I wonder if Elena Cara was the least bit nervous when she walked into the back room of a floor tile shop in Las Vegas for her cosmetic surgery. Didn’t the lack of a receptionist and year old magazines provide a clue that this may not be the place to have her butt made bigger? Didn’t the pallet of ceramic tile and the bucket of thin-set seem out of place?
Sadly, Elena would die later at a hospital due to the botched (obviously) buttocks enhancement operation performed by two Columbians who were later arrested at McCarran Airport. To state that they were not doctors would seem antithetical.
I know nothing of Ms. Cara, and I’m sure in many ways she was a lovely woman (albeit with a self-diagnosed flat-ass). But given the chance, I would have to ask, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Come to think of it, my first question wouldn’t be to ask what she was thinking, it would be, “How did you even find out about this place?” I can’t figure out how to download a ring tone to my phone but Elena managed to track down two Columbian nationals performing black market surgery in the back of a store.
It takes a uniquely savage personality to get through all the mental hurdles required to stroll into a tile shop to have your ass operated on. Hell, I get nervous slipping into the blood pressure cuff at the gym.
If there is a moral to all this, I think it would be – never enter a situation that can be the opening line of a joke. “A woman walks into the back room of a tile store where two Columbians wait near a card table…”
(I recognize that this may not really be that funny. Afterall, a woman is dead - and that is tragic. I'm just mystified by the human condition.)