Boobs or GTFO

2010-08-25 13:39
We live in a world that judges a book almost entirely by its cover, and as anyone who’s ever watched Extreme Makeover already knows, beauty is a sadistic, gruesome process that literally goes far deeper than the skin.

It may have once been true that beauty was a gift, or, for the atheists that walk among us, a stroke of luck. But now, it’s a decision. Anyone beaten to non-photogenic status by the ugly stick can walk into a plastic surgeon’s office with a picture of George Clooney and say, "Make me look like this, but leave out the smarmy 1950s brothel -creeping rat-packer features", and after a long, painful procedure, be able to look in the mirror and see Clive Owen with a hangover.

This new look can be augmented with slathers of cosmetics, filtered camera lenses and refusing to do interviews in natural light unless it’s the first hour of twilight. Finally, there’s the wonder of Photoshop, which could easily be used to manipulate my profile pic to make me look like a debonair, baby-skinned goblin. Hot.

Given our obsession with physical appearance, I think it’s just a matter of time before we find the blue-tinged corpse of a Botox overdose victim in a nightclub toilet, with an empty syringe still stuck in his eyebrow.

As Freud would have undoubtedly said, it’s all about sex. Not necessarily having any, but looking like you’ve had a lot, and could have some more any time you damn well please. This is why abs-obsessed celebrity himbos are fighting the ultimate battle to out-smooth each other (Clooney and Pitt are neck and neck against the railings as they come round to the final straight before the mid-life crisis).

Their pre-menopausal female counterparts appear to be going the pornography route.  It’s a simple formula: the bigger the dick-dumpster, the bigger the fame. They’re like monkeys in a zoo catching peanuts, and by "zoo" I mean Hollywood, by "monkeys" I mean whores and by "peanuts" I mean penises.

It seems to have become an unspoken rule that as soon as the weeping surgical scars have scabbed and fallen, it’s time to start slutting it up for the cameras.

The list of starlets who’ve accidentally-on-purpose starred in a porno or flashed their snatch to the ever-present paparazzi, coincidentally just weeks before their movie or album release, reads like a 'Ho’s 'Ho of the gutterati.

And here’s the part you’re not going to like: these self-made sex objects have way more influence over us hoi polloi than any government, religion or parent.

They’re the foot-soldiers walking point in the onslaught of raunch culture, which promotes the idea that the only thing cooler than dressing like a prostitute is acting like one too. At this rate, it seems that by 2020, every man, woman and child will have a naked picture of themselves on someone’s cellphone.

I once asked a girl in a bar wearing a glittery "Porn Star" T-shirt how much she charged for a blowjob. And – would you believe it – it turns out she wasn’t a porn star at all. Nope, she was just another raunch culture victim who, like a bored housewife taking pole-dancing lessons, thought she was making some sort of feminist statement by expressing a sexual proclivity she didn’t have (which ultimately amounted to a cost-effective evening, but that’s another story). Frankly, I find this tag-poaching offensive to real strippers and porn stars.

But raunch culture is as empowering and feminist as a Rohypnol-spiked cosmopolitan. Perhaps even less so, because at least an experience with a drugged drink and a date in shape for a rape doesn’t leave women with the delusion that they’re in control.

As yet another extension of patriarchy’s dehumanisation and objectification of women, which also delegates men to the position of voyeuristic, sex-starved wankers, raunch culture is doing pretty well for itself. So much so that this week’s Miss Universe pageant was little more than a risible, anachronistic irrelevance that only fashionistas and prepubescent girls take seriously.

Sure, it has the same sexist motivations as its cooler cousin, but it’s too out-of-touch to be significant. With hot A-lister crotch action just a few mouse clicks away, who cares what those perpetually smiling trophy wives think about the starving children?

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