All You Need is Funbags
A young woman, a gymnast, arrives at the WXRK studio in New York where Stern does his radio show in full view of the cameras of E!. She wants Howard to buy her a pair of breast implants because her natural breasts are so small.
If you're not a regular watcher or listener of Stern's show this might seem odd to you. But it isn't; Howard regularly has women perform tricks, or tell sob stories, or otherwise grovel before him in the hopes that he will have pity on them and buy them breast implants. This is all part of Howard Stern's long-range statistical study on what, exactly to the cent, everyone's price is.
In the studio with the gymnast, Howard goes though his usual schtick: "You're cute, you're really cute, lemme see your breasts." As always happens on Howard's show -- because his universe is more entertaining than yours or mine -- the young woman complies.
But here something strange happens. Howard tells her, "You know, you don't need implants." This is akin to Pope John Paul II telling you, "Maybe you should consider an abortion."
"I'm tired of looking like a boy," she replies, apparently unaware of the precedent-shattering nature of Stern's previous sentence. (The stock market is still reeling.)
But Howard goes on. She has a great body, he says, and indeed she does -- she's a gymnast, after all, all muscular curves. She has a beautiful face. She is, in short, an incredibly beautiful woman; or, in Howard's vocabulary, a hot chick. Her breasts, which are an A cup, fit perfectly with her athletic physique.
Howard calls in his big guns, the guys in his entourage. Ralph and Gary and Stuttering John. And they are all stunned by this woman.
Now, these are guys who have seen models, actresses, porn stars, strippers, hookers -- all manner of women whose job it is to be beautiful or sexy in one way or another. Frequently these women are naked. And these guys -- Ralph especially -- are inordinately cruel to these women. They pick on their every defect. Every fold, every wrinkle, every sag, line, mark, zit, frizz, stubble, or deposit of fat is fodder for their incredibly nasty comments. Women who have thought themselves to be the most gorgeous woman on Earth have come away in tears from a session with these guys and Ralph's laser pointer. He uses a laser pointer, for God's sake!
But the guys are all bowled over by her. They all agree, the gymnast does not need implants. She is, in fact, a hot chick, even unmodified.
And yet she persists. She wants bigger breasts.
So Howard Stern, in order for her to earn the gift of bigger breasts, comes up with something for her to do, something in theory humiliating, like walking around New York City with tampons taped to her forehead. (If Howard thinks this is humiliation, he should live my life for a while.)
She does this. Howard has pity on her and calls her back to the studio after only a short stroll. Then he has her play "Who Wants to Be a Turkish Millionaire?", where he asks her three questions and, if she answers them correctly, she gets the implants, even though Howard feels she doesn't need them. Her lifeline: If she can't answer a question, she can just take off all her clothes, and it will be as if she answered the question correctly.
The first question is "What does KKK stand for?" "Ku Klux Klan," she answers.
(These questions might seem easy, but considering that the average Stern guest makes a paper bag of wet mice look like Mycroft Holmes, they are actually quite difficult.)
The second question is "What is the freezing point of water?" Without hesitation she replies, "32 degrees. Fahrenheit."
She is one question away from her free implants. And suddenly, Gary, Stern's producer, jumps in.
Again, I should point out that, as Howard Stern's producer, Gary has seen more women naked than anyone but Stern himself and Hugh Hefner. There are veteran gynecologists who have seen fewer vulvas than Gary.
And Gary jumps in with the question, "What year was the Magna Carta signed?"
I consider myself of above-average intelligence with above-average fact retention. I play along at home with Jeopardy! and holler epithets at the idiots playing the game. I am smart. And even I have no idea when the Magna Carta was signed. 1213? 1640? Last week? No clue.1 It's clear, then, that although this girl is the Stephen Hawking of Stern guests, she is going to have to get naked on this one. And she does. And she is, in a word, glorious.
She is so beautiful Howard Stern -- Howard Stern! -- is banging his head against his microphone. She is so beautiful Gary had to see her naked, Gary who can see hundreds of naked women just by stepping out of his office.
This is validation. This is validation with a capital V. You cannot ask for more than this. For these troglodytes, these deviants, these drooling hunchbacked connoisseurs of the female form to find you so attractive, when they have torn down and rejected and stamped "Grade ZZZ" on the cellulite-addled asses of the self-selected members of the Most Beautiful herd -- this is as rock-solid proof as anyone could ever hope to find that you are, in fact, and in no uncertain terms, one Incredibly Hot Mama.
And yet, and yet, and yet -- and yet she still wants bigger breasts.
I cannot imagine what trauma occurred in this woman's life to cause her to think this way. I cannot dream of what twisted thing must have happened to her in her youth to make her feel thus. I cannot believe she really thinks she needs implants. What man used her so cruelly? What boyfriend's offhand remark did this? What guy's telltale glance? What locker-room taunting?
I do not know. I cannot fathom this. I can only say that a society which would cause a woman to feel this way is diseased. There is something terribly, terribly wrong here.
And for once, it's not Howard Stern's fault.
1. Turns out it was 1215. My first guess of 1213 was not far off after all. I'm a farking genius!
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