On the road this morning, I saw a sign: Botox Party this Weekend.”

Hmm. Botox PARTY??? No.

A gathering during which someone would take a long needle and inject a substance into my face would, in no way, shape or form, constitute a “party” in my world.

No, a party, to me, means a gathering of friends. Not a group of strangers there because they saw a sign alongside the Dale Mabry Highway.

At parties I go to, we would sit around laughing and sipping cocktails. Or maybe in the old days, sharing the bong. Not cringing as we watched sharp needles break the skin of other partiers.

We would emerge with our ability to smile intact. Not with frozen jaws and one remaining expression: no expression at all.

And who exactly would be giving those injections? And how were they trained? And how do we know it isn’t bootleg botox from China, and we’d all be dead by morning?

I’d like to edit that sign as follows:

“Botox Party this Weekend: Enter at your own risk!“

If I were going to let anyone shoot drugs into my face, it would be a board-certified physician with a great reputation, whose work I’ve seen and who wears a white coat and latex gloves. The procedure would take place in his or her office, located near a Level 1 Emergency Room. A crash cart would be nearby.

I’m not exaggerating: I’m a doctor’s kid. I make plastic surgeons remove facial beauty marks.

The concept of a botox party is very 21st century.

Just like the banking crisis, the overall financial meltdown and the real estate crash.

Off to the islands, where these things don’t enter my consciousness. Soon.