According to the New York Post, Dr. Fredric Brandt—the celebrity dermatologist behind the many faces of Madonna and Stephanie Seymour—was found dead Sunday in his Miami home.

You know what's just infuriating? When you spend thousands of dollars on having big plastic domes inserted into your chest, and then men have the gall to notice them! "You can be at a club," marvels enhanced-to-a-C-cup Annabell Newell, "and a guy you've never met before will come up to you, stare at your chest and blatantly ask, 'When did you get them?' No 'Hi, nice to meet you.'" Outrageous! But in our brave new world of preponderant cosmetic enhancement, how does one inquire about the originality of someone's body parts without committing a faux pas?

Nothing makes us drop our guard and fall for an expensive and dubious new beauty product more than a clever marketing coinage. The latest? Skingestibles! Naturally, this means something you swallow to make your skin youthful, smooth and generally look like you've never smoked a cigarette, drank bourbon straight from the bottle, and rebelliously foregone SPF. (Or that's the idea, anyway.) "Glowelle," which launched at Bergdorf's and Neiman's this week, is a powder containing various antioxidants that you dissolve in water and drink for an alleged, well, glow. The catch is that it's $112 for a month's supply. Much more economical is a product from our friend Dr. Fredric Brandt (left), the man responsible for tending to the facial needs of Madonna: His "Antioxidant Water Booster" is only $35, and while it probably won't actually have a discernibly different effect from a bottle of Snapple, on the plus side you won't risk looking like Dr. Brandt himself. After the jump, a totally unrelated video of Dr. Freddie in all his plasticky glory. Just in case you're falling asleep at the office this afternoon and a shock to your nervous system.

It's not clear which is the greater mystery: Why women flock to dermatologist-to-the-stars Fredric Brandt when his wildly askew aesthetic judgment is displayed on his smooth, shiny visage for all the world to see, or why the good doctor himself chooses to ignore the evidence of his own mirror to self-administer amounts of botox and fillers that, he admits, would require a payment plan were he not getting them at cost. As a journalist discovers when she spends a day at Brandt's East 34th Street clinic, these are not questions that trouble the patients—27 in a typical 10-hour day—who joyfully submit to multiple injections, lasers, and Brandt's more-is-better attitude.