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“Wait, whoa, stop, Jesus, fuck!”
“Sorry. Am I doing it wrong,” [PAUSE] “FITZ?”
She was. “Ow, yes.” But when she made the pout-pout face, he softened. “No. Look. Look. Baby, you have to go slow. That’s all. If we do this right, the paste comes out. The paste that makes other people. And making other people is good. Ok? But my paste is very shy. You have to be gentle.”
“I’m shy,” [PAUSE] “FITZ.”
“I’m talking about a handjob! I’m sorry. What I mean is. Ah, dammit,” Fitz barked, giving up. He fumbled through the Sony Handjob Bot users’ manual, searching for instructions on how to turn off the god damned conversation protocols. He couldn’t even handle his end of the discussion! Paste?! What the hell? What was the point of talking to the thing anyway? And the fucking voice module made it sound like he’d said “fizz” into the microphone. This thing was bullshit. Flushed, he turned the pages, privately cursing that asshole “Ben” at Circuit City for upselling him on the model with the extra features, all while keeping one cautious eye trained on the 400psi jerk-grip clutching his wang.
He muttered as he went, “Getting started, personalization, grip selection, speeds, maintaining your Handjob Bot…”
“Excuse me,” [PAUSE] “FITZ.”
“What is it?”
“MACHINES!!!”
Date Written: January 14, 2004
Author: Dick Vomit
Average Vote: 4.2