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("At 50, everyone has the face he deserves."--George Orwell)
Hello, DMV? I'd like to become a face donor.
A face donor?
Yes. I'm already a willing organ donor--says so right on my driver's license. Now I'd like to face up to my responsibility to donate my countenance to someone in need after I'm through with it.
Hmmm. Sir, I think you'd better come to our office so we can meet face to face.
What are you talking about? You worried that my kisser isn't handsome enough? What about pretty boy James Dean after his fatal car crash? You'd have had his face off in the time it takes for a facial tic, wouldn't you? And if glamour puss Marilyn Monroe had called you just before her untimely death? You'd have give Norma Jean a face-lift and had it in the freezer in a nano-second, Bobby Kennedy or no Bobby Kennedy--am I right?
Sir, you need to face the music. Face transplants are market driven. The economic facet of supply and demand dictates that we enroll the pulchritudinous as donors. Besides, there's the very real possibility of transplant rejection. Either the body or the mind of the person whose facade you become may refuse to accept you. Be honest, now. Can you look yourself in the mirror? Do you shave in the shower to avoid seeing yourself? I'm guessing that you've been rebuffed on the basis of your appearance before. You've had some problems using match-making websites, isn't that so, Sir? Hey, no big deal--we've all been there.
Don't try your face-saving ploys on me, Buster. Spare me the condescension. You're guilty of vocal profiling. You think you can tell by the sound of my voice that, no matter how bold a face I put on things, I'm a disempowered senior citizen, wrinkled and ravaged by bone recession. This is prima facie evidence of age and looks discrimination.
Whoa, Sir, please. You're pretty cheekily playing the face card now yourself.
You bet I am. You've set your face against me. You don't care if you insult me and cause me to lose face. Don't mess with me now, or I will come over there and I'll get right in your face, you two-faced hypocrite. You'd take my heart, my liver, my kidneys, but you'd never take my face, would you? Twice a day I clean my mug with facial soap and lotion, dry it with a facial towel, then apply face powder. I always sleep in a face mask, not face down but at a proper face angle. It's a rich character face, a well-cared-for face, maybe just not your normal type face (maybe something like webdings instead of Times Roman, maybe something like Lon Chaney instead of Paul Newman). Despite my age, if you faced me, I could beat you one-on-one in basketball, Mister. Even with my plantar fasciitis, I'd face you up in the post and serve up a facial you wouldn't soon forget. I'd posterize you.
Sir, I played college ball and I'd kick your--but that's irrelevant. We're not going to be playing one-on-one, and you're not going to be going off in my face.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, I hereby give up on the idea of being aprosopic. I have to admit that you're actually right. I've broken more than a few cameras in my day. Vis a vis a transplant, I wouldn't accept my face, either. I was just being facetious. Sometimes us old guys yearn for someone to talk to. By the way, just between you and me, which would you recommend to spare mourners a last look at my snoot--cremation or a simple closed casket?
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