Ms. Taylor? Wake up, Ms. Taylor.
Who said that? Andy? Opie? Oh, good heavens -- where am I?
In a hospital, Ms. Taylor. In the year 2011. You've been cryogenically frozen for the last half-century, but there's a defect in your preservation tank. We thought it best to thaw you out.
Like one of those TV dinners, you mean? Sakes alive! Well, thank you, gentlemen. And please, call me Aunt Bee.
Certainly. And no thanks necessary, Aunt Bee. We're just glad you made it, and in perfect health. Or at least healthy enough for a woman your age. Who lived a half-century ago, that is.
Say, fellas, what's that supposed to mean?
How do we put this, Aunt Bee? You make a respectable 50-ish woman, circa 1960. But in 2011 . . . ahem . . . taking together your skin tone, your muscle tone, your weight, your hair . . .
Oh, now, quit your hemming and hawing!
. . . you translate into roughly ninety-eight years old.
Ninety-eight! Why, you're as crazy as a Bessie bug!
Believe it, Aunt Bee. But don't fret. Thanks to 21st-Century Know-How, you have the tools to look like a 45-year-old who's desperately trying to look 30!
You don't say!
We do say. Let's start with those saggy, oversized breasts of yours. Nothing a set of surgically-implanted silicone baggies can't fix.
Hold it right there, mister. No one's going to stick a Glad bag in my bosoms!
Can't be helped, Aunt Bee. Your floaters don't float. They droop like 30 pounds of wet pizza dough.
But can't I just borrow a set of falsies from my friend Clara? She only wears them when she needs an extra "oomph", like at the church bake sale. Helps to sell pound cake, Clara says. Or how 'bout I stuff my brassiere with a pair of Opie's socks?
Insufficient leverage. See, it's not enough that your nipples are above your navel. They need to be upright, Bee. The boobage needs to be tight, shiny and wrinkle-free. Ideally, you should look like you have a child's buttocks stapled to your chest.
Moving on: let's talk about those extra pounds. You're fat, Aunt Bee. As in grossly, horrifically overweight.
Well, I suppose I do over-do it on the fried chicken. And I've always had a weakness for butterscotch pecan pie. But flibbertigibbet! Can't a gal treat herself once in awhile?
No, a gal cannot. Your deep-fried, carmelized days are over, Bee. From now on, it's shredded Romaine hearts, doused in vinegar. You want to go nuts? Add an egg white. You need to get moving, too. We haven't seen calves like yours since Water for Elephants. Start jogging. Kick-boxing. Aerobic-aquatic-pole-dancing. And weight training, for those bat-wings you call arms! How much heavy lifting do you do?
Heavy lifting? I leave that for Andy!
Not any more, you don't. You need to build up those biceps to a nice, gender-ambiguous size. Muscular, but not threatening -- like Jared Leto in Fight Club. And don't worry about any stubborn flab you can't lose. We'll just suck that right up with lipo.
You're -- you're going to take a Hoover to me? Butter my biscuit!
Lipo's only the beginning, Bee. Wait till we start sand-blasting your face. Right now, you look like a Bassett Hound bitch on her last litter. But a little Botox, a little filler, and good-bye, droopy eyes! You'll look like a lobotomized crack-whore when you smile, but not a line in sight! As for that jawline of yours -- yeesh. That's a problem. We've seen walruses with tighter jowls. Maybe a partial facelift?
Oh, tie me to a pig and roll me in the mud! I've just about had it with you boys! It's all lift-this and firm-that with you! Well, I've managed quite nicely for the last fifty-odd years with just a Maidenform girdle and a jar of Vaseline for my face. Besides: I'm an old woman! Why in the good Lord's name do I have to look young?
I've got one word for you, Bee: Viagra.
What's that, you say? Niagra?
A pill, Bee. A beautiful, magical pill sent by God to mankind. See, there was a time when a man reached a certain age, and his machinery . . . slowed. There was no bone in the pork, if you will. But thanks to Viagra, a guy can dippity-do-da till he drops dead! His lungs may be hooked to a respirator, his heart wired to a pacemaker, his sorry old ass shoved in a wheelchair -- but so what?! Mr. Zippy still zips! And isn't that really what it's all about?
A pill that puts the pepper in the pickle?! And all so that men can keep churning butter? Opie, cover your ears!
So you see, Bee, it's important women your age stay as attractive as possible. Because God knows, a 72 year old bald guy with ear warts and hemmorhoids is going to be hard-pressed to score a younger woman, unless she's blind. Or deranged. Or Lindsay Lohan. So come on, Bee -- let's make you HAWT! Let's get you looking sex-ay, sex-ay, SEX-AY! . . . which brings us to your bikini area . . .
Andy? Barney? Anyone?!! Help me, please!!!
It's a disaster, Bee. Let's just say Chewbacca was better groomed. But with just one Brazilian wax --
You want to pour beeswax on the begonias???
Where's she running? Dammit, straight for the cryogenic chamber! Stop, Aunt Bee! Come back!!! . . . Too late. She pressed the Reset button. And we hadn't even talked vaginoplasty yet. Ah, well. Better luck next time. Let's go thaw out Ethel Mertz.