A secret government agency stole my body. I am not sure when this happened, but this morning I had looked in the mirror and a stranger’s body was attached to my head. How could this have happened without me knowing? They must have used a ray gun or memory wand to wipe out any recollection of the operation that they did.
You think I am talking complete rubbish, don’t you? I have proof. You can see the lines on my neck where the surgical laser decapitated my head. Look real closely. Oh, you can see them from there? Good, now you know that I am telling the truth. They must have removed my head in layers because there are several of those lines.
Let me show you my clothes. You will believe me then. I open my closet. Oh my, these guys are really clever. They have cleaned out my closet and put someone else’s clothes in there. That’s the way they work you know? Try and make you think that you are losing your mind. I am a sane and rational person: I would have remembered buying these tents. I check the labels. Size sixteen?!
There is not a chance. I search frantically for my real clothes. Ah, wait a minute, there’s something. Crumpled up in the corner of my closet is a pair of my real jeans. Perhaps I put them there by accident when tidying up last week. I wonder why they look so dusty, as if they have been there for years. Fortunately the men from the agency missed them when they emptied my cupboard. Size ten – definitely my jeans.
I slide a foot in. It requires a pair of scissors to take it out again. You see! This is not my body. My real body used to slide into those jeans like a second skin and the zip would close without me having to give up breathing for life. It’s a conspiracy!
Staring at this stranger’s body, I resolve to find out everything I can about this agency. I will track the culprits down. When I find them, I will organise a rally. Together with all the other ladies that have had their bodies surgically replaced without their permission, we will picket outside their head office. We will string up our Triple XL granny panties on poles and flap them in their faces. Of course with so many hefties protesting, I hope for their sake that the pavement is reinforced steel. Serves them right if it is not. I must just remind my fellow victims to have those flags freshly laundered.
On second thoughts – maybe not.
I am going to torture them until they give me the name of the wench whose body they gave me. I can just see her out there, strutting around in that svelte slinky body that belongs to me. The sheer nerve of it. She is going to get all her body parts back – bovine bosom, flabby stomach and bowling-ball bottom – that are determined to make an intimate acquaintance with my feet. She had better return my clothes too.
After agonising minutes of research and sleuthing I have finally discovered the name of the secret agency that stole my body. I waddle to the address that I have managed to track down at great personal risk to myself. The bare-faced arrogance and brazenness of it. They are not even ashamed. A bold, neon flashing sign at the entrance – declaring – for all to see:
This article was originally written in 2007.
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