What is going on with Mickey Rourke? Is he not one of the perennial cool/scuzzy/sexy/scumbag badasses in all of Hollywood? My man Mickey is looking a lot different lately, and looking stranger and stranger with each passing film. What is going on? Why must many of the great faces and bodies of treasured American entertainment undergo procedures that render them puffy, wind-tunneled, squinty tragedies with feet?
I won’t even get into Kenny Rogers or any other plastic surgery apocalypse seeping out of the Hollywood Hills.
Cosmetic surgery is a godsend for those born with deformities or those accidentally disfigured. Ain’t it odd how people whose entire careers and million dollar empires which are founded on their appearance eventually resort to surgeries that make them look like a kid with a genetic malformation?
Being addicted to facelifts and injections, suctions and tucks is the greatest plague to sweep the wealthy in a long time. Not unlike tattoos, piercings, and any other body modifications, elective cosmetic surgery can lead to just more and more until the skin runs out. Though it is a wonderful way to differentiate yourself from the rest of the pack because nobody wants to move to Florida with a turkey waddle beneath their neck and underarm meat flaps. Or show up at the hot little nightspot not sporting a pair of disproportionate saline bombs and Mick Jagger lips.
What if the economy was linked to how much a celebrity’s face droops? Withered and saggy = Bear market. Strong and tight = Bust out the bubbly.
Like a jailhouse tat or any home-jobby piercing, cosmetic surgery should start at home. Then maybe a small botch will deter those who would be spending enormous amounts of money on procedures that will only lead to them being mocked and pitied. But what about people’s freedom of choice, you ask? Don’t they have the right to spend their money on what they want, looking how they want to look?
I suppose you have a point, smart reader.
Maybe I’m jealous because they have loads of money sitting in an “I’m-looking-like-a-shoe-time-for-some-surgery” fund and I’m stuck with the way I look. Forever. Unless I have one of my buddies help me get that permanent smirk I’ve always wanted. Pope of Greenwich Village style.