Have you ever pulled out the old family photo album, looked at yourself through the years, and sat gazing at your lost youth? We all look back and shout, “Shit, if only I had laid off those Toaster Strudels,” or “You know, those ten years being a blackout drunk weren’t called for.” Time inevitably will take what we are given by nature, run it over with an ’84 El Camino, and flip you off as it drives away. We are not all blessed to look like the Gyllenhaals and the Albas that grace today’s paparazzi smut-rags.
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Some of us see that as an opportunity to make drastic changes. A few lifts here and there, maybe plump up those choice hot spots. But no one else in the history of the mammal kingdom has someone undertaken as gruesome and godless a task of self-mutilation than Michael Jackson. Yes, we can all agree that he’s a brutish, abominable freak on par with a Phillip K. Dick monster. But take a gander at the non-enhanced Michael the folks at plasticized.com have dug up for us. I think a fellow looking just like this told me he would watch my car for me outside of Numbers one night. No doubt there’s a painting of this very same visage in some dank storage space next to a stack of Jesus Juice-soiled coloring books and the mummified remains of Bubbles. – Craig Hlavaty