As I gaze into my Microsoft SPOT watch and listen to my iPod Mini, I now realize that the digitized and specular-lit bump-mapped wheels of technology have spun their blue-LED-laser-guided gears to a new epoch. My virtual girlfriend is now superior to my real one.
I did not enter this decision into my blackberry phone note-system lightly, because if I had, then the stylus wouldn’t have picked up my keystrokes. But after a lengthy comparison, it’s clear that my VG girl outshines my RL girl in every way.
For instance, when I want to please my virtual girlfriend, all I have to do is press the A plus X buttons at the same time while tapping the Z-trigger. My real girlfriend, on the other hand, has only one button, but it’s much more complicated.
Now I admit things aren’t perfect with my virtual girl. Whenever she takes her top off the loading times are unbearable. And sometimes the clipping issues can be embarrassing. One minute she’s dancing rhythmically with me as I deftly time my movements on the DDR plastic console mat, and the next her polygonal breasts are stuck in the wall and her legs have fallen through the dance floor. But it’s the little things that render my virtual girlfriend’s virtual foibles insignificant compared to my real girlfriend’s glaring flaws.
When I take my real girlfriend shopping for new clothes, she wants me to tell her what I think about them, yet no matter how hard I twist the analog stick she refuses to rotate 360 degrees.
My real girlfriend is always bothering me with stupid conversation, and no matter how often I answer her correctly, she never levels up. But with my virtual girlfriend, just a few taps of the A-button can advance me past any exchange, and if I ever get stuck, I can just memorize the conversation tree.
And my virtual girlfriend doesn’t seem to mind if I pepper her with high-caliber bullets, whereas my real girlfriend did.
Speaking of girlfriends dying, when my virtual girlfriend dies because she, say, mistimed her jump over a lake of alligators moving in unison, I need only find the 1-up box and she’s my girl again. My real girlfriend did not respond no matter how many boxes I thrust her way.
Cheating on my virtual girlfriend is also easier. I just keep my mistresses on a separate memory card. Eventually I’ll even be able to take my Sony Playstation 2 memory card and upload my virtual girlfriend into a far less virtual sexbot, with a plush, fabric-based, but non-virtual vagina.
I may keep my real girlfriend until then, but I think she knows that her time is nearly up. Every day I visit the Honda Asimo webpage and mark its progress, then glance at my girlfriend and wonder, will tomorrow be the day?
Hey you. So you think you are so smart, with your handlebar mustache and Swarovski crystal monocle, but do not nod your top hat and shake your mutton chops resolutely in wondrous awe of your own perspicacity. Maybe you won the Wolf Prize in mathematics a couple years ago, but I know you only proved Fermat’s last theorem with blowjobs. And seriously, who wins Nobel Prizes anymore? Why don’t you just go hang out with Toni Morrison and a calendar from 1986?
I envision brilliant connections all the time. Have you ever thought about the positive correlation between owning a gun and having a moustache? Or how about the inverse relationship between the number of sexual experiences and the number of unibrows an individual has? Or that all middle-aged Japanese-American men are named Ken? I did not think so. You must be a petite young lad and I must be Socrates, for I just pillaged your derriere with my magnificent diamond-studded shaft.
While you are a simpleminded one-trick mathematical-biological-literary pony, I dominate every field ever created by man and then some. Did you know that I solved all problems in the scientific field of !xbalijko? I bet you do not even know what that is, idiot.
You “speak” the English language in the same way that a hobo has sex with a pile of leaves: Eww. On the other Super Bowl ring-adorned hand (mine), I speak six languages fluently. I speak Bushmen Swahili extra fluently. Take that, you stupid click click whistle.
So how many times have you been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, not counting the one last year? That is right my dimwitted brother, the answer is zero. So place your tail in between your legs, board your carriage fabricated on broken dreams and undeserved acquisitions, and make your way back to the mountain of mediocrity on top of which your baroque mansion sits daintily.
William Safire is on vacation.
Last weekend, Berkeley’s most notorious potheads faced off in a battle of lung capacity and “sheer stoner righteousness,” resulting in a logical paradox of G+A|delian proportions.
The paradox arose from the identification of the contest’s apparent winner, David Resinbauch, as “a big fuckin’ loser” and “a major punk.” This fact received further support in the interview that followed Resinbauch’s victory, in which he meticulously described the weeks of training that preceded the contest. “Imagine like a Rocky montage, only instead of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ playing, it’s that Phish song with the tambourine,” said the impotent ne’er-do-well.
Resinbauch won the contest after managing to cash a 1.2-gram bowl in a single breath, thus securing his status both as the Superman of burnouts and a huge goober. While Berkeley’s experts in formal logic and cannabis culture are still working out the ramifications of “the stoner’s paradox,” it has already been agreed that the other competitors can simply be categorized as losers.
It is apparent that our society is becoming increasingly sexualized. From Lindsay Lohan’s big-ass titties to Donald Rumsfeld’s vagina tightening, male and female sexuality are being pushed to the limits through the wonders of cosmetic surgery. The pressure to look just fabulous extends beyond humans to the oft-overlooked animal kingdom. One man capitalizing on the growing market of “animal augmentation” is Dr. Rodrigo “Pelligro Abejas” Alexander. Through his services, any creature can obtain a sexily symmetrical face, a boner-popping body, or at the very least a panty-dropping positive self-image. But is it worth it? Hoping to highlight the benefits of such surgery, Dr. Alexander explains some of his successes.
Princess, Golden Retriever
Liposuction
When this dog came to me, its tears were not of little doggy joy but of sadness, and grief, and also much more sadness. On TV, seeing much smaller dogs as celebrity arm candy left this pooch feeling doggy jealousy with a large dose of DIC (doggy inferiority complex). I sat down, looked deep into her eyes, and whispered into her eye: “Just because teacup chihuahuas have a different body type than you doesn’t justify
exclusion from shamelessly being lugged from red-carpet affairs to penthouse coke orgies.” After I sucked out more than 30 pounds of fat and unnecessary “blood weight,” this dog looked really super-duper. My work was a smashing success; just last week the cover of National Enquirer showed Paris Hilton unconscious in a puddle of her own vomit as Princess photogenically lapped up the remains.
Moesha, Tiger
Fur Bleaching
Like many Panthera tigris, Moesha felt her dark fur limited her social and professional upward mobility. While the more eye-pleasing white tigers lavishly consumed the finest wines and freshest lobsters at the Mirage in Las Vegas, Moesha was stuck in the hot, humid, and poverty-stricken jungles of the Tropicana. She was sick of having racial slurs like “Tigger” and “Stripe Back” hurled at her on a daily basis. I suavely explained, while massaging her ugly orange back, that white fur would unlock the door to life’s treasures. After six months of painful fur bleaching she emerged whiter than my dead mother’s pubes GAA God rest her pubes. Moesha can now be seen running alongside Lance Burton at the Monte Carlo.
Muffin, Siamese Cat
Breast Augmentation
It was painfully clear why this sleepy Asian cat was in my office that cold January morning GAA it needed bigger tits. Its mini kitty-titties were flatter than my dead mother’s EKG. So I gave it what it desperately needed, some DD tigolbitties. This cat is now getting fucked constantly, and not only by me! But also by my brother (but don’t pass judgment; Alfonzo is a total slut). Regardless, Muffin’s success has made this surgery very popular among our feline friends. Sizes range from small to “Oh my god that cat’s tits are so big she can’t even walk” (very popular).
Ludwig von Strudellwasser, Mule
Testicular Implants
I am very proud of this surgery; it is my proverbial punch to God’s throat. Nature may have been too weak to provide the majestic mule with testicles, but I was able to thrust them in Ludwig’s scrotum with an iron fist. Now when Ludwig plows a field, he does so with a raging pink boner. As he moves, his cantaloupe-sized nuts drag in the mud.
