Aubrey was eight years old. Why was he being

Aubrey was eight years old. Why was he being bothered about college? To hell with a career in a future mad world! Unfortunately he was cursed with a cool mom: Helicopter Mummy.

Helicopter Mummy's dual rotors counter-rotated as she hovered busily about little Aubrey, spreading the scent of myrrh and bitumen. "Don't you want to get into Harvard!?" "Mum, I'm

like, so hungraay! transmitted on an unsecured channel the quad-rotor, dual-gyroscoped teen girl, overloading her port engine above the nominal range. Her available power dipped to

30% and she collapsed into sleep mode until somebody swivelled her mouse a bunch. Being a weird funky cyberteen girl had it's perks but being hungry literally meant you'd die soon.

But that's just how it was when you run on a lithium battery. She hated the feeling of being rebooted, knowing someone else had plugged her in. Even worse, a wardrobe malfunction

might cause one of the blinking oranges she was using as pasties that night to flash out of sequence due to low battery power! But she didn't have time to check it before showtime

and there she was up on stage with her flickering orange pasties messing up the message they were supposed to be spelling out. Instead of whatever, it read Fuc(orange flickering) y

our do(orange flickering)uts. It was the rudest baking he'd ever seen, though he'd never been to America's Shame: an erotic bakery. "What's in the pasties?" he asked. "Spinach."

"Spinch" Screamed Popeye from across the exotic bakery. He looked very aroused already. His eyes and veins bulging. I realized I shouldn't have entered this shop at all but

"when in Rome." I was here and Popeye had taken a little blue pill with his spinach and his eyes were on Olive Oyl. I just couldn't not not look. Bluto was there too, tumescent.