For our date I took Cutey Honey to Mcdonalds. "I can get us a 50% discount since I work here, so feel free to order anything off the dollar menu." I said.
"Hey look, every happy meal comes with a talking Germaine Greer doll that says random feminist slogans." Cutey Honey said.
"Sweet! I'll take two."
Cutey Honey regaled me with tales of her adventures battling the minions of hell.
"So Mayor Light and I are fighting this machine gun toting werewolf bitch, right, and she's all like "Who do I send to heaven first?" and I'm like "Hello, if you're trying to sound threatening you shouldn't tell someone they're going to heaven."
"Oh my God, you actually said that? That's awesome."
I was wearing a codpiece, a symbol of honor and respect according to Fodor's Guide to Japan and East Asia 1966. I made sure to draw attention to it every few minutes by shining it with my shirt sleeve. "So, tell me something interesting about yourself." Cutey Honey said.
"Well, I can make turntable scratching sounds on my guitar like that guy in Rage Against the Machine. Also, you know that miniature greenhouse that uses gas sieves to make plants achieve maximum growth? I invented that."
"Uh huh. What about this website you write for?"
"You know how powerpoint presentations use bulleted lists of items? It's kind of like that except this bulleted list of items has lasers and robot arms and knocks up your mom."
In my excitement I spilled soda on my pants. Then I stood up too fast and got a head rush and passed out.
Never fall asleep again.We were approached by a fat anime fan asking for Cutey Honey's autograph. "Tell him he can have my autograph if he lets me ride around on his back like Yoda." Cutey Honey said.
"Haha, I'm not telling him that. You tell him."
"If you tell him I'll give you my Art Carney doll. You know, the one that's possessed by a deceased serial killer."
Cutey Honey insisted that we go to the roller disco, despite my pleas that I had never skated before and also had fallen arches and a limb length discrepancy. "You've played Metropolis Street Racer, right?" she said. "Well, skating is a lot like that. It's all about getting points for style. Style can mean the difference between your classic Driver A persona and someone who absolutely reeks of Driver B."
If Cutey Honey was right, and I knew she was, then I needed an original style to set myself apart from the other skaters. All at once it occurred to me that if everyone was skating around the room clockwise, I could buck the system by going counter-clockwise. Suddenly the roller disco became a Turkish insane asylum where I was a tortured yet free-spirited Brad Davis daring to oppose the iron fist of conformity by walking in the opposite direction than the rest of the inmates. A collision with another skater jolted me back to not exactly reality but something more real than my fantasy of having Brad Davis' rugged good looks which was probably as real as my day was going to get at this point. Part of me wanted to apologize to the man I had bumped into, but another part of me knew that I couldn't back down now if I wanted to become king of the roller disco. I imagined the kingly roller skates I would wear. They would have rockets and titanium wheels and a plethora of other hidden tricks for vanquishing my opponents. I knew what I had to do. In what I assumed would be seen as a display of dominance, I began grinding against the man with my codpiece clad crotch. Unfortunately, when I tore off my breakaway pants, my inhaler fell out of my pocket and got kicked across the room.
Taking a page from The Warriors, Cutey Honey and I started our own roller skating gang. We even created a secret handshake for our gang called the Tokyo Kickflash. It started with a simple high five. Then we put one hand on our hearts to symbolize that we were defenders of love and with the other outstretched hand reached skyward and yelled "Kickflash!" as though we were issuing a proclamation to heaven itself. Our gang quickly became rivals with another gang that was composed primarily of juggalos. I would give the details of our epic battle except that it involved some secret jet-kwon-do moves that could hypothetically be used for evil.
Thus far I had made it through the night without mentioning my incredibly nerdy hobby of level design, although I had almost slipped up when Cutey Honey asked me why I kept staring at her breasts and I got all defensive and said "What, it's not like I'm trying to estimate their polygon count or something." After leaving the roller disco, we went back to my house and decided to get drunk and use the power loader in my futuristic basement. "How do I move the arms again?" Cutey Honey asked. "Oops, sorry about that table. Okay I am officially drunk."
After drinking half a bottle of southern comfort, I began babbling incoherently about backpacks. "Once I save up enough money I'm going to buy a Jansport backpack with techno-radiant, zen-washed hypercolors." I said. "Check out this awesome ad from Gamepro."
"What does Mark Mcgrath have to do with backpacks?" Cutey Honey said.
"You know how in The Vagina Monologues they ask what clothes your vagina would wear? Well, if Mark Mcgrath's back was a vagina, this backpack is what it would wear."
"This is the part of the date where you're supposed to entertain me with your sense of humor." Cutey Honey said. "Now remember, I'm a woman so I prefer jokes that involve wacky Frasier-esque misunderstandings."
"Then you'll love this; I used to think the phrase "racial epithets" was actually "racial epitaphs" which made no sense to me because why would anyone want their tombstone covered with racial slurs?"
"You know what's great about our relationship?" Cutey Honey said. "It's not based on physical attraction. Our relationship is like a beautiful exotic bird that isn't bound by sex or caged by lust."
"That's cool except that I'm scared of birds. I'd rather metaphorically categorize our relationship as a beautiful alien landscape to be stared at contemplatively from the safety of our virtual reality gyroscopes."
My Date with Serial Novel, "Untitled Document"
This one goes out to all you lovebirds out there who also happen to be fans of "Untitled Document". Yes, that's right, for all five of you there is a new chapter available, bringing the total now to seven.
Popov hit the remote control, smearing melted fudge from his left hand across the buttons. The channel changed back to the frozen image of the videotape Vladimir had paused. It was an underground Greek shit porn video in which two men were eating a muddy diarrhea-like enema out of a woman's ass. Her anus was distended with a speculum and the two hirsute gentlemen were wearing bibs and using soup spoons. Vladimir grunted and paused from cramming gummy worms into his mouth to hit play on the VCR remote. The woman moaned on screen and with a wet hiss treated both men to a warm brown mist. They seemed to find the experience bracing.
With a complete lack of comedic intent Popov reached into a bag of fudge pretzels and extracted five of the molten things, shoving all of them into his mouth at once and smearing the chocolate on his face.
What will they think of next?! And by "they" I mean the military industrial complex. Check this installment out!
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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