The only organization that doesn't email me unsolicited offers to increase the size of various parts of my anatomy is Ben & Jerry's. Honorable men, they provide such enhancement for free.
So it was that last night, even as I consumed a heaping bowl of Cherry Garcia I thanked my lucky stars I live in the land of plenty, a land where you actually can get somethin' for nothin'.
Curiously, even as I lose my girlish figure due to the ravages of age I find that despite my wishes certain anatomical features are going through precisely the sort of enhancement process other, less endowed individuals desperately seek.
Without imbibing any of the various wonder drugs available via the Internet, I am becoming more curvaceous (to view the glass as half full). Funny thing is, I don't think it makes me look sexier.
No doubt a bounteous bosom is appealing on a lass but to suggest it is exclusively so is equivalent to suggesting a rose is the singularly beautiful flower. Nonsense!
Therefore, were I younger, female, and completely devoid of the good sense God gave a mule I would still have reservations about ingesting any concoction "100% guaranteed" to increase my bust size in a matter of weeks.
It is frightening to consider snake oil salesmen have been selling such products for generations because there is always a market, "a sucker born every minute."
More unsettling still, each one of these gullible dimwits has the vote. (Is it any wonder Schwarzenegger is considered a viable candidate?)
Like conservatives everywhere I yearn for the good old days. In this case I refer to the '50s when various cone-shaped vacuum attachments might be found for sale in the back pages of particular magazines.
Slap that sucker on and in no time at all you could be the next Mamie Van Doren. (Don't you just love names like that? Why is it today's movie stars have such lackluster names?)
Van Doren, a low-budget blond bombshell (as such women were then known) made up for an evident lack of craft with an apparently accessible body of enthusiastic proportions.
All girls wanted to look like her or MM (Marilyn Monroe) or BB (Bridget Bardot) or DD (Denise Darcel). Hence the need for the vacuum device and undergarments that would "lift and separate."
Got a rainy weekend coming up? Might I suggest a Mamie Van Doren film festival?
Start with "High School Confidential" (1958) which not only features an all-star cast but showcases Jerry Lee Lewis in his prime. You'll understand why timid white people turned to Elvis for security.
As long as I'm on the subject, do yourself an enormous favor and find Rhino Records' Web site. Once found, immediately order the Jerry Lee Lewis album "18 Original Sun (Records) Greatest Hits," which just happens to contain the rock 'n' roll classic "High School Confidential."
Now let me tell you something baby,
I'm a gonna give you some good news.
Lookie here, big mama, let's burn off both our shoes.
Well my heart's a beatin' rhythm and my soul is singin' the blues.
Then, if your blood pressure can stand turning the whole thing up a couple of notches, purchase Rhino's kickin', super atomic "Live at the Star Club, Hamburg." It features Jerry Lee from the very early '60s poundin' them ivories with a ferocity that leaves lions, rogue elephants and pit bulls cowering.
Employing his vehicle as an assault weapon, driving it like a Hemi Cuda in heat, Lewis has the face plate of his tachometer cracking under the strain, his head gasket spewing steam, the radiator exploding, and the whip antenna bent so far back from The Killer's velocity it appears a sparkling chrome comet trail.
You kids out there want to discover what rock 'n' roll's really about, get these two CDs. Mind you, do not, under any circumstances, play these discs while driving; it's much too dangerous.
But I digress.
Over the next decade Van Doren established a filmography rivaled only by that of Marlene Dietrich and Kathryn Hepburn. To name but a few: "Guns, Girls, and Gangsters" (1959), "Sex Kittens Go To College" (1960), and "Voyage to the Planet of the Prehistoric Women" (1968).
Curiously, the late '60s saw the advent of both feminism and artificial breast implants. The handwriting was on the wall for cone-shaped vacuum devices.
Is it fair to say the handwriting was also on the wall for the culture wars of the early 21st century? Ask Arnold.
R.H. Joseph is a longtime employee of the News Daily. His column appears on Wednesdays. He may be reached at (770) 478-5753, ext. 252, or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.