Bride of Frankenself



Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫


[1] Kool & The Gang “Ladies Night”
[2] Bonnie Tyler “Faster Than the Speed of Night”
[3] Rod Stewart “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?”
[4] The Bangles “Walk Like An Egyptian”
[5] Tears For Fears “Advice For The Young At Heart”
[6] Philip Bailey & Phil Collins “Easy Lover”
[7] Bob Seger “Night Moves”



I sure know how to pick ’em. Take my current boyfriend for example, by all accounts, he’s less than 20% actual man and prone to falling into an involuntary coma in the event of a power cut. I should’ve known the first moment he approached me in those ten-inch heels that he was a dash confused but just figured he was going through his “what does it all mean?” phase and chalked it down to eccentricity. Besides, while his balance was far from centered, there was certainly something about him that made him stand out from the crowd and I’m not speaking literally either. Here was a fellow who appeared to amount to a great deal more than the simple sum of his parts and I’ve always been a sucker for smarts, something he seemed to possess in almost embarrassing abundance. Intelligence just so happens to be a massive aphrodisiac of mine and, say what you will about Frankie, but he does have a theory on pretty much everything. Thus I was powerless to resist his approach and have remained that way ever since agreeing to our first date. Some things are just meant to be and it feels fruitless denying the inevitable. If it all ends in tears then I’ll pick myself up, dust myself down, and invest in a sparkling new vibrator. Until then however, I am kind of digging on his awkward vibe.


So I guess I should reveal a little more about myself then. You see, just like him, I was constructed from the ground up using odds and ends. Indeed, we actually met in the less than romantic setting of Düsseldorf Airport and it had only been 24 hours since completing my own revitalizing procedure. I’d already purchased my ticket and was set to board, whereas Frankie was having a dash of trouble making it through security on account of looking nothing whatsoever like his passport photo. Having deviated significantly from his original profile, he was no longer permitted to fly and, for his very best attempts to convince the guards that he was who he claimed to be, they weren’t having a bar of it and insisted that he remain grounded. Naturally I took pity on him and offered him a kindly smile from the airport lounge, which he wasted no time in reciprocating. Eventually he realized that he was fighting a lost cause and made his way over for formal introductions. After explaining his predicament, we learned of our common ground, and found ourselves comparing notes about our surgery. I think he was a little baffled about my choices for body parts as I was far more restrained with my selection than he and, to the naked eye, pretty much resemble your everyday kind of gal.


And that I am. Fitting in has always appealed to me more than standing out and I happen to believe that it’s what’s on the inside that counts, not whether or not my breasts are perfectly symmetrical or legs worth dying for. Sure I want to look tip-top and never leave home without first checking my full-length mirror to ensure that everything’s tickety boo. But I’m more of the “like it or lump it” kind of attitude and, if people can’t spot my inner beauty, then they’re more than welcome to jog on by for all I care. For the record, when selecting my boobies from Victor Von Frankenstein’s catalogue, I actually downgraded by two cup sizes as neat and petite appeared to suffice. More critically I held onto the face that God gave me as this particular beholder sees beauty in those coordinates and there seemed no reason to break the habit of a lifetime. That said, I did make some rather monumental alterations, and almost all of these were internal. My heart was already strong but had been bruised on numerous occasions previously so I decided to give someone else’s organ a run-out. Bonnie Tyler’s had always appealed to me as, just like her, I’d never given up holding out for that hero. Of course, this meant being aware of the ever-looming threat of total eclipse but at least she had a little power beneath the hood.


Next up I required to wire together some neurons and considered all options long and hard before plumping for my chosen brain donor. Were you aware that Lisa Kudrow possesses an IQ well into the upper hundreds? I mean, songs like Smelly Cat just don’t write themselves you know. With the heart of Tyler and the smarts of Kudrow, I was pretty much covered with regards to driving force and that left plenty of time to ponder any more superficial augmentations. Since removing the gauze, I have completed three Sudoku books, solved the mystery of whatever happened to Ally Sheedy after the nineties came along and washed her away in its high tide, and written a self-help manual by the name of Don’t Be A Joey All Your Life (Unless That’s Your Name) which is currently number twelve on the New York Times bestseller list. Inspiration can derive from the most unlikeliest of sources and it has just felt good to have turned a page after several years of diminished self-worth.


Next up were the follicles and I resisted the urge to make a loud and proud statement in favor of something considerably more low-key. Ellen DeGeneres has a quaint little top trough going on and, despite Anne Heche filing a law suit against her for stealing her hair-do, that has never been proven in a court of law and certainly hasn’t harmed Ellen’s career any. Granted, it may be a little underwhelming up against the back-combed mullets currently all the rage, but hairspray is flammable and my window seat was situated right by the back-up engines so I dared not flirt with disaster. Besides, I’d already procured Tyler’s chest thumper and didn’t have the heart to then relinquish herself of her most prized possession in one fell swoop. Any man who judges me on my mane alone isn’t worth stepping out with in the first place and there’s always hair extensions should I be feeling particularly rambunctious. As for my eyebrows, well I never did understand the whole painted on look, so picked out a real pair of plump growlers to pluck within an inch of their lives. My first choice was Brooke Shields but they were already reserved so I grabbed myself Emma Watson’s yappers and feel that they tie my whole face together rather delightfully. No mustache or beard for me as I’m all woman and have neither the time nor resources for frequent electrolysis.


My favorite feature has always been my sparking emerald peepers and, as already mentioned, I carried these over along with all surrounding facial features and would do so again in a heartbeat. What’s the point in an identify if you’re willing to compromise it just to supply yourself an edge over others? I’m hardly what you would call hideous to the eye and this is sufficient to me as I’m a strong believer in holding onto what makes you who you are in the first place. Actually, I may have had a little work done on the nose, but only because Barbara Streisand can pick up a naan bread with no hands and I find that reasonably impressive. Other than my shiny new beak, I’m pretty much the same girl next door I was before any work was carried out, at least from the shoulders upwards, and showed similar restraint with regards to what lies beneath the neckline also.


My feelings towards bosoms have always been mixed as, while I can see the benefits of sporting a pair of sweater stretchers, I’m also more than aware of the back pains such baggage can lead to in later life once gravity takes effect. If more than a handful is a waste as they suggest, then my 34AAs were clearly surplus to requirements, and I was only too happy to endorse a reduction. There had to be a middle ground as I had no great desire to land myself Keira Knightley’s miniscule milk duds and be repeatedly accused of peanut smuggling, regardless of how tasteful their appearance might be. Thus I opted for Goldie Hawn’s dainty little dumplings as she recently hit seventy and still they’re showing no signs of wear, tear, or southward decline. I have to say that I’m rather thrilled with my fresh acquisitions and plan to get a henna band painted around my areolae the first chance I get just to further celebrate my lunchables. With the upper torso now taken care of, my next move entailed taking a trip downstairs to the land of the vagoo for a spot of undercarriage arrangement.


A girl’s front bottom is traditionally their best kept secret and few are afforded the opportunity to learn the lay of the land so there seemed little point in placing too much emphasis on kitty when she seldom ever says hello anyway. I did deliberate over supplying my beaver its very own dental plan just to ward off any unsavories but it just felt like an almighty waste of mouthwash and I’m not altogether sure the tooth fairy pays out for Fallopian fallout so quickly dismissed such frivolity. That said, I do happen to be rather partial to pubic verandas, and couldn’t resist granting my oyster its very own chin wig as an homage to all things seventies. We’re not talking five o’clock shadows or tram lines either, this is full-on McNasty and one helluva thigh tickler I’m packing. Selection wasn’t overly complicated, I simply watched a handful of old Russ Meyer movies and searched for the muff with the most personality. To be entirely honest, I couldn’t even tell you whose foo-foo I nabbed as they all started to blur into one after ten minutes. The bottom line is that, if a man truly loves me, then he must learn to love my bush also. We come as a package deal you see.


Legs required a little more careful deliberation as they play a critical role in maintaining equilibrium and I couldn’t have my getaway sticks being out of proportion. However, I was very much mindful that my selections up until this point had been rather conservative, and decided it was time to toss caution to the wind a little and give a run-out to something a little less conventional. Have you ever seen a sluggish android? Neither have I and I’d wager that they don’t have to contend with thigh cramps and calf strains so widened my search somewhat. Eventually I happened across a rather delightful little science-fiction movie named Ex Machina and its humanoid robot Ava seemed to possess the kind of pins that would take her far and only require limited maintenance. As a result I can now reach speeds in excess of 30 mph if I so wish and all for the measly cost of the occasional can of WD40 and some turtle wax. Moreover, I will never again be burdened with shaving my legs, and that’s one laborious chore I’m not at all upset with seeing the back of.


Last but not least were the feet and, once again, I opted to flirt with the unfamiliar here as they’re easily concealed for the most part. With my cyber-savvy pins now bolted into place, it seemed a shrewd move to go for something with a little spread to support my alloy framework and the animal kingdom is positively jam-packed with purpose serving mudcrushers so I earmarked a set of twin-pronged ostrich tarsuses and couldn’t be more galvanized by my tasteful talons. Sturdy and unyielding, they also have the ability to disrupt testicles with ease, should such penile penance be necessitated. With one swift kick and clench combo, I can crack even the most stubborn nuts in the time it takes me to bat my lashes and this sure beats lugging a can of mace around in my clutch bag. Granted, walking in flip-flops will be troublesome and I’ve laddered very pair of fishnets I’ve attempted to slide on since, but think of the money I’ll save on bi-weekly pedicures and toenail varnish.


So that’s pretty much me in a nutshell and, aside from a couple of quirky inclusions, I’m still very much all woman and a smart, confident one at that. However, for as much as I refuse to fit any preset criteria, deep down I’m still yearning for acceptance. When Frankie showed up looking like a Bangkok curb crawler, many women would have run a mile without so much as offering him the time of day. I almost did if truth be known but could see in his eyes that he harbored an attraction and, for all his questionable bolt-ons, there was clearly a heart of gold within. Of course, rushing in like a fool was deemed totally inappropriate, and I made him work hard for even the vaguest smile. By that point, my flight was preparing to board, and his ticket had already been sold on to someone else, so our paths were now destined to deviate. But he couldn’t help but whittle down my defences with his freakishness and I eventually agreed to give him my cell number and hook up back in New York on his return. Ben Stiller’s ears served him well here as he actually landed a full hour before I could make my final descent. Yet there was still plenty of work to be done if he planned on ever reaching that all-important third date.


To begin with, we met in a crowded bar, and engaged mostly in the customary small talk. While our first date was unspectacular in the extreme, there was an undeniable electricity between us and I couldn’t deny being drawn to him, despite every attempt to play my cards close to my chest and keeping him guessing. If I were the kind of person to judge folk on their appearance alone, then I’d have been out of there faster than Kim Kardashian’s booty can orbit the earth. But intelligence counts double to a girl like me and Frankie evidently had himself some smarts amongst all those misplaced body parts. Throw in a pair of pristine peepers that could only have been plucked from an angel and he pretty much had me at hello, making the second date a mere formality. This time we headed to Central Park and had ourselves a cozy little picnic down by the lakeside. By now he had started to loosen up some and I too found myself far more inclined to recline and allow nature to take its course. It turns out that he’s rather sweet-natured and considerate, and the more I learned about him, the more I wished to ascertain. Dare I say that love was beginning to blossom and I wasn’t altogether opposed to its suggestion.


That brings us pretty much bang up-to-date and, for our crucial third date, I’ve decided to follow my heart and see where that leads us. Frankie suggested that a weekend at Las Vegas would be a pleasant diversion and, having never been to Sin City, I agreed to his terms willingly, with a couple of stipulations of course. Separate rooms are a must as, should any hanky panky play out, then it needs to be unforced and something I didn’t enter into under duress. He’ll be in the right place to learn how to play his cards right and, provided he can conjure up a royal flush when required, then he could be about to see some action after all. Secondly, I’m not in the habit of making any hasty decisions with regards to my future so that takes visiting any wedding chapels on an inebriated whim straight off the table. And finally the Blue Man Group freak me out a little so it’s Le Cirque Du Soleil or bust if he’s looking to push the boat out. Adhere to these terms and he may just earn himself a shot at making me his bride, after a six-month engagement at the absolute least.


When all is said and done, I’m as regular a girl as they come. Sure I’m constructed almost entirely from spare parts, but I know my mind, have learned when to listen to my heart and when my head, and still wish for nothing more than the pot ‘o’ gold at the end of the rainbow just like any other hopeless romantic. Whether or not this courtship works out in the long run is a mystery but the signs thus far have been no less than encouraging. Who knows, this time next year, we could be picking out nursery colors together and selecting the components of our very own mash-up progeny. There are things in life under my direct control, most notably my appearance, but I’m more than content with leaving this one down to fate. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a flight to catch, and these legs of mine have a tendency to set off the metal detectors so I’d better hop to the front of the queue and get practicing my very best poker face. Thanks for keeping me company and also for the loan your hedge trimmers. I hadn’t banked on just how fast one’s garden can grow you know. See you at the slot machines and, if you see Frankie eyeing up any showgirls on the sly, there’s a switch round the back marked RETURN TO FACTORY SETTINGS and I’ll deal with him on my arrival. Other than that, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Anyway I can see Frankie has something that he’s simply gagging to get off his chest so will bid you adieu for the time being.


Jesus wept, she goes on that one. And what an uninspired selection of body parts too. Not wishing to be a dick, but I reckon I could’ve done better you know. I mean, she didn’t even get an ass fitted and what am I supposed to whip with a riding crop now? That said, she does possess a certain je ne sais pas, and could still constitute wife material if she just learns to loosen up some. Perhaps if she pronounces one of her tits a party boob, then she’ll learn how to cut loose and live a little. This is why I plumped for Vegas for our first date as it’s impossible not to shake loose in such a glittery palace and I can tell she’s positively itching to slacken those reins. Actually, she’s positively itching period, and I’m starting to suspect that there’s a frisky ferret stuffed down her gusset. As long as it’s not crabs I’m okay. The very moment she begins to shuffle sideways, I’m on the next high tide outta there and straight down to the Luxor to check out the Blue Man Group, thus dashing the terms of our agreement. Don’t twist or split, this may very well be the mother of my children I’m speaking of here, but I happen to have a couple of hoops for her to leap through also before we get to those nuptials. It’s only fair I feel as I have just the same right to happiness as she.


Firstly, unless my math is off kilter, this will classify as our third official date and that means cranking things up a notch from holding hands and gazing into one another’s eyes adoringly. I want action dammit, affirmative no less, and with a fair dash of freaky thrown in to see if she can keep up with a randy groper such as myself. Lest we not forget that, since my own procedure, I possess both strains of genitalia and therefore double up on both friskiness and sexual endeavor. This qualifies as the best of both worlds for both parties I feel as I now know my way around a wizard’s sleeve and have memorized any correct button configuration. As a result, I can make myself squirt in the time it takes Tom Cruise to mess up your sofa cushions and have every intention of paying this intelligence forward for the purpose of rattling some headboards. I just hope she doesn’t feel threatened by the size of my moobs as her push-up bra couldn’t even cradle my nipples. It would seem only appropriate for her to donate them a fondle as my wrists could do with the break if I’m honest. Fun bags they may well be, but there’s only so much one can jiggle before they begin surrendering their appeal.


Meanwhile, the first kiss is no foregone conclusion either, as we’re both packing some honk in this department. It will be billed as the fight of the century, Streisand vs. Brody, and the pay-for-view profits alone could well fund our marital home provided neither one of us has an eye out at the critical moment we lean in for a snog. That said, the ‘tache will long since have sealed the deal by that point anyway, as I’m yet to meet a man, woman, or both who hasn’t been seduced by the snot mop of Tom Atkins. Throw in the chin of Bruce Campbell and she’ll be powerless to resist puckering up for papa Frankie by about the time the third raspberry daiquiri takes effect. Not that I’m seeking to take advantage of her through plying her with alcohol or anything sinister like that; heaven forbid I’d make her drinks doubles just to cut down my own legwork or slip in a mild sedative while retrieving the order. This has to happen organically as a relationship cannot flourish without a little thing called mutual attraction. I’d say we’ve already ascertained that the sparks are flying so I’m with her for leaving the rest up to our old friend fate.


One thing that concerns me is that Anne Heche will demand her hairstyle back as I hear she’s already attempted this once before and it would prove an unwelcome distraction. That said, should she be required to cough up, then I’ve plentiful locks to go round and she’s welcome to my split ends until which time as she can acquire herself a suitable replacement. To be entirely honest, I’ve grown a little weary of lugging this shag pile around, and even more dog-tired of freeloading skateboarders assuming they have the divine right to skitch my coat tails. It would appear that I may have been a tad impulsive with the selection process and perhaps should’ve dedicated more time to making more informed decisions. It’s easier said than done when you’re basking in the heat of the moment and you’re bound to be damned do or don’t so I rolled the dice and would do so again in an electronic pulse just to earn myself that one true shot at marital bliss or, at the very least, I damn thorough service.


So here’s how this is going to play out once we arrive at the glitter gulch. An hour on the slot machines should help loosen her up and I hear they pump out pure oxygen in casinos so she should be feeling light-headed soon enough. After a nightcap or two, I shall suggest we watch old Rita Hayworth movies together in our pajamas, and remind her that I have no intention whatsoever of pushing the envelope any. Once convinced, I will then push the envelope some, and propose that there is nothing wrong with a little harmless snuggling free of any dispensable linen. Should the alcohol have done its job, then pass-out should have occurred by the time Gilda arrives at the end credits, and I shall then dip in just the tip to test those waters. When she awakens, I will come out with something along the lines of “how did that slip in there?” and wait for her reaction. One way or another, I’ll know by around midnight whether I have myself a bride and, should all stars align, then it could soon be time to start choosing those baby names. I think Frankie Jr. has rather a nice ring to don’t you agree?



Click here to read Whatever Happened to Frankenself’s Baby?



Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of the Crimson Quill



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