As a dancer named Sassy swung out onto the stage, one man in a suit, a badge from a telecommunications convention dangling from his lapel, rose to his feet and put his hands on his heart. A 21st-birthday-party reveler sat at the front of the bar, his gaze frozen at the sight of the breasts bobbing before him, so independently animated that they seemed to be living creatures separate from the woman who wore them. But three men toward the back of the club were as stonily inexpressive as Michael Corleone in a roomful of flailing Fredos. "That is simply terrible work," one said, nodding at the dancer's breasts. "They're completely full at the top," one of his companions said in a voice thick with disdain. "And they must be 400's." The three men, all plastic surgeons, have probably seen more breasts in their lifetimes — including those pumped up with 400 extra cubic centimeters of silicone-encased saline solution — than has the most avid Net-surfing young adult male. But there they were, stuck in Las Vegas, home to the cantilevered chest and lipo-sculptured thigh, for the annual meeting of the American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons.

Schöne Geschichte in der NYT über die Jahresversammlung der plastischen Chirurgie ausgerechnet in Las Vegas.