Dear Dr. Frank Ryan,
You are probably reading this blog from the afterlife which means there is Wifi in the afterlife. That is excellent news as it means there are also blogs in the afterlife. Who needs an afterlife if you can’t read Go Fug Yourself there?
But you, sir, are in the afterlife for probably the stupidest reason ever. You drove off a cliff. Because you were distratced behind the wheel. Because you were Tweeting. Pictures of your dog. Your dog who, I might add, survivied the accident.
I guess they didn’t offer a class in medical school that taught you not to Tweet and drive. And you went to my alma mater, the Ohio State University, for medical school so it’s not like you were at a shoddy institution! (I do take objection to your undergrad alma mater. Michigan? Really? Blech.) Maybe the administration at Ohio State’s medical school thought that not driving with a phone in front of your face was pretty darn obvious and didn’t feel the need to impress that information on people smart enough to get into medical school. Or maybe that outsourced that particular part of the curriculum to Oprah. Whatever the case, you missed the memo and now you’re an object lesson to everyone who has ever wanted to Tweet “OMG! This traffic blows!” right before being rear-ended by a semi.
Your death is a bit sad because you had friends and a family who loved you and probably wish you hadn’t died and if you did have to die young, that it would have been more dignified that Death by Tweeting. You also had a camp for inner city kids called the Bony Pony Ranch that is doing some good programs for at-risk youth and I really applaud that. I hope the Bony Pony continues on as a legacy of who you were.
But Dr. Ryan, we need to have a little chat about your profession. You were a plastic surgeon. Which can be an honorable profession filled with a caseload of reconstructions for the sick and injured, facial surgery for kids born with cleft palates, and other assistance to people in need. But that’s not what made you rich. You got rich catering to the whims of the likes of Heidi Montag.
I wish I thought that Heidi had pictures of you golfing naked with Satan and that’s why you allowed yourself to be pressed into the service of transforming her body into an artificially perfect sex doll. But I’m pretty sure that’s not how it happened. She probably walked in, said “I want a smaller nose, and tinier wast and bigger boobs because I’m such a heifer! Except in the boob department! There I’m the opposite of a heifer!”. And instead of sending her for therapy to deal with her deep-seated body image issues, because she was clearly already lovely, you polished up your scalpel and got to work.
You may have been telling kids on your ranch that they are great the way they are and that they have a lot to give but you made headlines in the bigger world for telling young women that naturally pretty isn’t enough and that massive surgical overhauls are wise and good.
I kind of hate you for that.
Yes, it was your right to earn your living doing cosmetic procedures, and, yes, it was Heidi’s right to buy your services, and I’m glad some of the money you made went to kids who need the help but I really don’t like your collusion in a culture that says that there is only one type of beauty worth seeking and it can, and should, be bought. That’s not true, or at least it shouldn’t be true. And it wouldn’t be true if it weren’t for dream teams like you and Heidi Montag who perpetuate the Myth of the Plastic Girl.
Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying the afterlife and I hope your work with kids goes on. But I hope your plastic surgery practice drives itself off a cliff, too.