guy’s entire conversation on the treadmill. He was going on about his girlfriend and how she doesn’t understand him (he seemed extremely complex) and how they can’t communicate. He went on to say he was fed up with her and when he hung up he was going to text her and break up with her. Since he decided that is was fine to share this information with everyone around him including me, I felt it was an invitation to participate in the conversation. And being somewhat of an armchair psychologist, I felt compelled to help him with his problem.

I told him that you don’t break up with anyone using text messages, singing telegrams, post-its, emails, cell phone calls or skywriting. You don’t bake a cake with “so long chump” in the icing. You don’t ask a friend to tell her. You don’t ignore her phone calls. You don’t tape a note to her door. You don’t send Shannon Doherty. You simply say the words, directly to her face in simple and loving language she will understand. And then you can run.

Lately, I’ve gone to lunch and dinner with friends that have one eye on me and one eye on their cell phone. They’ll get text messages. Smile, laugh and giggle and reply. Has anyone ever gone out on a bad date that eyes every piece of human flesh that walks by the table? Doesn’t this amount to the same thing? If you find your cell phone more engaging company than the person you’re with, perhaps you should be dating it. You already know how to push its buttons. And, phones with vibrate mode can be especially pleasing. You can even take sexy pictures of yourself with your phone. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.

And then there’s text messages. I’ve been in group situations where people are texting each other and carrying on an entire conversation about someone else they don’t like that’s sitting right in front of them. Years ago, this would simply be whispering and it was impolite and if your mother raised you right, you didn’t do it. When did we become so afraid to say what’s on our mind out loud and with conviction?

As we become more engaged with technology and increasingly disengaged from our humanity, we have much to lose. We lose the ability to really listen. We lose the ability to read people and really understand them. We lose the art of conversation and persuasion. Our friends simply become contacts and address book entries. Due to the constraints of texting, we ourselves begin to abbreviate our real feelings. We are at risk of becoming more introverted and unable to say what really want to say right up front and face to face where it really counts.

I challenge us all to turn off our cell phones at lunch, dinner, the gym, the movies and any other social gathering. I challenge us to turn them off on Sundays and spend time connecting with the people you really care about face to face. The more time you spend away from your cell phone, the more you will discover, that like TV, you don’t really need it all that much anyway. Besides, how many text messages a day do you really need with that profound and engaging opening line,”Wassup?”

It starts as one great idea. Let’s take Got Milk? Then let’s add Got Beer, Got Yogurt, Got Condoms, Got Fleas, Got Music, Got Fish, Got Jesus and 10,000 other rip-offs of a simple slogan created by countless marketing “professionals” who’s last good idea was a decision they made in the finance department where they should have stayed. There’s a whole website devoted to all the copycats of the “Got” campaign. Which leads me to ask the question, what happened to original, fresh, creative advertising?

Apparently, it turned into boobs, which is ironic considering who’s coming up with this stuff. Flip through any Las Vegas magazine. We need to sell sushi. I know, let’s put a boob on it. We need to sell condos. I know, let’s put a boob on it. Nightclubs? Boobs. Restaurants? Boobs. Clothes? Boobs. Beer? Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs are the new toolbox for creative professionals. Adobe Photoboob. Microsoft Wordboob. Macromedia Boobmaker. Crayola Boobmarkers.

When did advertising professionals decide that the solution to all creative problems were boobs? Or rip-offs? Or copy cats? The downfall of great advertising began with the operations guy that decided every silly idea that pops into his head is great. Or perhaps it can be blamed on his secretary which he promoted to marketing director because he liked the way she color-coded his file folders which means she must be creative. Never mind the purple dress, green pumps, white belt with gold “I’m a Gemini” buckle, blue eyeshadow, pink glossy lipstick and silver glittery eyelashes she’s wearing while she’s giving a a college educated art director crucial creative input like “don’t put too much ink on the page, too much ink destroys the environment and that kills the whales and stuff.” (True story, yes, it really happened.)
You know the guy I’m talking about. He usually starts his sentences out with “this is not my area of expertise…but.” He’s the one with all the yes men around him to support every dumb thought that rattles around in his head and drops out of his mouth. The problem is he never went to school for advertising. He never studied art or design. He thinks his girlfriend is the perfect model for all of his advertising, and he doesn’t mean after she gets her braces off, loses 30 pounds, grows a foot, shaves the moustache and the burns heal from that curling iron mishap.

So where do we go from here? Well I say that out of respect, Got Milk should simply stay Got Milk and What Happens in Vegas Will Stay In Vegas. Advertising professionals should JUST DO IT because it’s the right thing to do. And we should leave creative development in the hands of those that are trained to do it. After all, would you rather have a high-strung ad guy on his sixth cup of coffee and seventh round of revisions performing laser eye surgery or just marketing it?

It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. Well, not for very long anyway. Hallmark needs a card for it. Something like:

Roses are Red,
Have Pity on Me.
My life is a mess,
And none of it’s my fault.

Alright, so it doesn’t rhyme. It doesn’t have to because nothing is truly good in Victimville. Words don’t rhyme. Dogs bite. Tires go flat. Your blender doesn’t blend. There’s constant acid reflux. Your hair is always flat. Your clothes don’t ever quite fit. And your in-laws are permanent live-ins…even if you’re not married. So if life is this tough in Victimville, why are there so many residents?

Apparently, the long-term reason is something called peptides. While I thought peptides were for whitening teeth, apparently they are a chemical generated by the brain that works at the cellular level. They play a big part in all types of addiction. Victimization an addiction? Just as sure as your Uncle Ralph can’t get his head out of the gin bottle and your Aunt Ruth can’t stop feeling sorry for herself but doing nothing about it because it’s easier to complain than act, the answer is yes. Victim mentality is as much of an addiction as Rosie O’Donnell to cheese blintzes and butch women.

I’ve created a test you can take to discover if you or a friend may have roots in Victimville:

Question 1. Your friend has been on a diet for 2 months. She shows you her new size 8 dress she’s been trying to get into for a special occasion. Your response is that you’ve been telling people you’re pregnant for the last 10 years and have even thrown yourself several faux baby showers to cover up the fact that while you are fatter than you ever imagined you would be, it’s much easier to do nothing about it. You offer her a box of powdered donuts and a diet coke.

Question 2. You friend shows you her new engagement ring. You tell her about your five failed marriages, how none of them were your fault and how all marriages end in divorce or murder. You go on to explain how love is an illusion and it doesn’t truly exist and that it’s a disease like diphtheria or something. You wish her well and hope you don’t get invited to the wedding because you can’t afford a toaster.

Question 3. You friend lands a new job making a six-figure salary. You tell her the only six-figures you will ever see are part of your old crappy nativity set and you’re not even Catholic anymore because you switched to Judaism for your last deadbeat husband who left for a younger woman that weighs 28 pounds and can’t stop chewing gum like an obsessed cow. You ask her if she needs an assistant.

While trips to Victimville can be a nice break from reality, long-term residency should be avoided at all costs. Live there long enough and you’ll actually begin to believe that your life is as big a mess as you’ve created in your fantasy world. And after all, if you’re going to fantasize, isn’t it much better to dream about being bright, beautiful, rich and loved by all?

Not too long ago while channel surfing, I came across something more frightening than my Aunt Darla that shaves off her eyebrows and then draws them back on every morning at 8 am with a palsy shake and a martini. More shocking than anything Paris Hilton will do over the next few years, I think. What could be worse you ask? How about this: a 15 year-old girl screaming at her cowering parents about her $250-thousand sweet 16 party where 50 cent will sing and she’ll get 2 cars she can’t even drive yet. The mother was busy buying her a dress more expensive than a year’s worth of mortgages and in return this grateful young girl was screaming at her mother that if everything isn’t perfect for this party she will hate her for life. Yup, that’s entertainment folks.

Pity the man that marries this screwed up chick in a couple years. Now the first thing we normally do is blame the parents. Screwed up parents equal screwed up kids, right? I usually don’t buy into that theory. But in this case, someone should take those two new cars and run them both over. In a world filled with more reality than any of us ever knew existed, how much reality is too much?

Is it any wonder why 3/4 of the world’s peolpe hate us for our over indulgent, natural resource sucking, global warming causing, spoiled lame asses? When I watch shows like this, I hate us. Who decided this should ever be broadcast on television? Well in retaliation, I’ve come up with a few new reality shows I’d like to see. I’m not sure how they’ll do in the ratings, but I’m definitely sure they’ll make me feel better.

First, how about “Beating Celebrities with Sticks?” I mean who doesn’t want to take a swing at Paris Hilton? Tom Cruise? Lindsay Lohan? What could feel better than wailing a branch at some spoiled, whiny, over paid, talentless know-it-all celebrity?

Or what about “I’m Anorexic and I’m Proud?” This is a great show for people starving for attention. You know all those people that feel skinny is their greatest accomplishment in life? If this is true, I have a whole country of accomplished Ethiopians we can feature. Look at me, I’m a size 2! Well look at me, I’m a size 22 and pass the donuts.

How about “Catch Me if You Can?” In this show, we get to strip away all the legal crap and let the people vote for who’s guilty and who isn’t. We can start with O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson. In this show, circumstantial evidence counts, like we have a bloody glove, a footprint, dead bodies, a motive and he’s running. Guilty? You betcha. Or when a grown man admits “I sleep with young boys” and a jury says well, that’s okay we’re quite sure it’s purely platonic. In my show, there’s a bonus round where we get to hunt down, sequester (tie-up) and beat jury members that let the guilty run free. I’m selling this one to FOX.

Another show for Fox, “Who Wants To Marry A Crack Whore?” To hell with millionaires, they’re just too complicated. Marry a crack whore and you’ll always know where you stand. Just imagine the fun we could have with the elimination rounds.

Finally, my own personal favorite, “Shock a Network Executive.” In this show, we get to blast network executives with varying volts of electricity for bringing the most begnin, banal, garbage to the airwaves. Let’s start with “The Simple Life“, for simple-tons, “Celebrity Fit Club“, otherwise known as let’s take a gaggle of fat washed-up celebrities and try to kill them by making them run up mountains, and “America’s Next Top Model,” where none of the winners actually become top models and we get to watch tall beautiful women that have the world by the balls complain about the bump on their nose.

So in a world where the only true reality is the one we make for ourselves, just how much reality is too much?

I recently had the opportunity to spend an extended period of time with my fairly new brother-in-law. After the initial greetings, he began to go on and on about finally meeting his soulmate and how he couldn’t live without her. (Which by the way he had to do while she was finishing up her prison sentence. But that’s for another blog.) He was expounding on the endless depth of his undying love for my sister. Apparently they complete each other, which is entirely possible since they are both half-wits. I watched as tears welled up in his eyes as he finished his praises to the woman of his dreams. He talked about his wedding vows and how “I do” meant forever (for the third time). When he finished, I didn’t know whether to throw rose petals or throw up. Precisely three weeks later they had a minor argument and he moved out. Which made me wonder; just how many forevers do we get?

Have you ever had a friend or family member that suddenly and out of nowhere makes the grand and totally unexpected “I’m getting married announcement?” Not that marriage is unexpected for many people, but you know what I’m talking about. It’s your friend that’s marrying the alcoholic cross dresser. Or the one that’s marrying the guy that slaps her around because he loves her. It’s the girl that’s so controlling she keeps her boyfriends testicles in her change purse and only allows him access to one at a time to procreate. Or it’s that guy that goes out with the group and completely ignores his girlfriend all evening, gets drunk, vomits and then hits on her friends right in front of her while she’s busy tongue kissing the bartender. Or maybe it’s the two that bicker constantly on every point until all you want to do is dig your eardrums out with a spoon and feed them to your dog.

For a second, you stare in disbelief. All the blood rushes from your head. Then you quickly shake it off before she notices. The words “to who?” form on your lips, but you quickly turn it into a huge woof, woof while pumping your fist in the air. Then you jump up and down and tell her how excited you are for her. This gives you time to get the oxygen back to your brain. I remember once falling out of a tree backwards as a kid. I was up about 20 feet or so. It’s the strangest feeling. You’re completely helpless, wondering if you’re going to survive and how much pain you’re going to endure on the way down. Well, it’s kind of like that. Because as a friend, there is going to be pain and lots of it. And tears. And yelling. And break-ups. And you are going to be that support system that tells her over and over again the same thing you did before they tied the knot and slipped it over each other’s neck.

Now, I’ve been prone to precognition in my life. But you don’t have to be on the Psychic Friends Network to figure out this coupling would be the worst idea since Liza Minelli and that scary gay guy she married and then beat around during alcoholic tirades. Though I do admit I wish reality TV would have got a hold of that one. I’d still be watching the reruns. In fact, I’d like to see Liza in a cage match. She looks like a pretty tough scrapper to me.

My question then becomes, as the innocent-bystanding, morbidly-curious and concerned audience, what do we do? Buy tickets, popcorn and watch the show? Try and help with kind advice that will usually end up with us getting axed from the wedding guest list? I’ve always felt that an open-handed slap to the mouth works best. If it was good enough for our parents, then by gosh it’s good enough for us. But who’s responsibility is it? I don’t like being a bubble burster. But I do have an endless supply of pins.

Perhaps it’s just an inevitable part of life. Because when it comes to stating the obvious, no one gets it when it has to do with them. So let’s just sit back and endure forever…again.

I have an acquaintance that is crazy sexy cool. She’s vivacious, outspoken, fun and thinks fast on her feet. She’s a pretty girl with one disarming asset. Tremendous breasts. Purchased tremendous breasts. Breasts so tremendous in fact, that the slim fitted dresses she owned before the augmentation can no longer contain at least 70% of them at any given moment. I live in constant fear that any fast movement will result in a complete demoralization of the work place. I’m sure you get the picture. Lately, she’s been talking about pumping up the volume. On her diminutive frame, any additional size would simply morph her into mammaries in pumps, which begs the question; what is the real cost of inflation?

In the office, here’s a typical scenario. The women get annoyed because she’s prancing around half-naked starving for attention. She believes they’re all jealous, which I don’t think is a valid argument since any girl with $4,000 and a medium-size pain tolerance can get their own pair of oversized chelobes. Most men expect a bimbo when they see her coming, which creates a preconceived notion that must be overcome in any business situation prior to be taken seriously. For the rest of the men and a few daring women, it’s a daily jousting game of titillation. And I don’t care what anyone says, if the melons are falling out of the crate, we’re all going to look. It’s like we see the banana peel, we see the heel about to hit the banana peel, we’re waiting for the big finish.

For my friend herself, she appears to have made a complete and total monetary, physical and emotional investment in her breasts. She wonders why they can’t solve all her problems. Why don’t they bring her money? Fame and fortune? A rich husband? Friends? Happiness? World peace? A cure for cancer? Surely if she makes them bigger, she’s headed for world domination.

The truth of the matter is, if you can’t get your head out of your cleavage, you’re never going to be happy. It’s dark in there. It’s hard to see. There’s barely room to breathe. And besides, isn’t it really someone else’s job to have their head in there anyway?

I’m not one to judge anything anyone wants to do with their body. Well, within reason. If you make your breasts bigger than your head and wonder why men stare at them and don’t take you seriously, then you might as well cut off your head, replace it with another big boob and become a triple threat, because you’re never going to get it. Cher once said,”If I want to put my boobs on my back, I will. It’s my business.” And if the outcome is so many more people wanting to hug her, that’s okay. As long as she doesn’t sit there and wonder, “Why is everyone hugging me?”

So what’s the real cost of inflation? I’m not really sure. But I do know this. If you’re self-worth is contained in two sacks of silicone, you’re only one millimeter in plastic away from leaking out all over the place. And that’s a precarious place to be for anyone.