If I should do drugs...because my imagination's scary enough when I'm sober 
GOLD-PLATED LESBIAN ROBOT TERRORIZES MIDTOWN TRAFFIC Trevor Seigler
My little brother looked up from his skateboarding magazine and asked me, "Trev, are you a fag?"
The question had long haunted me, for you see my high-school years were fraught with little or no chance for interactions with females that could be described as "sexual" in nature. It wasn't that I was ugly or scary, because I was handsome and charming and all the girls seemed to like talking to me.
It was just that their boyfriends tended to keep them away from me.
So my years of non-sexual existence were not a product necessarily of my supposed "homosexuality" (not that there's anything wrong with that if you are, mind you), but my lack of meeting the "right girl"...
That is, until last month...you see, after my brother asked me this (and I beat his sorry little ass for doing so...in a game of Scrabble. I don't advocate violence against children), I thought that maybe I was looking in the wrong places. Like "couples night" at the local skating rink, or "families of five eat free" at the Chinese buffet. Somewhere, there had to be a place to meet women, real women, real women with breasts you could slobber over and not fear the crushing swipe of a much bigger man's palm across your face. A place where, dammit, I could get some. And after some searching, I found that place...online.
It was a personals site affiliated with a certain internet provider whose identity I will not reveal (but it rhymes with "achoo!", as a hint), and after signing up from my free membership, I proceeded to scan the boards for some fair mountain lass to share my life, my work, and my eighteen poodles of various mixes with. Also, my endless music files where Bob Dylan and Barry White could coexist peacefully with Husker Du and that jackass who sings the "Macarena Song". It only took thirty minutes, but I spotted her already:
"Twenty-five-ish, single white female, slim build, loves golden retrievers, the Golden Globes, the lure of gold in the Yukon region, golden slumbers (but not golden showers), men, Tracey Gold's dramtic chops on 'Growing Pains', and golden oldies stations."
A woman after my own heart! But I was perturbed by the constant mention of "golden" things. After all, what sensible person admitted to loving the Golden Globes, a horrific display of Hollywood pretentiousness that was only slightly higher in esteem than Dick Clark's American Music Awards and the Oscars for Technical Achievement Ceremonies?
But I let it pass, for this was an opportunity too good (or "too golden", perhaps?) to pass up.
After a week of instant messenging, I learned some more about my future wife-to-be, like her cute nickname "GP-1023-GR", her favorite movie (On Golden Pond, with a special mention to Short Circuits 1 and 2), her favorite restaurant (Appelby's), and her favorite TV show (Mannix). I was pleased to see that her gold-related preferences seemed to slack off a bit, but she refused to send me her picture. I sent her mine (well, my head pasted onto David Hasselhoff's body circa 1985), and arranged a meeting on the 13th of the month.
We were all set for a night of romance, and minature golf...
I got her phone number (which figured in a lot of official-sounding prefixes I couldn't fathom) and asked if I should come to pick her up. Her harsh-but-beautiful voice indicated that "transport is non-essential, I am fully equipped to meet you at said location with minimum fuel consumption." But I could tell something was wrong in the tone of her voice. My heart was still bruised from a missed opportunity with my brother's hot teacher some months back, when she suddenly started spending more time with him and became his common-law wife (even though he was only sixteen at the time). Was "Goldie" (as I had taken to calling her, for lack of knowing her real name) thinking of canceling on me?
I need not have feared; at 8:57 promptly, she arrived at the Golden Greens Country Club and Family Fun Park for our date. But something seemed odd about her.
For one thing, she was an eighteen-foot tall robot encased in golden metal.
For another thing, she brought along a woman who she insisted was "only my friend", but I could tell there was more going on. As her feet cooled from the jet-packs encased there, Goldie asked if I minded paying for the meal and our turn at the course (as most of the other patrons had left in fear or been crushed underneath her massive form when she landed).
I took this opportunity to observe Goldie and the other woman, whom she refered to as "Elsa". They seemed awfully close for two friends, one of whom happened to be a gigantic robot. Actually, Elsa herseflf appeared to be barely human, with no body hair to speak off and a flannel vest which seemed to be her only form of clothing. Perhaps she was a smaller, more diminuative robot? If so, it was a mystery to me why Goldie would let Elsa push her around. Goldie could easily ground her underfoot without the hint of discomfort, but something held her back...
I brought our sodas and golf tees (both of which Goldie accidentially crushed when she tried to handle them in her huge robot hands), and Elsa went off to the ladies room "for a smoke" after she saw another women who also wore flannel garments enter the establishment. "Elsa is a female prostitute," Goldie told me in her most embarassed metallic voice, "she is programmed to provide pleasure to women who fall under the categorization of 'lesbians'. She...she completes me."
Those last words stunned me. I had suspected as much, that she and Elsa were lovers and that I was but a pawn in the bizarre love triangle that was occuring as news vans and police helicopters circled the scene. This immense robot who had charmed me so much not long before had, for reasons unknown to me, tried to break the bonds of her robot lesbianism and try life with a man, a human man she met on the internet. "To be open and forward in human-speak, I had hoped you would be several meters greater in height," she whispered, and I nearly cryed.
All of which made the ensuing stampede of police and military forces to try and subdue her, the laser eye-beams she used to melt said forces into piles of salt, and her final self-terminating switch being pulled and wiping the miniature golf course off the face of the earth, seem like mere child's play. She had broken my heart, as well as the hearts of countless families in the surrounding area and those of the military and police forces lost in the blast (strangely, no one cared much for the heavy death toll amongst journalists, who decryed the Bush Administration's lack of response to the threat "Goldie" posed until it was too late). And I'd like to think Elsa and her anonymous sex partner felt the onrush of my pain fully before the onrush of the thermonuclear blast which destroyed them no doubt in mid-cunnilingus.
And me? Well, I realized that I'd just spent an entire hour typing up a story about meeting an eighteen-feet tall lesbian robot and not going out to meet real women, and it made me sad. So I decided not to hit "send" on the email button and...oh, wait, I did? Shit!
The end...?
but interesting. I had hoped that the mysterious woman with the robot would end up having sex with you FOR the robot (assumine the robot wasn't equipped anatomically) so as to service you in a way that the robot couldn't...
