I always thought it was screwed up that mothers of young children, other than those who require reconstructive surgery, decide that they need boob jobs. A reduction I would understand, but does Mommy really need to look like Plastic Surgery Barbie...?

Now this book attempts to justify and explain the unexplainable.

(I mean, couldn't one at least wait 'til the kid's older? Then they already know you're f*cked in the head. Like about the time you divorce Daddy (if you ever even bothered to marry him) and they catch you on the couch with Rahoolio, who has come to weed whack your bushes.)

Most disturbing to me is the idea of little boys growing up with circus tits and thinking this is the norm. Best possible outcome being that they are so repulsed that they turn gay. (I know, people don't spontaneously turn gay, I'm just saying...best possible outcome.) Not to mention that breastfeeding after such a procedure would be questionable at best. Enjoy your petrochemical-laced clown tit juice, kids-!

Kids shouldn't be scared because their mommy is having plastic surgery; kids should be scared that THAT IS THEIR MOMMY. Too bad, this book could have been useful, and included a chapter on legal emancipation. Kid has probably left Mom in the dust, IQ-wise, long ago.

I think they should change the title to My Plastic-Assed, Stripper Mommy. or, Mommy Cannot Hug You Because her Water Balloons Will Burst.

I also think I am a closet Republican. Wait, no, it's the Republican moms who are pulling this crap (thank you, Orange County.)

Labels: Bimbo City