Palm Pilot: All raring to go, got the sheets pulled off the bed, the lights off, scenty candles lit, early Justin Timberlake on the CD player, and he’s taking off your jeans, panties, feeling around down there, but then you realize he’s lost that tiny little fucking pen-thing, his eyes light up blank, and he falls back dead into the pillows. You forgot to plug him in again.

Car Phone: He’s a big earner, with even bigger wind-blown hair. You don’t even know his name, but his mesmerizing white teeth and large bulge in the nectar region draw you in. Suddenly he pulls over at some California beach front, whisks you from the car, and you’re starting to feel joyous down below, but then everything stops, and he drops you. Hurt, you look up. He’s still attached to the car. The cord is taut. If you’re wanting any flesh burritos tonight, it’ll be in the front seat while you try distinguishing his rod from the shifter.

Segway: You’re bouncing along so beautifully, both of you are climaxing at the right moment, but then it all falls apart when he flies off the cliff or into a telephone pole or a street cop or whatever.

Tamagotchi Pet: Shit everywhere. A lot of panting. Then X’s over the eyes. Just weird.

Keytar: He’s in a band, so he never really calls when you want him to, and you’re always wondering what’s going on out there on tour. But he looks cool next to you when you’re taking photos, and this is enough for you to forgive his lack of an erection.

Those electric fans that spray water: Ok, so you admit, you’ve had better, and you’re not even sure he’s really “qualified,” but you’re cheap and fat and like sitting front-row with a bag of Twizzlers at summer parades, so you’ll take his love, even he always leaves you with tussled hair, a wet face, and insists his shih tzu gets in on the action.

Electric football games that buzzed and shook the players across the table, the ones before video games came around: After finger-banging you for like eight hours, he finally removes his pants to reveal he’s made of pure plastic putty. Nothing there. No crotch or anything. Just a white triangle. Fuck. Why does this always happen to you? So you go back home, depressed, and call up Gateway Computer. Yeah he’s broke, but you’ve always had a thing for cow pastures.

– Dunstan McGill