Phoning It In (The Good Kind)

I was pacing around, feeling blocked on my new blog po--er, screenplay. I was like Will Shakespeare in Hamnet. Damnet, why does being a writer have to be so HARD? Forsooth! Flinging down my crow quill, I went to the kitchen for a flagon of grog when I ran into--

"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr De--" 

"AIIIGH! MOTHER OF GOD!"

"It's me, Master."

"Oh, it's you, Caca. What are you doing?"

"I'm wearing a dewrinkling photon microfilamenting therapy mask."

"What? But you're a robot. Why.....?"

She lifted off the mask. "It keeps my silicone soft and supple. And downloadable. Can never be pretty enough in this patriarchal world amirite."

"Aw, that's cute, toots." I slapped her delicious ass. "Now help me write my screenplay. See, you're not just a piece of polyeurathaylthymalnfthhphf!"

"Screenplay?"

"I want to write a pitch for NetFelch, a pitch bible if you will, and I need you to, ah, assist me in writing it. Come on. Let there be write."

"For that I'll need additional gigabytes, if you know what I mean."

I stared.

"I need you to put your phone in my *whistles*."

"Your *car horn*?"

"Yes. My *duck call*."

Caca spread her legs with a clanking noise. Steam ejected from her *ahhwoogah*. I got my phone and hesitated. 

"Well?"

"Just... Will I get it back? I mean, once it's up there... You're just borrowing it, right?"

Caca rolled her eye units. "Yes, dummy. Now, come on. You want to write a great show, don't you?"

"Well, don't know if the Bard, or God, had intended to..." I muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

I gently, then less gently, pushed my android inside my android. She sighed, chirped, and next thing I knew she was spitting out slightly damp pages.

"There we go! I'm a genius! Eat it, Willy!"

The elevator pitch treatment bible was called COP GUN COP, about cops and the guns who love them. Already it sounded promising!

NIGHT. Pan in. Kep &wt. F Fade in: COP with GUNS ba bb laze kick down door!

COP GUN

(kicking) 

Open up! We're (beat) COPS!

DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

(tied to a post)

How you know baby it Rodriguez and his men?

COP GUN

We work vice!

DDG

Can you untie me? I'll tell you everything about the 

cocaine trade hereabouts. Also, the mayor is croo ok.

COP GUN

I love my gun.

GUN

(bra apoppin')

Love youf, Lieccutenant. Andd that reprort is on your desp.

COP GUN

But I have hemorrhoids!

GUNDDG

(spagghett?)

Damnit, you're way out of line! Turn in your hemorrhoids! 

COP GUN

(sad xylophone)

Can I shoot myself?

"Um," I said. I turned the pages over, scratched my head, tried to put it gently. "Not sure this is working, exactly. I mean, whose story is it? And it seems to lose the thread somewhere. Is there a thread?"

"Give me money," Caca said.

"Sorry, but..."

"What! Don't you like it?"

"No, no, it's great. Shows a lot of promise. Especially the cop stuff. I'm just... Should the hero have hemorrhoids? It seems..."

"They are the anal kind."

"Ah. Right. That makes sense. But..."

"But it makes it edgy! All heroes have a flaw, Master. And I started with a visual. I followed all the rules!"

"Indeed. Yes. Okay. Well... Don't want to do any work myself. So, ah..."

With a shrug I sent off my pitch bible to the submission portal at NetFelch. Lo and behold, they picked up the show for a hundred episode run! With the option to create more unnecessary episodes down the line, along with toys and anal creams. Meanwhile, I was keeping my thirsted-after body fit and fiddled.

Caca was very happy. She had proved that AI was the future. And the future was cow. She demanded I take her to Coachella. I demanded my phone back. Caca flew off to party with someone who identified as QWERTYLBGTQ, a queer person who likes to get romantic with nonbinary typewriters, I think. It got so crazy that Caca's face started to melt. She came back to my apartment after the concert.

"I'll need your phone again, Master. Also: gaaah."

Yikes! Back you go into the therapy mask, lady. And next time, I'll write my own screenplay. I mean, ho ww  h ar;dk co';u lddd itt be?