Not sure if everyone got the e-mail notification on this. It’s bound to be controversial, so let me be the first to register an opinion (after conforming to the new rules), which require, and I quote:
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Ok, my goals here are:
1) to present a short ‘spoof’ poem, as a preface to serious speculation on possible advances in the virtual-‘playmate’ field
2) To briefly entertain my readers, none of whom likely have a more-than-academic interest in the subject
3) To enable myself to make sense of an amusing(?) incident from the past, thereby laminating it for posterity
4) To get onto the Front Page, so I can feel I am somebody, just like Steve Martin in ‘The Jerk’.
5) Oops, strike #4
Body of Post:
Bread and Puppet Industries, the parent company best known for its gaudy-but-tawdry ‘Sluts R Us’ mall-outlets, sent me this come-on advertisement. I have serious philosophical difference with the conglomerate, into which I shall wade following the poem they included:
A Barby’s a dollar
She comes with a collar
You can pumper- all night for a -nickle
We got ‘white bread’ and ‘rye’.
They’re both worth a try
And a pita that’ll swallow your pickle
Pre-programmed with COY and COQUETTE
And you’ll need never ‘marry-an-ette’
She drinks from a saucer
Finished? Just toss her
For the money, they’re the best you can get
I suspect that within ten years or so, virtual lifelike ‘companions’ will be as cheap and available as hotel matches. List me as ‘fer-it’. Not, god forbid as a buyer, but as a beneficiary of the trend, which may take a sizable percentage of the superficial male population ‘off the market’. Women desiring a bond which includes their thoughts, emotions, quirks, and wisdom will specify ‘No Pets’, and yeah, that’ll be moi.
Decades ago, back when the Blow-up-Doll was still in its infancy, I worked with a charming fellow named Groobie from Lititz. We were busily applying rough-sawn poplar siding to the interior an ‘Adult’ (sic) store. You know, a rustic background for their paraphenalia displays. And it seemed like every ten minutes we had to move the damned ‘balloon-with holes’ girl out of the way in order to work. One day at quitting time we’d had enough:
“Tomorrow. The basement. Polypropylene Pam gets it!” Groobie declared.
“I’m in, but who goes first?” I asked, thereby agreeing in principle to Groobie’s rough-justice plan. Yet that small detail needed to be clarified; neither of us had any experience, or desire, to slurp in another’s slurp.
“We’ll have to clean her up good anyway,” Groobie to the rescue,“…so big deal. Of course, you could always just lay her on her tummy?”
I felt like he was, as Father of the Idea, laying down the protocol.
“She goes that way?” I asked, naively.
“Of course.” he looked at me paternally.
“Hey, I’m no pervert!” I protested, but then we both laughed, and shook hands on the deal.
“See ya at 9:00”, Groobie, getting into his pickup.
She was gone by 8:00 AM. Some lascivious, demented, socially-crippled, defective husk-of-a-human had come in and bought her for $29.95.
We both tried to act non-chalant and un-possessive when Susie, the girl on the counter told us. Maybe she knew though. Women know stuff. And only a co-incidence that Susie forced me, that very night, to help her ‘try out her new muscle-relaxers’. They worked nicely. And no messy clean-up.
I feel I’ve accomplished my goals here.