WombatWoman
Diamond Member
- Invasion of The Bod Burglars! - (A horror tale for females over 30)
My thighs were stolen from me during the night of June 8th a few years ago. 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 the 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 horrific dreams about flesh that turns into bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and confused, I resigned myself to living out my life in relaxed-fit bluejeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, without warning, the thieves struck again. My buns were next. Talk about your stolen booty! 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 matched my legs, lump for lump. I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion so that my relaxed-fit rump would not attract mockery from the mean, spiteful under-30 gals who cavort everywhere these days, waggling their tight-bunned fannies like J-Lo Jell-O.
It was 2 years ago when I realized 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. Yikes, this was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a time. Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity or mononucleosis. NO, I was being savagely attacked, repeatedly and without warning. During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper 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 T-shirts and tank tops. What could they do to me next? Auuugh, little did I guess that things could get even worse. In short order, my right boob began creeping toward my navel, and when I applied the famous "pencil test," it could hold a pencil, a small stapler, and a Logitech Optical Mouse. My left boob still seemed perky and unaware. How cruel that The Conspiracy took just one.
Soon my droopy eyelids 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. The bastards somehow managed to steal my lips right from under my nose, replacing them with a coupla pieces of beef jerky.
I now realize who is behind all these thefts and indignities: DOCTORS. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. And collagen injections? Ha. 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 buttock-raisings. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on Greta Von Susteren?
I do have one bit of good news. After careful investigation, I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Anna Kournikova paid a really good price for them.
My thighs were stolen from me during the night of June 8th a few years ago. 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 the 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 horrific dreams about flesh that turns into bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and confused, I resigned myself to living out my life in relaxed-fit bluejeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, without warning, the thieves struck again. My buns were next. Talk about your stolen booty! 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 matched my legs, lump for lump. I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion so that my relaxed-fit rump would not attract mockery from the mean, spiteful under-30 gals who cavort everywhere these days, waggling their tight-bunned fannies like J-Lo Jell-O.
It was 2 years ago when I realized 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. Yikes, this was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a time. Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity or mononucleosis. NO, I was being savagely attacked, repeatedly and without warning. During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper 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 T-shirts and tank tops. What could they do to me next? Auuugh, little did I guess that things could get even worse. In short order, my right boob began creeping toward my navel, and when I applied the famous "pencil test," it could hold a pencil, a small stapler, and a Logitech Optical Mouse. My left boob still seemed perky and unaware. How cruel that The Conspiracy took just one.
Soon my droopy eyelids 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. The bastards somehow managed to steal my lips right from under my nose, replacing them with a coupla pieces of beef jerky.
I now realize who is behind all these thefts and indignities: DOCTORS. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. And collagen injections? Ha. 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 buttock-raisings. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on Greta Von Susteren?
I do have one bit of good news. After careful investigation, I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Anna Kournikova paid a really good price for them.
