I am expecting that some day soon women will turn into chimeras the top half human female, the bottom half cow. Or maybe, like the she-monsters of Greek mythology, a creature with a rooster head, a human torso and hooves, a Cow-Woman that crows cock-a-doodle-do.
My ruminant fears run rampant because of all the wrinkle fillers made of cow goo that women are pumping into their faces.
"Husbands have to start worrying now," New York dermatologist Patricia Wexler says mischievously. "If their wives are raving, is it menopause or is it mad cow disease?"
What if pouty young Gotham beauties, sipping raspberry mojitos at Koi, start running around in circles trying to bite their tails?
What if high-powered professional women in leather skirts and Holstein-patterned heels clickety-clack up to the pool at the Four Seasons restaurant and start slurping at it like a trough?
What if pillow-lipped actresses in New York and Hollywood drop their celery sticks and demand salt licks?
What if elegant Upper East Side socialites, sipping Bellinis at Cipriani's, suddenly start foami