My thighs were snatched from me during the night of March 22nd.

It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with
someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal.
Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been wholly, if
imperfectly, mine for years? Whose thighs were these? What happened to
mine?

I spent that entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at
pools and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed.

I became obsessed. I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh
that turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned
myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My buns
were next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match
my new derriere -- although badly attached at least 3 inches lower than
the original -- to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my
rear complimented my legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long
skirts would stay in fashion.

It was 2 years when I realised my arms had been switched. One morning
while fixing my hair, I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of
my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This
was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and
fiendishly, a section at a time.

Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up,
unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity. No, I was being
attacked, repeatedly and without warning.

During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms -- female
arms. I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine
in public nor flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I
held them straight out and did endless circles that would have tightened
my real arms but did nothing for these Silly-Putty caricatures. In the
end, in deepening despair, I gave up my arms and my T-shirts. What
could they do to me next?

In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed
particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind
people that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck
disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded me
of.

That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical
profession by myself. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee!
That ain't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where
they're getting those replacement parts, don't you?

The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted," look again.
Was it lifted from you? Check out those tummy tucks and buttocks
raising. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie star?

I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Cindy Crawford paid
a really good price for them.

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"hooked on fonix"
Olympia WA