The Future…
          Mankind has been enslaved by… stuff.
          Yadda.
          Yadda.
          Yadda.

          “Why did they design it this way?” I asked.
          “It’s all about it having the most nerve-endings” replied S3xyBabe40998.
          “Oh, before we go any further… about your name?”
          “Yeah?”
          “Seeing as S3xyBabe1 through 40997 were taken I’m imagining there’s almost certainly going to be some confusion at a future dinner party.  What’s your actual name…? You know… the name you’d use if you weren’t trying to be... irritating?”
          “Sandy Smith” replied S3xyBabe40998 meekly.
          “See Sandy… that’s much less socially awkward isn’t it?”
          “What do I call you now?” asked Sandy.
          “You can still call me Studly9inch762460875967958759876875978973.”
          “Do I have to do the numbers?”
          “Yes.”
          “Why, there are only two of us?”
          “Because I don’t want you talking to me Sandy…  All I want to know is why I have to fuck a toaster to use Google…”
          “Because it’s The Ma…”
          “Careful Sandy… remember the legal issues…”
          “It’s the… er…”
          “It’s the fucking Internet Sandy.  Just because you can jerk off to something in 3D does not make it any less pathetic and geeky.  You don’t get to try and rebrand this… it’s still a pathetic den of nerd-fuckery.”
          “Oh…”
          “By the way Sandy - I can tell you’re actually a sixteen year old boy trying to pretend to be a twenty-four year old lesbian.”
          “But… the name…”
          “I’m standing next to you Sandy.  The closest you’ve ever come to munching carpet was that time the nasty bully’s force-fed you the rug they’d all taken turns pissing on.  You are no more a lipstick lesbian than I am able to look upon you without being sick in my mouth.”
          “Can I go?” asked Sandy.
          “First tell me why I have my dick in the fucking toaster?”
          “We thought it would be cooler and more futuristic” smiled Sandy.
          “Sandy… I have to thrust five hundred times just to bring up Google.  Every single one of those thrusts depresses the mechanism and superheats my cock…  Where’s the keyboard?”
          “It’s in this little pull-out drawer… but we think the Sensofeedback Interface is a more immersive and tactile…”
          “Listen Sandy… I’m opening the door now… You’re going to go outside and try and talk to a girl.  It’ll be tough at first… I’m not going to lie Sandy… they will hate you.  None of them will speak to you.  Even those that feel pity will be turned off by your revolting pasty face and bloated form… You’ll be quickly convinced they’ll never fuck you… But…”
          “But?” asked Sandy hopefully.
          “But I can’t stand to be in the same room as you.”
          I shove Sandy outside and he’s immediately torn apart by something robotic or something…  Just for the sake of argument let’s pretend it’s a gigantic robotic vagina that breathes fire, shoots missiles from its hole, and only has one weak spot.  It is remarkably confident that Sandy will never find it.

          “Get suited up, we’re going in…”
          “I’m sorry… just who the fuck are you exactly?” I ask the anorexic looking gentleman wearing a monk’s outfit.
          “I’m HotladChelseaFan302” he tells me.
          I sigh.
          “What does your mother call you when you piss the sheets?”
          “Stewart…”
          “Well ‘Stewart’… why, unless it was to go to your funeral, would I… ‘suit up’?”
          “We’re going to take down the evil overlords…” said Stewart meekly.
          “Translate that into something I could listen to without wanting to pay a drunken longshoreman to fist you so violently you split apart like a pistachio?”
          “We’re going to stop the evil force that’s enslaved mankind…”
          “I don’t hit women” I smile.
          “Eh?”
          I snap and walk over and punch him in the kidney.
          “Ow…”
          “Did that hurt Stewart?”
          “Yes…”
          “Then imagine how much fun it’ll be pissing blood for a fortnight.”
          Stewart appears to be growing angry.
          “You just try that in the Ma…”
          “Internet” I quickly correct.
          He gives me a filthy look.
          “And, dear Stewart, if you think shooting your fucking robot frog in the face on some shitty little game will be anywhere near as rewarding as fucking up your urinary tract... you’re sadly, sadly mistaken.”
          “In the Ma…”
          I cough.
          “In the… Internet…” he says with disgust, “I am superhuman and unstoppable.”
          “Are you in the Internet right now Stewart?” I ask.
          “No…”
          “So do you think that my introducing this soldering iron into your urethra would hurt and do you serious long-term, irreversible harm?”
          “Probably…”
          “So maybe you should reconsider asking me to tackle the forces of darkness…  Especially when the forces of darkness are, doubtlessly, actually just a bunch of people who did a photoshop of you being fucked in the arse by David Hassellhoff.”
          “They have enslaved mankind” he says, coldly, his face a mass a jutting cheekbones that remind me to donate to the World Food Program.
          “Are these people out to disrupt me in my efforts to illegally download the episode of Top Gear I missed yesterday?”
          “No… but…”
          “If you try and ‘but’ me one more time I will express my anger with such ecstatic force and imagination that I’ll have to sieve your corpse to try and find the watch I shall lose inside you in the process.”
          Stewart shifts into what he believes to be a kung fu stance.
          “They’re using us to fuel themselves… We’re nothing but batteries!”
          “You just used an exclamation mark Stewart.  Come here.”
          “Ow.”
          “That will not grow back Stewart.  In the years to come you will miss it.”
          “They’re using us as batteries” he protests meekly.
          “Why would they do that Stewart?  Why wouldn’t they use… batteries?  Or nuclear power?  Or maybe some kind of large petrol generator in a shed?  Why, the fuck, would they use the scale equivalent of a potato-powered clock?”
          “Er…”
          “Yes, I’ll admit you can power a shitty little digital clock with a potato… but that’s about all you can get out of a potato…  If there was some secret wealth of power in there the Irish would do something constructive instead of being drunk.”
          “There’s lots of us…” he attempts.
          “Yes… but unless everybody else’s testicles are made out of uranium I fail to see why it wouldn’t be simpler just to buy a bag of coal every so often.”
          “We’re slaves…”
          “Are we made to toil in the fields and fight each other in oiled combat?”
          “No…”
          “What then?”
          “We’re forced to live in a perfect recreation of the world thirty years ago…  Forced to live a lie they will never know about… Or at least we were, until we were freed…”
          “You mean not the current world which isn’t a scorched heap of rubble where robot vaginas tear apart virgins?”
          “Yes.”
          “You mean the one where there was nice food, cable TV, vibrating massage chairs, and several million prostitutes globally?”
          “Yes.”
          “The one where I had a nice house and occasionally got laid?”
          “Yes…”
          “The one I lived in until you freed me to sit in this…?”
          “Super Advanced Hoverraft…” said Stewart eagerly.
          “This… thing… along with a bunch of very bony people who smell bad, dress in rags, and expect death at any moment…”
          “I’m a healthy weight…”
          “No, no you’re not Stewart… If you were a healthy weight I wouldn’t be able to do this…”
          I grab the bulge of his liver and squeeze hard between finger and thumb.
          “But, anyway, so you… freed me?” I continue once he’s stopped vomiting.
          “Yes… to fight to free the others…”
          “Do you think they’d appreciate living in a charred wasteland with no food, only bulky nerds or frail Goths, and… what are these blisters again?”
          “Radiation poisoning.”
          “Can you plug me back in… or maybe shoot me in the face?”
          “Don’t you want to be free?”
          “Fuck a toaster Stewart” I sigh and start 3D Googling methods of suicide.
          The page gets halfway through loading and two thousand pop-ups appear and crash the entire universe for several billion people.  I pull the plug out and wander off to angrily masturbate in the bathroom.