Botox...HUH?

I haven't been living under a rock, nor am I stupid, so I am well aware of the lengths that a human being with an over sized vanity and an ego the size of an eighteen wheeler will go to to keep themselves looking 'young'. However, lately I have been doing some reading about 'cosmetic alterations etc' and the one recurring theme was Botox injections.

So, I did some investigating about Botox and all of it's ramifications etc, so for what it's worth, here's MY take on the subject. As usual, this will probably be way over the top, so hang onto your undies and let's take a spin through the Moon Rabbit's twisted and some times convoluted mind.

First off, you panic at the sight of that 'one wrinkle' that just does not seem to want to submit to your assaults with Oil of Ole' and other nostrums and compounds that you slather on your otherwise delicate features the moment the sun takes dip on the horizon. And you wonder why your husband has a mistress. Humph!

So, one morning, in a fit of pique over the said wrinkle, you firmly resolve to rid yourself of that one offending hallmark of physical aging. In a dead panic, you rush out to your car, ratty old chenille bathrobe flapping crazily around your hairy ankles and your secret hair restoration plugs waving in the morning air like furry little sentinels at the gate. You jump in and slam the door, catching the hem of your ratty old chenille bathrobe in the door, eschewing the mandatory seat belt law, you fire up the old gas guzzler and drop the shift lever into reverse and slam your foot down on the gas pedal, in a cloud of choking blue exhaust, you back out of your driveway nearly disembowling Mrs. Tutwilers twenty three pound cat Fluffy waddling along the street just at the perimeter of your driveway.

Once again, you drop the shift lever into drive, stomp on the gas and away you go, nearly running over Mrs.. Tutwiler who is in search of her now traumatized four legged fat wad.
Carelessly and with terrified abandon, you speed to the nearest jolly old Botox Injection Store.

And it is there that the fun really starts, after smashing several trash cans and coming within a cats hair(Mrs. Tutwiler's cat, perhaps?) of making street pizza out of a now totally frazzed out of a meter maid, you leap from your gas guzzler and extricate your ratty old chenille bathrobe with an angry, impatient yank, from the locking works of your car door and it's now stained with grease and road grime...yeeeccchhhh!

Thankfully, and so gratefully you stumble through the door of the jolly old Botox Injection Store, that ratty old chenille bathrobe, now hanging limply on your body whereupon you are greeted by a woman with a vacuous smile and empty eyes and frozen facial features that suggest at least two hundred and twenty Botox injections, but, in your haste, you ignore THAT and frenetically explain why you are there, using up all of their precious time just to cater to your vain whims.

The vacuously smiling woman leads you to the inner recesses of the jolly old Boxtox Injection Store and you are placed in a room with four bare walls that smell faintly of mold and corruption, but you are too relieved and alternately excited to even notice that.

Later, a tall, gaunt, balding man with a predatory smile enters your room and with a syringe filled with a viscous looking liquid and his name is Wolfgang, just Wolfgang, no last name. Whiningly and with a cry baby attitude, you tell him of your plight, and point to the area in question and with a terrifyingly benign smile he immediately injects the area in question, and then and only then do you relax with a sigh and being so relieved and so filled with gratitude, you don't actually realize that you have to pay to have your face injected with a virulent bacterial strain that can and just might ultimately kill you...OH No! THAT realization will come later.

The next morning, you wake and realize that you are having trouble seeing, so you stumble around blindly, slamming into furniture, barking your shins and stubbing your less than perfect toes and you finally get to the bathroom, where you see in the medicine cabinet mirror, with your one good eye, that your right eye ball now rests on your left cheek and your face is covered with festering, suppurating pustules.

Now then, you don't think to call 911, OH NO, not YOU, you stumble and lurch your way blindly through the house and once again jump imto your gas guzzler, fire it up, and in a deja vu mode you roar from your driveway, but this time, you do disembowel poor little old well larded Fluffy, ignoring the bump and the agonized scream of the now defunct feline you head to the nearest hospital in a weaving, drunken rush.

Reaching the Emergency Room parking lot, how you mananged is anybody's guess! You slam your gas guzzler between a sub compact and a soccer mom mini van, crumpling the drivers side door of the van. Bouncing off of the curbing, you shut the engine down and frantically open your door and slam it into the passengers side door of the subcompact, leaving a dent and a Grand Canyon sized scratch.

Lurching and weaving your way through the parking lot, you make your way to the ER Doors, which slide open and you stumble through them. So, there you are, standing there, screaming and weaving about, having to support yourself on the wall and the nurses and the waiting room full of patients begin retching and screaming in abject terror because dear, you look like something out of an alcoholics delirium filled hallucinations or a really, really bad Clive Barker B grade movie.

Two burly security guards, wearing gloves, immediately come and eject you from the ER, because you have caused a disturbance, you are given a stern warning and left to die like a dog in the street because the Botox was in all actuality, BOTULISM and it's now running rampant through your internal systems and also, you just had to go see good old Wolfgang, no last name, just Wolfgang, because in your infantile yearnings to make yourself desirable you ignored the fact that Botox is really BOTULISM filtered down.

Just a few more things, first off, lose that ratty old bathrobe, you're NOT going to need it any more, and second, Where should we send flowers? and third, Wolfgang's real name is Mengele. You figure that one out...

Have a very,very nice day!