One woman I've known announced at one point in our relationship that she thought it was terrible that women felt obligated to get plastic surgery, whether on face, boobs or whatever. She announced that she would, however, never have gray hair. As fakey and pathetic as it may look, she was gonna be one of those women obviously well into senility that still had uniformly dark hair.

Maybe I should have seen this as a sign. To me, this is like saying that you're gonna own the Honda Civic you've got now for the rest of your life, but every time it needs a tuneup, you'll just throw another new coat of paint on it instead. Ladies, which would you rather have; a firm, shapely body well into your '60's and soft, snowy hair, or a droopy body and heavily lined face that no one sees because they're all going, "God, look at that old lady. She's got absolutely no gray hairs at all. I'm 32 and I've got gray hairs for chrissakes: that is so fake?"

Why is plastic surgery "artificial" when industrial-strength dye jobs aren't? What is makeup after all, but the attempt to create an illusion one can achieve in a more lasting form by surgical methods? I speak from a perhaps privileged position on this subject, as I am one of the few males I know who has had "cosmetic surgery." Some guys have had "eyes done" or such nonsense, but I am the only guy I know who's had cosmetic surgery done on his love pistol (tallywhacker, ding-a-ling, whatever). Yes guys, cutting and stitching down there.

In my case, the surgery was actually necessary. Right after college, I began noticing going to the bathroom a whole lot and only peeing a mere dribble at a time. After seeing one or two doctors, a urologist pointed out to me that the vas differens (the opening at the end of my penis) was growing shut. Steps needed to be taken, and the only way to make the one-eyed snake's eye open wider is to cut it open (I'll pause here for a moment, to give you time to finish going "Eeeeeyew!").

So the big day finally arrives, and I show up at the urologist's office. I am ushered into one of the rooms, and told to strip down below the waist. I do and wait for the doctor. I am in the midst of hoping that the doctor is a man of not only consummate skill and steady hands, but with a tactful side as well. I hear a door open down the hall and the doctor saying to whomever's inside (loudly enough for folks in the waiting room to hear), "Well if you didn't masturbate so much you wouldn't have this problem in the first place!" and slam the door. So much for the tact part.

I lay back on the table as the doctor began explaining exactly what was going to take place. As he was talking, he suddenly grabbed my johnson and I felt a quick pin-prick (excuse the pun). At this, I bolted upright (my body, not Mr. Happy) and saw that some kind of swelling at the injection site had already begun. It looked as if a violet-colored Cocoa Puff had suddenly grown on the end of the head. Before I could freak out too much over this new deformity, it was time for the cutting and stitching to begin...

[end of Part I; to be continued next month]