because when doctors compete you win, and these doctors would offer the lowest possible price for the cosmetic surgery enhancements, like you could go to Bangladesh and you could get your new breasts, or say you were like fucking one of those guys who wanted to get remade as a woman, you could fucking go and get your dick sliced off, and the doctors in Bangladesh, you could just fucking name your price. And here was another idea that Jean-Paul Koo, the graduate, was just now thinking about, and it was another whole level of brilliance, for his business idea, which was like, like what, like a fucking designer set of fucking operations, where you like could take a star, like say you could take that former teen star, what was her name, Phonita, the one who had just married into a sultanate, some Arabic sultan from Dakar or somewhere who already had thirteen wives, or fucking whatever, she still looked good, especially her ass looked fucking hot, and you could take photos of Phonita, whose ass just didn’t look like the ass of a thirty-six-year-old or however old she fucking was, and you could take this photo that was from the government-sponsored national publication known as Celebrity Surveillance Weekly and you could scan this photo and then you could take another photo of your sour poverty-stricken face in the booth at the ghost mall, or you could scan in one of your own ugly-ass photos, and then you could have the computer compare you to Phonita, and it would recommend various surgeries that you could get so that you would look indistinguishable from Phonita, like if you wanted to have her poochy fucking lips, those lips that were always pooching out like that, like the fucking computer would recommend like massive fucking shots of silicone in your fucking lips, until your lips just fucking screamed blow job, or whatever the fuck else, and then you’d have to work really hard to get that perfect Phonita ass, like when Jean-Paul had put in his own picture and one of Phonita, because even though he was a boy, and a macho fucking intravenous-drug-using boy, he kind of thought that it would be pretty hot to be fucking Phonita, and the computer, the sample software he had designed, had recommended that he would need massive skeletal shaving and bone-replacement surgeries to get his hips to look like Phonita’s hips, just so some Arabic sultan from Dakar or some bribe-happy Chinese functionary from Shanghai would want to marry him and make him a sex slave and put him up in some two-hundred-story high-rise that was eventually going to be bombed out of existence by some guy who had a second-grade fucking reading level or whatever. Anyway, that was Jean-Paul’s business idea, the Designer Self, and he had already trademarked it and was working on the patents, and even though his father was a ridiculous fucking pocket-protector-wearing fucking geek, he was pretty good on the patents and the copyright protections and all of that, because his father was, you know, like fucking advanced on the stem cell shit, and he always had legal protections and knew like fucking excellent lawyers. All Jean-Paul really wanted to do anyhow was just like sell the business to some Sino-Indian magnate from Mumbai and start another fucking excellent business and fucking retire at thirty, so he had spent a lot of time this summer, between when he was working at the salmonella factory also known as Iguana Juana’s and when he was going to see his totally fucking hot girlfriend, Vienna Roberts, on the bad side of Rio Blanco, which is to say the part of town where the signs were not in English and where the car theft problem had reached a new level of total lawlessness, between these two big-time sucks, he was working on the Designer Self, and talking about it online, like on those fucking Pump and Dump web sites, like where his fucking handle was TtlGloblaDom, he’d go on the Pump and Dump sites and he’d say, Hey, have u guys herd of this new major f’ing enterprise that’s got some major f’ing venture cap, called Designer Self, the bossest f’ing biz plan to come down the f’ing pike in a f’ing decade or more, and just looking for a partner for the IPO, or maybe more venture capital injections, and in this way he already had a ton of legitimate inquiries about his business idea, and he would be driving across town, without his fucking sunscreen, because he wasn’t the kind of fucking white person who went to any fucking paling salon, to rub in his fucking whiteness, you know, and he would be yelling into his cranially implanted data-storage assistant, Hey, listen, this is Jean-Paul fucking Koo calling, and I’m hoping that you’re going to help me fabricate the first booth for my massive business plan called the Designer Self, because I have heard that you’re one of the best industrial architects out there, and here’s what I want the booth to look like; I want it to fucking look like it’s the booth that you have to step into to get to paradise, that inviting, like it’s paradise that we’re giving away with this booth, do you know what I mean, like you can be made to look any way you want to look, like finally the inside part of you, the part that has been yearning to be set free, that beautiful part of you that’s been trapped in this body with, I don’t know, like pustules and scabs from your hemorrhagic fever and shit all over your face, you can be free of that part of you, or if you have burns over seventy-five percent of your body, say, you could get rid of those burns with new designer skin; that’s what I want the booth to look like, and I want to know if you want to be the one to get in on the ground floor of this new business plan, because I am willing and able to sell shares as we speak, and then in truth, when he was done with this call, he was practically hyperventilating, which is something Jean-Paul did, sometimes; he had these really awful panic attacks, and he didn’t fucking tell anyone about them, but he fucking told Vienna Roberts, because he told her everything, you know, because that is what a NAFTA girl is for, a NAFTA girl is for accepting you when you know that you have to seem like you believe all the time even though you don’t fucking believe anymore, mainly what you do is feel like you’re never going to get anywhere and that no one fucking believes in you so you have to do all the fucking believing yourself, and that was why he was going over to the wrong side of Rio Blanco right now, in his convertible that got only like twenty-five miles of algae-based fuel a gallon in city traffic, which was fucking embarrassing; he was going over there because Vienna Roberts was the only one who believed in him, and he didn’t fucking believe that she believed, and he didn’t fucking believe that she believed that he believed, and he didn’t fucking think it was going to last, but while it lasted, he would go over there, to Vienna Roberts’s place, and put his fucking head in her lap while she worked on her parents’ plan for a Union of Homeless Citizens that was going to be organized first here in Rio Blanco and then it was going to take over the whole of the Southwest.