Science is Weird

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Oingo Boingo¬†“Weird Science”

 

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What better way of celebrating your sweet sixteenth than with a shiny new home computer system. Up until now I have had to make do with my Amstrad 464 and, considering the cassettes only loads intermittently, I have been all but ready to throw in the towel. There’s only so much Roland on the Ropes you can play before catharsis sets in and I get just as much amusement from listening to the loading audio so I have been losing faith with technology and my bag of jacks were beginning to appear far more appealing. Mercifully, I recently inherited a brand new desktop and it came with a pre-installed program to find the perfect mate so in for a dollar, in for a pound.

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I had never really been what one would call a techy and always strayed behind the pack when it came to the brand new piece of kit on the marketplace but the Memotech MTX512 hardware was far more advanced than anything I had tinkered with up until now so I fully intended on reading at least the first paragraph of the instruction manual, just to keep myself ahead of the game. Ordinarily me and science don’t see eye to eye, electrocution was my prize for daydreaming during a Physics lecture and I could barely switch on a Bunsen burner without emergency services needing contacting so I entered my latest challenge with a fair degree of trepidation. The idiot’s guide was written with me in mind you see and, should there be a calamity waiting to play out, then my clusterfucking fingers were bound to trigger it.

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I felt a little like a modern-day Victor von Frankenstein but with great power comes greater responsibility and I had to ensure my selected suitor was up to par as there were no refunds or returns for any recycle bin fodder fashioned. This was my one shot at creating the perfect woman, a belle so bodacious that I never again needed to look elsewhere for my lovemaking needs. Much as I was curious about the prospect of putting Pikachu’s head on the body of Danielle Harris, I would not be taking light this exclusive opportunity to play God. Thus I attached a Barbie doll to the computer through a spaghetti junction of electrodes and learned how to hack into a government mainframe for any extra processing power and data storage capacity required to make sure my Bride of Frankenstein was everything I desired and more.

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What is it they say? You can’t make a cake without first breaking a few eggs. My first attempt appeared to be going swimmingly. I ticked all the boxes which were applicable. Long, lustrous pins, a midriff you could eat an omelet from, and smooth nectarinal pelt; I was thoroughly riveted by the prospect of meeting the woman of my dreams face-to-face but alas I forgot to select sex and, when a gangly grease ball emerged from the mist in my bathroom looking like he was smuggling the egg and spoon in his skimpy briefs, it was straight back to the drawing board. He almost had me fooled at first as I began my perusal at his painted toes and he had clearly undergone electrolysis to remove any leg hairs but there’s no mistaking the dangle gland. There was evidently no puff pastry going on behind those cotton panties and I had no intention whatsoever of letting him plant his bulbs in my flower bed, no matter how intoxicating his perfume.

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If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. There was just enough remaining CPU to have another and this time I made sure I placed my order for an Eve instead of a Steve. Hey presto, a bolt of lightning signified mission complete and I was more than happy with the results second time out. A quick udder check confirmed that there were no unpleasant surprises tucked away from plain sight and instead I marveled at the toe of her camel and commenced licking my lips. “So, what would you like to do first, you little maniac?” were her first words and she spoke them suitably seductively but I just froze. I hadn’t considered that this would actually work and, now that this voluptuous vixen was poised before me suggestively, I had no idea how to play it even remotely cool. I suggested a quick hose down in the shower but didn’t have the domes to remove my denims. Instead I simply wore my best gormless grin and shot every last bean in the barracks.

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To her eternal credit the instructions did clearly state that she would tend to my every whim and nothing would stand in the way of her serving her maker and she promptly produced a 1959 Cadillac convertible and took me for a spin which confirmed that I hadn’t managed to botch the entire transaction. “Hop in” she offered and didn’t have to ask me twice. I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined being in this situation, riding shotgun with the kind of woman I’d only ever seen in my brother Chet’s lingerie catalogs up until now. Not only was she devastatingly sexy but she had smarts too, superhuman abilities to be precise, which ranged from memory manipulation and molecular manipulation, to reality warping. This was the pay dirt I’d heard so much about striking and, for the first time in my entire adolescent life, I didn’t feel like the biggest douche on the block.

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That conspicuous privilege now fell to Norris Nash from 27 Shermer Elms and that meant he would inherit the daily wedgies from Ian and Max, the local meat heads. I felt a little bad for the hapless teen, after all, he rescued that baby bird from the drain and delivered it seven blocks to the nearest veterinarian and had a heart of gold. Fat lot of good it achieved, poor Tweety was battered up in a KFC bucket in remarkably quick turnaround time but it’s the thought that counts I suppose. As for me, I was about to ride the crest of an unexpected wave of popularity. Once the jocks caught whiff of my latest conquest they would be begging to sniff my gym socks. They could beg all they wanted but there was only one destination for said socks and that was down the front of my Speedos, to pad out the bouquet. Had to keep up appearances now that I was destined for the cool clique.

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It’s amazing how your fortunes can transform overnight when you find yourself chaperoned around by a Playboy bunny. Look at Hugh Hefner, his withered old war trophy has likely got more folds than an origami Pterodactyl but he still gets to feel the warm slap of his play balls against some of the tightest thighs in the business. If he could get some then why not a sixteen year-old boy whose Twinkie still had a good two-inches of spurt left in it? I was in the prime of my life, currently not a pimple in sight apart from that unsightly boil on the rear and I planned to get that lanced soon anyhoots. It felt good that my perfect woman was so utterly devoted to me and finally I felt like somebody as opposed to pond scum which is how I had led my sniveling existence up until now. Bottom rung algae, hardly a blip on the social radar, and destined to remain a virgin for years to come.

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The big night was looming. Tonight was the night when my cherry would finally be burst and I could barely contain myself around her any longer. I frantically recalled all I had learned from years of watching National Geographic but all that came to mind was The African Anteater Ritual and some rather inhumane-looking circumcision techniques so I decided to wing it. How hard could it be after all? Her devotion was unwavering so who gave a shit if my first time was spent flapping around like a marooned walrus? She’d still love me regardless, there wasn’t a thing I could do which would be wrong in her eyes. It took a great deal of pressure off and I mounted my steed like The Lone Ranger. Thirty seconds later I was flailing about like a marooned walrus and ended up squirting my paste all over the computer electrics. Bad move. In a brilliant flash of light my dream lover had gone.

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I mourned her passing for a couple of days and the Memotech MTX512 never did fire up again. Sure I missed the hell out of her, how could I not? She was perfection personified and taught me so much throughout our limited courtship. But I had grown kind of fond of the idea of meeting someone a little more average if truth be known. This walrus had plenty of flailing left to do and it would be delightful if I could find somebody who could flail hopelessly with me. Besides there was something ever-so-faintly dull about perfection and the real thing just seemed so much more appealing in the long run. I wanted a girl to fall in love with me, not follow protocol, and my brief flirtation with science ended swiftly after. I have to cum clean, those encrusted denims are still underneath my bed and I’ll never again offer up my linen on laundry day but that’s as far as my fixation will ever go. Science is good, lots of good things come from scientific minds and it helps to shape the future we live in. But, all things considered, it’s just a little too weird.

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