Too many hours spent watching Barbie-clone actresses opposite unique and sometimes even interesting-looking men has produced this:
Dear Actress Wannabes:
So you’ve just moved to Hollywood, and you don’t even have an agent yet. But people have already given you numbers for stylists, designers and plastic surgeons you’ll need in order to get that special appearance that all the successful actresses have. You go, girl! Remember, we don’t want to see variety in your lovely features. We want an unending procession of stick insects with two cantaloupes strapped to the chest and two giant fluff pillows where your lips might once have been.
You complain you can’t tell Brittney Spears from Lindsay Lohan from Jessica Simpson? Well, duh, girlfriend! Of course you can’t tell ’em apart by looking at ’em! You tell them apart by who they’re shagging or who they just stopped shagging or who they’re rumored to be about to start shagging. What else does a girl need to distinguish herself?
So please continue with the chin implants and cheek implants, nose jobs and breast implants, spray tans and hair extensions, and skin treatments developed from cloned infant foreskin. Remember, you’re never too young for your first breast implant, and any doctor who tells you that is just some pig who hates teenage girls.
‘Course, once there are 50,000 of you perfect Barbie clones, that look may not seem quite as… I don’t know… beautiful anymore. It might start to seem… well, common, actually. Especially if all the women in the audience start getting the same stuff done. Hmm.
Still, I think you should go for it, girlfriend. The more you gals turn yourselves into a big flock of sheep, the more us blacksheeps will stand out.