Over the weekend, I saw an interesting tidbit on the news. A doctor in LA on air giving accolades to Jennifer Lopez with the intimation that Jennifer Lopez has helped him amass scads of money. Singing career on the side because he is just a Doctor from the block? No, this doctor is no crooner. Handing out sparkly jeans and JLo perfume? Not that either. He has made a fortune off replication. As in replication of her derriere. He is a doctor specializing in Buttock Augmentation. WOW. I have now officially heard of everything.
Butt implants are usually quite successful at making the butt larger and shapelier. This has helped many women gain a more sensuous appearance. For those that have had underdeveloped buttocks, buttock implants can now provide them with a more proportionate figure. Not only has this helped enhance their appearance, but for many they have also gained a boost in their self-esteem and self-confidence.
I support anyone who wants surgery in hopes of improving self esteem and self confidence. From Botox to the face lift, do what you need to do sister. I admit I have heard of many surgical enhancements and living in Atlanta, I have seen the handiwork. But butt implants? I know nothing about butt implants.
The surgery can be upward of 2 to 3 hours. It can also be upward of $10,000 smacks. The usual side effects: pain, discomfort, potential future surgeries. BUT, an interesting fact: you can expect to resume normal activity within 2 months. What if part of your normal activity actually involves sitting? ON your arse. Because sitting on your arse seems like an activity I don’t want to go without for a month. Or two. Have fun with that Crouching Tiger, Hidden (Tender) Booty.
Anyone willing to undergo that lengthy surgery and the aftermath of not actually using your badonkadonk for months is a person who can genuinely claim: I like big butts and I can not lie. And incidentally, I have seen post-op video of butt implants. The clip I saw was evidence in a lawsuit. I am sure other surgeries are very successful but this surgery had some drawbacks. Mainly in that what I saw looked much like a large ham stuffed into underwear, covered with sweatpants, but imagine a ham that could be moved around as readily as a joystick from your 1984 Atari game. I think we can all agree your butt should move like a yo-yo (unless you are just THAT great of a dancer.) Hence the lawsuit.
Now, I know several women who are bothered by their tiny biscuits. In fact, I know someone who was nicknamed at birth: Hickory Nut Butt because the butt appeared to have been left behind in the birth canal. I think I would love being called Hickory Nut Butt but J. assured me I would not.
I will never be called Hickory Nut Butt, and frankly, if you needed an extra dose of bootylicious biscuit, come my way, pay me 10K and I will give gladly pass you some of mine.
Now, unlike Sir Mix A Lot, who penned the now pop culture iconic lyrics highlighting how his Anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon, I do not covet a bubble rump. In fact, this reminds me of a situation in college I will share. One day as a freshman in college, my gal pals and I strolled along the courtyard through main campus. A boy, perched on a ledge with his collection of misfits called out to us "I like your junk in your trunk" which I believe included the sound mmmmmmm as well.
A touch baffled, we glanced their way, and moved along. But they kept up. I was wearing my attractive and snug Calvin Klein jeans and over-sized yet tucked in rugby shirt (quite popular at the time) so I was singled out. Since they spoke a foreign phrase, and I had no lexicon to help, I ignored them. Let's be honest, I thought they were ridiculous. My car was parked by my house, which was half a mile away. And I knew there were only battery cables and a spare tire in that trunk. Silly boys!
Shortly thereafter, I asked a friend of mine who played football what ‘junk in the trunk’ meant. His response was multi-layered. But I quickly got the point. Suffice it to say when a college boy says, “You got junk in your trunk” that will also translate to “I am a boy who occasionally likes a kick to the ding ding.”
If I had known, as I paraded down campus in my fitted jeans and my oversize shirt, that a pack of wolves would basically identify I had a prodigious ass and then shout it out with glee like Rudolph's reindeers, I would perchance have opted to be a bit more obscure.
I was assured by my friend that "boys like that"as if this was a consolation. And while I appreciated freedom of speech, candor, and the like, please do not shout across the quad like a donkey braying in a megaphone about my "trunk" be it full of junk or otherwise.
Now what was I to do but tell all to my gal pals and then nurse my feelings with a tall cold refreshing beer. I am sure I had a calzone with that (Sella's calzones...the best in the Palouse) but I digress. Was I not svelte? Was I not a work out fiend? Never mind that the beverage-calzone combo might have added a little pile of junk to that trunk but I was a freshman after all.
Mind you, this was long before Jennifer Lopez, the bodacious sensation wore her "junk" with pride. I was an injured girl and I don't care who you are, there was not a girl on campus in 1989 who would have proudly wore the "Biggest Ass" sash during the float parade. And NO ONE was intentionally seeking a bigger butt. And implants were strictly for ta-tas.
Now that I am significantly more savvy, and my days of thinking Keystone and 3000 calorie calzones were gourmet living, I can assure you no one has even commented on junk in my trunk. But I am still a long, long time away from implants for the booty zone.