Dear Dategirl,

I just started seeing a woman whom I like a lot. On our second date (last night) she told me that she’s going in for breast augmentation surgery in two weeks. She’s getting implants! I think she looks great just the way she is now. I am kind of grossed out that she’s going to have huge fake breasts in a couple of weeks. I don’t think I can continue to be with her if she does that. Should I tell her how I feel?

Bothered by Big Fake Breasts

Dear BBBFB,

Funny you should ask, as I’m currently visiting the plastic surgery capital of the universe—Los Angeles. As I pondered your question—poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel—I noticed several lovely ladies sporting suspiciously globe-like mammaries on their otherwise slender frames.

I walked over to one gal—a Pam Anderson look-alike wearing the most immodest one-piece I’ve ever seen—to ask her if anyone had ever complained about her impressive boob job.

“These are all Tiffani,” she snarled, cupping what must’ve been about a gallon and a half of saline in one whimsically manicured hand.

“Who’s Tiffani?” I asked, thinking that perhaps it was a brand name I was not aware of.

“I’m fucking Tiffani, lard-ass! Now get the hell out of here—you’re blocking my sun!”

I figured she’d take even less kindly to my next question— I was going to ask if I could give them a squeeze to see how they compared to the natural version (I’ve always been curious!). Duly chastised, I scurried back to my cabana to await the imminent arrival of Nils, my personal cabana boy. Sipping my Campari and soda, I reflected on all that has happened since my touchdown at LAX. . . .

I guess it has been a bit of a mixed bag. Dinner with Benicio at the Ivy was swell until he got all handsy on my ass. Benny! I’m not that kind of girl. He forced me to punish both of us by not fucking his brains out.

Shopping with Tori was completely awesome, though—despite all her wealth, that minx can spot a bargain at 50 paces! And because she’s a size zero and I’m a size, well, not-zero, there was no fighting!

Tuesday night poker with Beck and Winona would’ve been fun if only that winsome little pixie would’ve shut her yap and actually dealt the damned cards. Katherine and Michael wanted me to come over for a pool party yesterday, but the thought of seeing Mr. Douglas in a Speedo skeeved me, so I gave it a pass. I settled for a light dinner at Spago and called it a night. Which brings us up to date. . . .

Because Tiffani had been less than forthcoming with any insight, I asked Cabana Boy Nils how he felt about breast implants. He looked up from massaging my left foot and smiled winningly. “That depends on how you feel about them, Miss Judy.”

Lordy, I do adore me an agreeable man! I leaped up, whipped the cabana curtains shut, and proceeded to give Nils a taste of Dategirl lovin’ he won’t soon forget. Watching the young Swede stumble out into the daylight, I had an epiphany. Your letter was dated three weeks ago, so the deed’s been done and you’ve already figured out your answer without my guidance. But I’ll tell you what I think anyway. If this broad were going under the knife for medical reasons or even getting an ill-advised tattoo, I’d tell you that what a woman does with her body is none of your business. I’d tell you to keep that pie-hole of yours clamped shut and just concentrate on being the most supportive boy you can be. But she’s getting plastic bags filled with fluid jammed up inside her. Sometimes they even remove the nipple and sew it back on when they’re through! Ewwww! The end result will be big, flesh-covered sacks of liquid that stand up while she’s lying down. Men will no longer notice her eyes—they’ll be too busy staring at her store-bought boobies.

So probably you should say something. But be tactful. I’ve had several boyfriends whose “helpful” critiques only ended up pissing me off.

What not to say: “The thought of nailing a dame with fake knockers makes me wanna yack.”

Instead, say this: “You are so fucking beautiful, I cannot fathom why you would want to change a single thing about yourself.”

Get the picture? Do not try to be all sneakypouch about it—no offense, but men suck at manipulation. Pulling out the nude Kate Moss picture and informing her that you think her undernourished little titties are the epitome of hot will not convince her to cancel her surgery in order to remain your flat-chested bitch—it’ll just lead her to believe you have pedophiliac tendencies.

A taste of Dategirl lovin’! Write dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.