A Little Caulk in Your Ass.

So I'm reading this article the other day and a couple things struck me. First was the authors use of the phrase "botched “butt enhancements” have turned women's rears into pocked “moonscapes.” That's a gem right there.
Second, how deep in a bottomless pit of poor self-esteem do you have to be to want a butt job? How much do you have to hate yourself to want to make over something that you sit on it all day? And how bad could your ass possibly be? I mean, I've seen some terrible asses, but I've never thought damn, she really needs a butt job. And if they thought their booty was that bad, why didn't they just get a pair of bootypops?
Your booty has to be an absolute tragedy to even THINK about paying thousands of dollars to have it re-done. And from the guy with NO OFFICE? Your booty has to be pretty sloppy if you're willing to overlook the fact that your surgeon has no office, and check into the HoJo around the corner to have it remodeled with caulk and duct tape. What these women needed was a self-esteem transplant—or maybe a brain makeover. I mean, where does this guy do his consultations, a gas station bathroom?
And then they're going to sue him? For what? What did they expect? He should be suing them for having unreasonable expectations. I'm sure he did the best job a guy with no license, office or proper equipment could do. I'm sure he's the best con man posing as a surgeon this side of the Mississippi. But if you fall for the old "surgery in a hotel" bit, then you get what you get. And I won't feel sorry for you. Just like I won't feel sorry if an adult gets chopped up by a guy driving a white panel van and wearing a Mustache Ride t-shirt because you hopped in when he told you he had some candy. You're a grown ass adult. Use your head. Just like when you hop in the van and realize there's not candy, at some point you have to start having some questions. Obviously these women never did that. They didn't do it when they checked into Malpractice Motel for surgery. They didn't do it when the good doctor wheeled out his equipment on a tv stand. When he used Nyquil and a handful of pills for anesthesia. Or when he opened the door wearing a tool belt with a box cutter, pliers and a caulk gun in the waistband.
A word of advice. If you don't remember a word I say on this blog (if anybody is reading this): If a doctor tells you that all his surgeries are being moved to the Holliday Inn across the street because his office is being fumigated, JUST DON'T GO. It's a setup.