You Are Dumb, which is not a blog, posts new columns every weekday, except for a couple of days each month when it doesn't. It is also a Twitter feed, @youaredumb, with content in a similar vein but much shorter. My spinoff food site, Forkbastard, can be found easily enough by the clever.
Memo to everyone: YOU ARE UGLY. And a bunch of you are dumb, too.
You're all ugly. Every last one of you. I'm ugly, you're ugly, we're ugly. Unattractive. Imperfect. Physically unappealing. Why do you think we choose to interact through an all-text medium? Because we're all hideous Medusae, petrified of mutual petrification.
And, by some miracle, if you ain't ugly now, you will be. We are all, collectively, entropy's bitches. You will grow, you will shrink, you will bulge, sag, wrinkle, decay. Bits will fall off on their own, or be mechanically separated from your person in horrible ways.
Most "pretty" people are ugly. And I don't mean in an idealistic, "on the inside" way. I mean their very attractiveness itself is a sham, the product of airbrushes and chemicals and personal trainers and soft-focus lenses and, frankly, wholesale manipulation of societal norms and expectations.
And even if somehow you manage to escape everything above, and each morning, you awake looking like the epitome of human physical perfection, and float through life, enchanting everyone who lays eyes on you, you're still a pitiable Quasimodo in the Twilight Zone. So wipe that fucking smirk off your face.
Wiping things off faces, not entirely coincidentally, leads me to my next point. Even though we're all ugly, most of you can't stand the idea. So instead of embracing our mutual hideousness, you perform acts that would, in any other context beyond our collective artificial aesthetic, get you committed for life. And you probably heard about it from Oprah. Botox. Gastric bypass. And the lunch-break lift.
As the name implies, the LBL is a one-hour, outpatient face-lift. In the procedure, a special BARBED SUTURE is sewn through the fatty tissue UNDERNEATH THE SKIN. The suture hooks into the tissue, pulling it tight and making it smoother.
Clive Barker is a fucking piker. The Marquis de Sade was a fool. I bet the Marquis never got thousands of dollars from a victim. For fuck's sake, people, YOUR FACE IS A BIT WRINKLY. You're given a choice between fucking coping, or spending four grand, and having hooked plastic thread inserted under your skin. One of these choices is the sane one, and that's even when the procedure is foolproof and safe.
Surprise, surprise, it ain't. The New York Times reports that an informal poll of plastic surgeons showed 60% encountering "complications" when using the technique. The threads break, they pop out of the skin, etc. Or, in the case of patients like Janet Kinney, everyone can see the threads under there, she can feel them under her skin, and she can't sleep on her right side.
Not that I have heaps of sympathy for Kinney and her ilk, but you know, there's a well-established part of our society that says if a stupid person is told that the stupid thing they're about to do is safe, that stupid thing, no matter HOW STUPID, should fucking well be safe.
We can't stop people from believing Good Morning America when it says putting razor-wire in your skin will make you pretty. But we can at least regulate the procedure so that we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that any poor sucker who gets it done can be safely mocked for their decision.
'Cause they'll STILL BE UGLY.