Full body transplant & why I'd want body of a black female

(630 words)

A 62-year-old former gas company worker in Harbin, China, has volunteered for a daring new procedure to remedy the cruel quadriplegia he suffered in a wrestling accident.

He wants an entirely new body for his fully-functional head.

This is just a guess, but I’ll bet he wants wants one that can kick the ass of the opponent who injured him.

The N.Y. Times said Chinese doctors are going to attempt a full body transplant for Mr. Wang Huanming. It would involve removing the head of a suitable cadaver and stitching the Huanming noggin up top. The story was about 2,000 droning words on procedure, science and ethics.

I was disappointed there wasn’t a single mention of donor selection process.

What kind of body does Huanming get?

I understand if you go in for a rhinoplasty you get to pick your nose — and I mean that in the purely cosmetic sense.

Breast implants, too. Certainly, the patient has a say in the size, shape and heft of the new hooters.

But what’s the protocol when you get a whole new body?

Is there a body catalogue? A necrophelia-friendly website? Or do they wheel Huanming through the Harbin morgue and pull the drawers open one after another until he finds one that looks just right?

He gets a brand new body.

Man, if it were me I’d snag something female.

See, I’ve always since adolescence dreamed of having instant access to a woman’s body. Oh, the youthful nights I went to bed dreaming I had a woman’s body in bed with me. 

I just never dreamed medical science would one day make it possible the woman’s body I dreamed of possessing could be just below my neck.

Understand, mine wouldn’t be a sex change operation. My head would still be hetero.

In fact, with a woman’s body at my/her fingertips I’d become hyper-hetero.

Something from Victoria’s Secret would be nice, sure, but I wouldn’t be picky.

Ideally, I’d like a body with abnormally long arms so I could I could always scratch those hard-to-reach places.

And I’d want something short, about 5 feet or so. Any taller you’re always going to be hitting your head on open kitchen cabinets. Perspective adjustment will be a real bitch so you wouldn’t want someone who excelled at basketball. 

Plus, a small body would make flying commercial feel roomier.

I think, too, for purposes of race relations I’d like the body of a black woman.

My white head walking down the street atop a black woman’s body would send a message that the races can co-exist. 

Of course, my daring idea might cause stress on my marriage. Val would justifiably fear I was cheating on her even on nights when she knew I was home all alone.

And she might get jealous, accurately pointing out I was spending more time with my new body than I did with my bride.

But I’m sure the three of us would eventually learn to get along, and if I got one that was roughly shaped like Val we could cut our wardrobe expenses in half.

Sure, I’d miss things like writing my name in the snow and some of the other sporty recreations that go along with having a penis, but I still think having some strange woman’s body would lead to all sorts of fun.

I think it would make up for all those lonely years when the women I was chasing wanted nothing to do with me.

The article said the greatest risk would be the potentially fatal consequence of common transplant rejection.

That wouldn’t be a problem with me.

Female bodies have been rejecting me since I was 15.

Related …

A stiff tribute to moms and cadavers

When breast implants are booby prizes

Getting honked off about Egyptian nose jobs

Handing it to arm transplants

Breast facts by the book

When breast implants are booby prizes

I pay no attention to either of the $4,000 boobs as they sashay into the bar, nor to the girl to whom they’ve been surgically attached.

As I’ve said before, I am not a boob man. I am an ass man.

And I drink in a bar with about a dozen other asses just like me.

But lots of the Regular Joes notice them, including one of the Regular Joes who’s sitting to my right and is conveniently named Joe.

“Oh, here she comes,” he says contemptuously. “Do you know he paid $8,000 to get her those breast implants? Can you believe it?”

No, I can’t believe it. It seems excessive, like ordering a new car with bigger, brighter headlights when the ones that come installed from the factory are sufficient in illuminating any darkened road.

And I’m confused by the etiquette of the gesture. How does that offer arise? Did he say he wouldn’t have anything to do with her unless she bumped up two or three cups?

I’d be hurt if my wife said I was deficient in a physical area and that she’d spend $8,000 to extend the length of my, say, nose.

The girl seems perfectly pleasant. I don’t know what would have been wrong with her old breasts. I doubt they were square or made funny corduroy noises when she was walking around bra-less.

In fact, the old breasts that the 50-something guy was concerned about probably weren’t even on this 30-something girl. They were probably on some ex-wife.

That’s fairly common. Many middle-aged men leave perfectly good wives for younger women who are bound to cause the same consternations that come with any matrimonial binding of the sexes.

I don’t see that happening to me. I love my wife and, besides, I wouldn’t want to have to go through explaining things like Bob Dylan to someone all over again.

But there’s no denying we live in a breast-obsessed society.

In truth, I’m always more interested in the guy who bought the breasts than the girl who’s accessorizing with them.

I have a lot of questions I’d like to ask him.

I’d like to know how you wrap breast implants that you intend to give as a gift. Do you put them both in the same box? Really, a box with one implant would likely spoil the surprise as to what’s in the second box, wouldn’t it?

And do you go in the operating room with the recipient during the installation? It would be like the reverse of being in the delivery room when your gal delivered twins.

But my observations lead me to believe he’s a tremendous jerk and I already have my quota of them in my life.

See, I’ve been a convivial person my whole life and I’ve always gone to all the places the other convivial people go. I’d never seen this guy before and now he and the $8,000 breasts are everywhere.

That would be fine, but he’s causing trouble in places where I seek sudsy serenity.

First I saw him being rude to a waitress at one local tavern. Already overwhelmed with customers, he summoned her by calling her name -- “Cara!” -- raising his glass and rattling the ice the way pet owners rattle keys to summon dawdling dogs.

To me, right there, that’s a hell-worthy sin -- and hell’s going to be mighty crowded if I ever get to decide who belongs there. She’s a professional. She’ll get there.

Then he went beyond the pale by coming into my home bar and stirring up trouble on a recent Friday afternoon. And it was all over a bar stool.

The breasts sat down in one where one guy’s wife had been sitting. A joke was made (it wasn’t even funny), then all of a sudden my Happy Hour turned into a wildlife special.

The breast buyer rose up like a fighting rooster -- cock, if you will -- and said the remark was an affront to his fair damsel.

The men had to be separated. It was all incredibly immature -- and that’s coming from a guy who sometimes wears big Wookie pajamas to work.

I kind of feel sorry for the girl, because now it looks like he owns more of her than just her $8,000 breasts.

All I can surmise is that they must have been having some kind of boob special the day she got hers.

He paid for two big ones and she wound up stuck with three.