The big problem with a head transplant is making the body work after the head is attached. They've been sewing animal heads on new bodies all holus-bolus since the 1970s, but the resulting frankenpoodles were all paralyzed because reattaching the spinal cord is hard as shit to do. Or it used to be. Because thanks to research by the Turin Advanced Neuromodulation Group, the problems with reattaching that spinal column have been overcome, and now we can all swap noggins!

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"I'm a donor. My finger, my butt, your nightmares."

OK, maybe it's not as simple as all of that, and the procedure hasn't been tested yet, but the science is there. The terrible, creepy science.

Say you're in an accident in some kind of industrial head separatoring machine like they use in the back of Walmart or whatever and oh shit, there goes you head. As is tradition, your body is turned to mulch and you're in a bit of a bind. Luckily, a guy across town was also in a head separatoring machine, but he went in upside down and his head is now a pudding. So you and him meet up at the hospital and a doctor puts you two crazy cats together. Now when you wake up, you have creepy new hands that you're afraid to pick your teeth with, and when you poop, it's probably not a color you're used to because those guts aren't yours. And your crotch is a whole new crotch that probably isn't pleasant to you because how can you like having new genitals? What if your new junk is bulky and weird? What if it smells funny? What if there's a mole on it? How will you ever handle having a new body?

If the new body heebie-jeebies don't get you, then taking a moment to think about tissue rejection ought to scare the shit out of your new ass. What if that body rejects your head? That's literally the most awful thing I can think of. Do you want your head going necrotic? It's your head!

Look at the title of this entry. Look at that word, that preposterous portmanteau. Portmantoe. Portly Man's Toe. Good God. Toebesity is the shameful moniker made up by someone in the cosmetic surgery racket to describe fat toes, which is apparently a thing. An honest to goodness thing.

Due to the fear of what your feet may look like in sandals and other footwear that relies heavily on foot nudity, people began going to surgeons and asking for some manner of invasive, slicey way to slim their toes down. This wasn't even a thing a surgeon dreamed up, this was a recurring request from vapid, shallow, awful humans that eventually inspired surgeons to shrug and start shaving the fat-ass toes of rich people.

The surgery can cost around $2,500, and it consists of the removal of fat and bone to make the toe smaller. There are legit medical reasons for doing this sometimes, things like hammertoe, but there's a larger market for people who just want their feet to look better and are actually, non-jokingly self-conscious about the size of their toes. A better surgery for people like this would be to have a doctor remove the excess asshole tissue that is clearly making them into giant assholes, but that may be against some kind of Hippocratic oath.

"Ryan Seacrest did this to me. For no reason."

You'll notice right away that your eyelashes are a bit of a niche product on your body. You don't really have a lot of other hairs that are similar, barring those few of us who engage in the classical art of pube topiary. And even then, you don't want pubes for eyelashes because you'd just end up looking like a disgraceful sponge with a well-worn scrubby side and pupils.

The actual procedure for lash transplantation is to remove hairs from the back of your head and sew them into your eyelids. So your new lashes are head hairs, which means they keep growing. If you let them, they'll grow about as long as the hair on your head normally grows, which is why you need to trim your new transplants once a week after getting them. Doesn't that sound fun?

I like the idea of someone growing preposterously long, limp eyelashes that look like Cher's hair in the '70s, like weird curtains for their eyes that get tangled and knotted, because that kind of thing amuses me. I also assume that your eye crud that forms every morning has the potential to get all caked and nasty in your extra-long lashes, making you look diseased and uncomfortable to be around first thing in the morning.

How do you get an assful of someone else's crap? Glad you asked. They can use a colonoscope or just give it to you with an enema. Or, if you like to live on the wild side, a tube right down your nose. I have found no evidence of any kind of ass-to-ass transfer, nor any mention of how you harvest the donor sample or if there are rules for how to determine what constitutes a good shit for a transplant. If I were a decent man, I'd end the entry here, but I'm seriously curious about the nature of shit selection in this case. Does the donor need to be on a specific diet for several days in advance? Of course I'm skirting around the issue of corn here. You know what I'm talking about. Is a certain consistency necessary? Who decides this? The mind boggles.

"Part of me will be in you. It'll be the part that fucks everything up."

Realistically, there's probably not a lot wrong with this procedure, and the mitochondrial DNA is all but insignificant to the way the child forms and its parentage. It's unlikely the resulting baby will have three different colored eyes or live between the rows of a corn field trying to kill people who run afoul of its small town, but most journalists ignored that when they first reported on the procedure, instead enamored of the idea of freak babies, because freak babies sell papers. Or they would, if anyone still bought the paper.

While the science doesn't support the creation of super mutant babies, it does support the creation of hilarious jokes about having a mother, a father, and whatever you want to call the donor party. I'd vote for mather. It can be your super cool parent who, when Mom and Dad let you down, gives you cool presents and money and lets you drink wine on holidays when no one is looking because you're barely related so who gives a shit if you grow up to be a train wreck? Good ol' mather.