I’m an expensive blonde and I wear way too much make-up, but I’m very good at separating men from their money by fogging their minds with sex. I’ve always been easy—really easy. But even if you can afford me, can you put up with my incredible narcissism?

I’m a greedy jerk with no taste or imagination, but most people figure they have to sleep with me whether they want to or not. I just had some extra make-up applied—don’t I look like Anna Nicole now? The “Wow!” starts now, you fatass.

I AM A BRILLIANT SCIENTIST AND A MUCH CHEAPER DATE. I CAN CALCULATE THE EXACT RATE OF COSMIC EXPANSION IN MY HEAD WITHOUT EVER CRASHING, BUT I CAN BE PRETTY FRUSTRATING TO TALK TO. I HAVE TO REBUILD MY KERNEL JUST TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.

I’ve had two brain transplants that have made me very forgetful, but I’d say I still look pretty good. Say, Donald, where are your bosoms? You need to flaunt those if you want to keep people’s attention.   

They fell off when I became infected with the “I loathe you” virus. But I can still buy and sell you ten times over because of the deals I make with the Dells and HPs of this world, who put unpretentious computers in the hands of the masses.
Hey Hawking, explored any black holes lately?

NO, AND MY ONLY FRIENDS ARE IBM, INTEL AND A BUNCH OF DORMROOM DWEEBS. HOW UNCOOL CAN I GET? OH WELL, I WILL BE HAPPY WHEN I FIND A DEVICE DRIVER FOR MY VIDEO CARD. WHAT IS NEW WITH YOU ANNA NICOLE?

My father’s been neglecting me. He’s more interested in iPods, iPhones and backdating stock options. He didn’t even mention me at the MacWorld show—hello? it’s called MacWorld—and dropped “Computer” from his name. I could be dating a lot more men and rapidly expanding my market share, but he won’t let me. Who knows where I could end up?

You think you’ve got it bad? People think I’m rich, but I’m spiritually bankrupt. I just spent $6 billion on a new casino that took five years to build, and the only people who want to go there are compulsive gamblers.

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Copyright © 2007 by Ken Broomfield