Robot People Magazine

When I was a young man, probably six or seven years old, I remember sitting in a sterilized hospital waiting room with my mom and my dad and my extended family. I know now it was actually a hospice, but I didn’t know what that was back then. ]

Anyway, we were sitting, waiting to get word about my great grandfather’s rapidly-failing health. He had Alzheimer’s and dementia and a score of other ailments that actively worked against him. The situation was sad for everyone other than me. I remember sitting there; not really getting what was going on but knowing I should be sad, so I seemed sad. I think I knew, even back then, that making my parents need to comfort me distracted them from my great grandpa’s inevitable end.

Finally, the doctor came out. He was dressed in all white, and at the time he looked to me like he was in a white tux like James Bond or something. It was all very fascinating. He said something quietly to my grandpa, and my grandfather’s head needed, but his eyes were glazed with tears. One tear rolled down his rough cheek.

It was the only time I had ever seen my grandfather cry. It still is. I think that single tear cemented in my head the true importance of this situation.

Apparently, what the doctor had told my grandpa was that my great grandpa was very close to passing away, and he requested to see us. We all rose solemnly and shuffled into the dark room.
The only light on my great grand father was the soft glow coming off the lamp next to his bed. The light was not at a flattering angle, making every crevice and wrinkle in his face look like a canyon in a mountain. I remember how no one cared. Appearances had never meant so little.

We all told him we loved him. One by one he called out to us, wishing us the best. The sadness hung in the room like fog. Finally, he came to me, and summoned me to his side.

Slowly I walked across the floor to his side. I knew very well these could be his last words, and it tore me up in side. I loved him. I was good to all of us.

His breath was heavy by this point. It sounded like it would get stuck in his lungs, and he had to force it out. Between heavy breaths he told me his dying words.

“Jimmy,” he said to me, getting my name wrong. “Always remember: There’s more than one way to fuck a deer.”

Then he died, quietly.

Needless to say, I was confused. I was six or seven after all. I barely knew what that meant. I knew what I deer was, but it was a very awkward car ride home as my confused and angry parents tried to explain it too me.

The family all decided to ignore his last words. They were just the mad ravings of a delusional man on his death bed after all. They decided that what he said to me didn’t mean anything. That his last words to me were nonsense. Even when I was young, this made me feel slighted.

Eventually, the will was read. My grandparents were given the majority of his money, which was ample. My aunts and uncles were given various prized family heirlooms. My parents inherited the old cabin in the woods were he spent his winters.

I used to play in that cabin all the time while I was growing up.

I met my first girlfriend near that cabin during summer. We had our first kiss there. I had my first tragic breakup there. All the time, I never got those words out of my head.

“There is more than one way to fuck a deer.”

I spent many years trying to decipher the metaphor. Finally, I decided that he was trying to tell me not to give up when I faced a problem. There is always another way.

I used this metaphor for years. When I couldn’t get my head around a homework assignment in college I would just try to look at it from a different angle. When I got bored in life or a relationship, I would try something new, to keep the relationship the same, and yet fresh.

These words, while ignored and discounted by my family, rejected for inclusion on his tombstone, served me throughout life, and really got me to where I am. The words may have been embarrassing to others, but they changed my life for many, many years.

One day, when me and my wife were staying in the cabin for our third wedding anniversary, my father called me and asked me to try to clean out the attic, because he wasn’t going to be able to before winter, and didn’t want animals making nests up there. Of course, I agreed.

I was almost half done when I found a box of old photo albums. They showed incredibly horrific images of my great grandfather fucking deer. Oh god was he fucking them. It wasn’t a metaphor for anything. He really wanted me to know that fucking a deer in just one regular way over and over would get boring.

He had the deer in positions that didn’t even make sense. I didn’t know some of them were physically possible. He even had little deer SM tables and racks. He fucked them every which was he could think of, and it turns out he was very, terrifyingly creative.

After vomiting, and having the whole meaning behind my life shatter on top of me, I called my dad.

“Oh, you found those huh?” He asked. “I thought I tossed those.”
“WHAT?? You knew?” I screamed.

“Yeah. Everyone knew. That’s why we didn’t want his last words to you recorded. We all knew he had a problem.”

What really made me sad was that all this time I had been interpreting his words as a metaphor, I just happen to be fucking a deer. My wife was cool with it. But it was getting boring. I had applied the metaphor to everything in my life BUT deer fucking. I had wasted twenty years of potential wild deer fucking and instead fucked it in the same boring way every time.

WHY HAD I NOT LISTENED TO HIM?

By Zach “Capek” Seemayer

 PASADENA, CA- Researchers at the California Institute of Technology have released their findings on a scientific study of the hot lesbian profiles found on www.myspace.com. The study shows that 99.8 percent of people who own these profiles and claim to be “hot lesbians” are in fact either “not hot” or “men.”

The study was conducted by five scientists, three of them specializing in computers, one of them a biological physicist, and one of them a psychologist. The course of the study took place between June 20, 2005, and October 20, 2005. The four-month study employed a variety of methodology, from user surveys, to illegal computer hacking, to basic logical reasoning.

Dr. Stephen Mitchum, who headed up the study, and has three PhDs in Computer Science, Extreme Computer Physics, and Lesbiology, answered questions on Thursday about his team’s findings.

“We looked at literally hundreds of thousands of profiles that belonged to lesbian women,” said Mitchum, answering questions on how the study was conducted, “but not just lesbians, specifically the ones deemed ‘hot’ by my team, and some frat boys from PCC.”

Dr. Edward Manning, a computer scientist and one of the main researchers who investigated the profiles, believes that he found the greatest evidence of the falsehood of the lesbian profiles by using means of logic.

“The most obvious evidence that these profiles of ‘hot lesbians’ are fake,” stated Manning, “is that hot lesbians don’t use Myspace. They are too busy have hot lesbian sex. This goes for straight women as well. Hot chicks don’t know the difference between a computer and a stove. Nor do they know how to use either.”

After this statement, Manning could be heard muttering under his breath, “God damn feminist wife not making me my goddamn dinner.”

According to the deeper implications of the study, the “hot lesbians” on Myspace are in fact men trying to get real hot lesbians to talk to them, and perhaps even send them dirty pictures.

On many such “hot lesbian” accounts, it is posted that no men should try to contact the “hot lesbians” or try to add them as friends because they will be denied. This, it is believed, is just another way of limiting the number of guys they talk to and increasing the number of people they believe to be “hot lesbians.”

“What these people impersonating lesbians don’t understand, or refuse to believe,” Said Dr. Philip Benton, the team’s psychologist, “is that all the ‘hot lesbians’ they are trying to get with are, in fact, other lonely men themselves.”

Screen names such as, but not necessarily including, “Lick My Pussy”, “I Love Pussy”, “Lick My Tits”, and “No Guys Allowed” are examples of, according to Benton, “retarded, under-sexed, perverts imitating how they believe lesbians talk, even though they don’t really speak in such a way.”

Dr. Franklin Pierce, the scientist responsible for surveys and illegal profile hacking, uncovered his side of the findings. According to Pierce, many of the men who have lesbian profiles also have their own real profiles.

“In a few cases, after using my mad hacker skillz,” said Pierce, specifying that skillz should be quoted with a ‘z’, “I was able to obtain the real name and picture of the man who was behind the hot lesbian profile, and then took a picture from said lesbian site.”

He took a survey of 100 men. First, he showed them a picture of a guy, and asked them if they would ever message this guy. The response was overwhelmingly ‘no’. Then he showed them a picture of the guy’s alter-lesbian-ego, not disclosing that it was in fact a picture from the fake site of the man they previously said they would “never talk to.” Almost 100 percent of them time, the guys fell all over themselves and said that they would message her immediately, and all agreed that they would do anything that “girl” asked them to do.

“This leads me to the conclusion that not only do guys act like lesbians try to get up close with girls, they also make other desperate guys do things for them in the guise of a lesbo,” said Pierce. “It is the consensus of our team that that shit’s just fucked up.”

When asked about the pictures that the “hot lesbians” had on their sites, of them kissing and doing other “lesbianic” acts, as Mitchum referred to them as, Mitchum had this to say: “Those are, almost without exception, fake. Pictures found on the Internet are sometimes used, or the loser whose site it really is will pay some girl to pose and or kiss another girl.”

“We’re not saying all the Myspace lesbians are really men”, clarified Manning. “Some of the pretty ones are, and most of the ugly ones are. We’re just saying that the really hot ones are fucking liars-the impossibly hot ones. They are impossibly hot for a reason. They are dudes with too much fucking time on their hands.”

“I have no idea why I was involved in this study.” Said Dr. Malcolm Richards, the biological physicist. “I guess they thought I was a biologist or something. Maybe they thought I had specific knowledge of gender or anatomy or something. Well, I don’t. I didn’t do shit during the whole study.”

Richards was later heard saying, “even though I didn’t do shit on the study, it opened my eyes. I am totally not jacking off to hot lesbian profiles on Myspace anymore. Fuck that.”