Writer’s Digest 93rd Annual Competition Winning Humor Story: “Botched”
Congratulations to Matt Strempel, grand-prize winner of the 93rd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition.
Matt is the co-founder and creative director of john+john, a Sydney-based creative agency. He lives in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales with his wife, two kids, a couple of irritating mini dachshunds, a writing-companion ragdoll cat, and three chickens. Between client briefs, he can be found writing tall tales on the two-hour train ride between home and the office. He is the author of two novels, War of The Sparrows (2021) and The Derailing of Douglas Jones (2024).
Here’s his winning humor story, “Botched.”
Photo credit: Daniel Shipp
Botched
by Matt Strempel
I have always enjoyed the friendly one-upmanship of choosing anniversary gifts for my wife. Gifts significant to her while honoring the traditional symbolism of the item’s primary material. Most importantly, though, something better than what she gets me.
On our first anniversary—paper—Penny gave me an elegant writing stationery set embossed with my initials. I booked her into a traditional onsen in the Blue Mountains for a weekend-long origami retreat. For our third year, Penny presented me with a wallet made from leather so soft I worried it was from an endangered species. An insert advised the leather was sourced from feral kangaroos culled in regional New South Wales where they had reached plague proportions. So, the wallet was a gift not only for me but for the farmers of The Riverina. N0t to be outdone, I bought her an ornate black riding crop—she’d assumed it was some sort of bedroom accessory before I explained it had been braided and personalised by a boutique saddlery associated with her childhood pony club. On the off chance she wished to use it as she’d suggested, I had it Scotchgarded.
Through the metallurgic anniversaries, we accumulated an Aladdin’s cave of earrings, cufflinks, necklaces, brooches, watches, and bangles. We agreed to take a more collaborative approach to gift-giving after I narrowly avoided spending our 14th anniversary in jail trying to buy an ivory carving from an undercover customs agent.
After that, matching massage recliners with built-in cupholders for our 17th furniture anniversary. For our 24th, we mined opals in Coober Pedy—a town so hot, I expected to run into Satan. The highlight was emerging from our subterranean hotel after dark like nocturnal desert marsupials to enjoy a moonlit dinner. The next day, as we sat for three hours waiting for repairs to be completed on our plane home, we agreed we hated the place and the opals we’d found, vowing to tone back the extravagance going forward.
I had some fun with pearl necklace jokes for most of our 35th year of marriage but by the time our 38th anniversary came around, I was stumped. My internet research proved to be uninspiring.
‘Darling?’ I’d called down the hall, squinting at images of blotchy rocks that looked more like kaleidoscopic tumours than precious gems. ‘What on Earth is beryl and tourmaline?’
‘God knows,’ Pen replied, walking in with a cup of tea. ‘A law firm?’
‘Maybe they do later-in-life divorces,’ I said, pulling her to my side.
She passed the sloping mug sculpted by a renowned sight-impaired potter for our ninth anniversary and kissed the top of my head. Not so long ago, my hair was a source of pride. By 60, it was thinning at a rate that would put Amazonian loggers to shame.
She pulled away making sputtering noises. I looked up as she removed a strand of hair from her tongue.
A month later, I hadn’t come up with a worthy gift idea and was running out of time if I wanted something bespoke. I’d also sprained my ankle, standing on the golf ball I’d been searching for in the deep rough where I spent most of my Wednesday mornings. This had abruptly ended my daily ten thousand steps, and I piled on an alarming amount of weight.
We were watching season three of ‘Clarinete’—a French thriller in which a brilliant clarinetist lulls her victims into a coma-like state playing selections from Brahms’ Sonata No. 2 in E-flat major—when the titular protagonist, Chloé, began seducing her latest victim, the young but enigmatic glockenspiel player, Julienne. As they were disrobing, Penny remarked on Chloé’s fulsome bust.
Sighing audibly, she said, ‘I miss having boobs.’
I dismissed this mild but persistent self-loathing as I always did when my wife derided her appearance. ‘Women would kill to look like you,’ I said. And then, for some inexplicable reason, I added, ‘At our age’.
She crossed her arms, her mouth agape, and I knew I was in for it. ‘At our age? I’ve been mistaken for being in my forties, thanks very much. As for you,’ she said, nodding at my guts.
I looked back at the television where Chloé was removing her clarinet from its case. Julienne, tied to a chair, his pronounced abdominal muscles like a tray of hot cross buns in the flattering light of a Giacomo Castiglioni floor lamp, was in for it, too.
An ugly, covetous reflex slapped away the bag of chips perched on my stomach. The stomach that seemed to be expanding beneath my hand with every passing moment.
Once my ankle healed, I returned to my old walking routine, even extending it by thirty minutes specifically to avoid walking past La Dolce’s custard tarts. But no matter the step count, the weight wouldn’t shift. I deduced the subcutaneous fat had petrified during my hiatus. The only things getting thinner were my legs, my silhouette resembling that of a toffee apple.
Returning to my internet research, I investigated methods for stubborn fat removal. What a rabbit hole that was. After an innocuous Google search (male liposuction, side effects and stigma), my social media feeds were infested with before and after photos of shirtless men in unflattering light transformed by the latest non-invasive techniques. My son Charles explained how an algorithm worked and that my online profile was now biometrically linked to cosmetic surgery advertisements. If I wanted them removed, I would have to undergo a digital cleansing protocol similar to those undertaken by people entering witness protection. I was making arrangements to travel to the Hawkesbury River into which I would cast my laptop and phone when an article caught my eye.
Over breakfast on our 38th anniversary, I gave Penny an envelope. She smiled, eyes glassy with gratitude and seasonal allergies. When she opened the greeting card, a small business card fell out and landed in her eggs. As she flicked her breakfast off, her smile faded, transforming from pleasant curiosity to mild confusion, bewilderment, and finally settling on what I interpreted as open hostility.
‘Richard,’ she said, glowering. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘I’ve had an idea, darling,’ I replied brightly. ‘For our anniversary.’
She read from the card. ‘Doctor Arun Than, cosmetic surgeon?’
‘He’s supposed to be fantastic. Four-point-eight stars on Google. That’s from more than a thousand reviews. I attribute the point-two star reduction to a woman who gave him one star even though her written review was extremely complimentary.’
She glared at me a moment before saying, ‘You’re buying me a boob job for our anniversary?’
‘I’m buying us a boob job, darling,’ I said, reaching for her hands.
She recoiled.
‘I thought you’d be happy?’ I said, my enthusiasm waning. ‘You’re always saying, well, you know.’
Penny tightened her dressing gown around her and leaned back in her chair.
‘There’s more to it,’ I said. ‘It’s a couples’ procedure. They take fat from my stomach and redistribute it wherever we want. I’ll donate some to you, and some I’ll keep.’
Penny squinted. ‘Keep?’
‘You know I’ve always hated that I don’t have calf muscles.’
She continued to frown, but she released the grip on her dressing gown and picked up Doctor Than’s business card.
‘Flesh of my flesh, darling,’ I said.
God had created Eve from Adam’s rib and in the same way, my belly would give rise to Penny’s rejuvenated breasts.
After an infernal few minutes of asking if he could hear us yet, Penny and I had a Zoom consultation with Doctor Than who dialled in from his clinic in Sukhumvit, Thailand. We spoke at length about the procedure, and, despite the language barrier, we established a cordial rapport. We were comforted by the before and after photos on his website as well as some extras he shared privately—the patients had requested they not be included on his website due to distinct tattoos that could be used to identify them. Doctor Than intimated a spectacular pair of buttocks belonged to a retired football player of some repute.
After the call, Penny and I debriefed.
‘He did seem very capable,’ Penny admitted. ‘And the background of the Zoom looked authentic.’
‘I told you,’ I said, taking her hands. ‘So, what do you say?’
Despite the protest of Charles and our daughter-in-law, Lisa—and of the friends who shared horror stories of international cosmetic surgery disasters—our minds were made up.
‘I know you don’t like my lips, Pen,’ said Lisa, the recipient of increasing volumes of injectables. ‘But you get what you pay for and I’m terrified for you. Please see my cosmetician,’ she pleaded, straight-faced.
‘We appreciate that,’ I said, hand on Penny’s shoulder. ‘But Doctor Than’s work comes with a 100% satisfaction guarantee.’
‘What does that even mean?’ Charles demanded, tossing a glossy pamphlet back at me.
‘It means he keeps going until we’re completely satisfied,’ I replied, inserting the brochure back in the ring binder containing hard copies of my research. ‘No extra fee.’
Charles’s head was in his hands, tufts of enviously thick hair sprouting between his fingers. ‘Are your wills up to date?’
Three months later, Penny and I arrived at Bangkok airport. We took a short but harrowing cab ride to our hotel in Sukhumvit, driven by a fidgety man who spent more time looking over his shoulder to practice his English than watching the swarms of scooters mercifully parting as he careened through busy streets.
Our hotel was well-appointed, providing a satisfactory continental breakfast and fresh towels each morning folded into animals. The pool had a swim-up bar and, judging by the smell, was sufficiently chlorinated against any guest lacking the motivation to leave the water to urinate.
We nursed two days of mild jet lag with in-room massages and browsed the local markets. A purveyor of gaudy jewellery harassed me each time I passed, having made the critical mistake of glancing at gems that may have been beryl and tourmaline.
By the time we arrived at Doctor Than’s clinic, Penny was in full holiday mode; buoyant with the anticipation of a child heading into a theme park. Doctor Than shook our hands, we exchanged pleasantries, agreeing it was nice to finally meet in person after so many video calls, and it was then we were informed that Doctor Than would not be the one to oversee the surgeries. He had been called away to perform an emergency rhinoplasty on the King’s daughter. Doctor Than introduced us to another surgeon, Doctor Suraj, a much younger man who carried himself with an effeminate loveliness so wholly soothing, I wondered if he at one time worked at the Thai Village massage parlour near my old office.
His age was a concern. But, as Penny pointed out, Doctor Suraj may have been the beneficiary of the clinic’s signature facelift and was just as likely to be our age as he was to be thirteen.
We were assured Doctor Suraj was the best surgeon to oversee our procedures and that he was, in fact, preferred by those who had been treated by both doctors. This could be verified by his four-point-nine rating on Google.
Satisfied with Doctor Than’s endorsement, we signed the waivers. I’d had a number of biopsies on suspicious growths and knew that such documents were routine. One could die from the most benign of surgeries, theoretically, so we were not apprehensive about reading words like ‘Staphylococcus aureus infection’ and ‘post-procedural haemorrhaging’ and ‘death’.
Dressed in our surgical gowns, hair in blue caps, Penny and I wished each other good luck with an embrace that felt as though we were saying goodbye to our old bodies. I patted my stomach and asked if she was was going to miss my paunch. She kissed my cheek and gave me a wordless thank you with a smile that reminded me of when we’d found out Penny was pregnant with our son.
Despite the ridiculous outfit, she looked so happy. I knew with absolute certainty that this was to be the greatest of all my anniversary gifts.
‘See you in Paradise,’ I said, referring to the deluxe beach-side recuperation suite included in the package.
Upon waking, my singular awareness was of a throbbing, brilliant pain emanating from my torso. Agony so profound it seemed to extend outside the confines of my body and into the objects around me. It was likely some hallucinogenic effect from the anaesthesia, but it felt like I had a sonar array in my chest shooting out green pulses that detected any abnormality in my tissue and returned as spasms of chronic pain down my nerves and into my brain. I could see the internal trauma like a submariner scanning for enemy warships.
Delirious, I called out for Penny and asked how her tits were looking.
I panicked for a moment at her indistinct response—her voice was small and heavily accented—before realising it was a nurse. She explained in whispery broken English that Penny was already in our recovery suite and had been for some time. Sensing my concern, she reminded me I’d had two extensive procedures compared to Penny’s one relatively uncomplicated surgery. I hadn’t realised calf implants were considered major surgery, but my research had been more focused on the liposuction.
That’s when I realised the only area of my body not suffering debilitating pain was my lower legs. I credited the local anaesthetic injected into the implant sites and asked the nurse if she could give me a jab in the stomach with whatever they’d used on my calves.
The request was met with an embarrassed smile and charming utterances that I took to mean my pleas were beyond her limited English. She managed to indicate she would fetch the surgeon by gesticulating and bowing as she left the room.
The surgeon never arrived, but another nurse came. She was older, perhaps my age, with a countenance so severe I wondered if I’d offended her in my drug-induced stupor. Despite her aggressive aspect, I could understand her perfectly. She grunted in impeccable English that I would soon be in our recuperation suite once she had inspected my dressings. While the nurse reviewed my mummified torso, I wondered how long until the swelling would go down and when my true silhouette would be revealed, for, at that moment, I was very swollen from the chest down. She pressed down on a loose bandage, and I convulsed with pain before losing consciousness, my internal sonar console vaporised in a devastating technicolor explosion.
Sometime later, I was wheeled into our suite overlooking the beach and was positioned next to Penny who was sitting in a comfortable-looking wheelchair in front of a large television.
“Hello, darling,” I said. “How long have you been waiting?”
“Hours, Richard,” she said, eyes glazed as she continuously pressed the channel up button. “Days, maybe.”
I struggled to lift my head high enough to see the screen over my engorged body and longed sit upright. The TV flicked through endless local shows and the occasional program I recognised but was dubbed in Thai. ‘Clarinete’ was not available in our region. The flicking screen drove me nuts and I looked at Penny, spaced out like I hadn’t seen her since university—a time we’d set ourselves the task of smoking a metric tonne of Himalayan indica—smiling, but … off. And, I had to admit, rather flat-chested. It dawned on me that something was horribly wrong.
“Darling, where are your bandages?”
“Hmm?” she said.
“Your bandages. Around your, you know”—I pointed to my pronounced chest area. “Why am I bandaged up like King Tut and you’re just in a dressing gown?”
“I have bandages,” she said, lifting the hem of her nightie. “See?”
“Why do you have leg bandages, Penny?”
She shrugged and continued to flick through the channels.
“Darling,” I said through rising panic. “Can you come here a minute?”
“What for?”
“I want you to lift up my blanket and have a look at my legs.”
She wheeled her chair over, lifted the blanket, and we both stared at my pale, unbandaged, calfless legs.
If my stomach muscles hadn’t been incapacitated, I would have thrown up.
“You’re all better,” Penny said.
It was clear Penny was not going to provide effective counsel and that the conspicuous swelling on my chest was the breasts that had been intended for my wife.
I called the surgery and was transferred to the post-operative liaison office where a prerecorded message advised my wait time was approximately 90 minutes. I hung up and called the hotel concierge asking them to hand-deliver an urgent message to Doctor Suraj advising we were not 100% satisfied with our surgeries.
When the phone rang, it was Doctor Than. He assured me everything would be fine and would personally correct the surgery once we had healed.
“Healed?” I said, remembering the glossy brochure in my ring binder. “Isn’t that supposed to be twelve to fourteen weeks?”
The Doctor confirmed this cheerfully and transferred me to the receptionist to schedule a correction.
There were other calls to be made—namely to my son—but the thought of hearing Lisa yelling I told you so! from the background was too much to bear. I called my travel agent who explained that my travel insurance would cover neither the cost of a twelve-week stay nor the return flights to Thailand for corrective surgery.
When Penny was compos mentis, she reminded me she had insisted I check the insurance would cover such a calamity, and that I had assured her I had done so, which I hadn’t.
We had a row unlike anything from our entire marriage. Worse than when I’d accused her of an affair (a paternity test proved Charles is my son despite an uncanny resemblance to our gardener). It was as if Doctor Suraj putting my stomach on her legs, and her boobs on my chest had been my fault.
Incredulous, Penny called the surgery again, remaining on hold a full hour-and-a-half to berate the poor woman at reception who, thankfully, spoke fluent English. Penny put the phone on speaker for my benefit but the whole exchange, and the effects of coming off the medication, made me nauseous.
“How in the hell does something like this happen?” Penny wailed.
“Ma’am, you must understand we perform a wide variety of cosmetic procedures. You would be amazed at what people have asked us to do to their bodies. It is clear that your charts were mixed up—”
“Mixed up?” Penny interrupted. “How do you mix up the names Penny and Richard? Do you have a lot of Richards getting C-cup breasts here?”
“There is no judgment at the clinic, ma’am. A man having breast implants is one of our most popular procedures. But please, it is no problem.”
“No problem for you, maybe. For me, having a husband with better tits than me is going to be a very serious problem.” Penny’s voice cracked, and she turned away.
Sometime later—I must have lapsed in and out of consciousness—Penny hung up and we were left to convalesce in the suite for the next week. We stayed in separate rooms.
As compensation for the mix-up, they threw in an additional week, during which the pain and swelling subsided and we became more accustomed to our modifications. So much so that Penny, once seeing her sculpted calves, decided she’d like to keep them.
Despite knowing her shapely stems were a product of my poor diet and lack of exercise, I caught myself admiring them. Ogling them even.
I wore a loose-fitting caftan from the market on the flight home. Penny wore three-quarter-length tights.
Back in Australia, in the privacy of our ensuite, I unwrapped my bandages. There was still bruising, mottled purples and pinks reminiscent of stage-three decomposition, but we’d been warned about that so I wasn’t overly alarmed. What did get my eyebrows and heart rate elevated, was the most magnificent pair of breasts I’d ever seen.
I turned to see my profile and admired the satisfying hang of them, sitting above the void where my belly had been. I felt the weight of them. Still very tender—my god they ached—and I remembered how Penny had slapped my hands away when she’d been pregnant and absurdly voluptuous.
Holding my breasts, cupping them in my hands, I was overcome by a sense of maternal love toward the world. That the starving children and animals of the planet could suckle at my ample bosom, that I could sustain them. I closed my eyes and allowed the warmth radiating from my breasts to wash over me.
Is this what it feels like to be a mother? I wondered, sympathising—empathising—with Penny’s desire to have had a second child. The child I’d never agreed to. Perhaps we could adopt, and I would be the one to nurse this time?
As I stood there, eyes closed, cradling myself, swooning, Penny walked in and gasped.
“I was—I was checking for lumps,” I said, covering up.
Penny smirked. Then she smiled, stifling a laugh with her fist.
“It’s all very well for you,” I said, burning with shame. “You’ve come away with those beautiful calves and I have these … these—”
“They really are quite spectacular,” Penny said recovering. “May I?”
Shyly, I presented my chest to her, and she took it all in. She looked like a teenage boy who’d walked into the adult movie section of a video store. She reached out and delicately felt the heft of them. She looked into my eyes for permission, which I granted with a gentle nod.
Like testing a mango, she gave my boobs a gentle squeeze. I winced and she released them.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said, pulling my bathrobe around me. “I think I owe you a few gropes from when you were breastfeeding.”
“I would have murdered you if I hadn’t needed you to pay the mortgage.”
We shared a melancholy smile, a memory passing between us, our newborn son, no sleep, and barely making ends meet while my finance brokerage got off the ground.
Then Penny became sullen. I was about to ask what was wrong, but it was all too apparent. She was jealous of my rack.
“It’s okay, darling,” I said, caressing her back. “If this is what they can do to a fat old bloke like me, imagine what they can do for you.”
We booked the first available appointment for the surgical corrections, but we had to postpone at the last minute when my elderly mother fell ill. She recovered as well as 85-year-olds recover but we missed our spot with Doctor Than and had to wait another two months, by which time flights to Thailand had been cancelled due to nearby volcanic activity.
And so here I sit, almost a year later, having attended a wedding, three funerals, and countless client meetings still waiting for our corrective procedures. Though with every day that passes, the urgency to have my boobs transplanted onto my wife diminishes. We’ve become accustomed to the elephantiasis in the room.
My father-in-law always said the difference between a bad haircut and a good one is two weeks. I’d say the difference between a good plastic surgery and a botched one depends largely on the surgeon and the recipient of the breasts.
We’ll get back to the surgeon eventually but, until then, we’ll continue to do our research and self-analysis. I’ve identified the areas on my body I’d like to have the fat at Doctor Than’s cold storage redistributed into more aesthetically pleasing positions.
Penny and I have also agreed it would be best to have our operations on separate days. While I have managed to get through the trauma of being perved on by every bloke I see, God knows how Penny would deal with waking up to be the recipient of my penile enlargement. With her name, it’s not worth the risk.