Today I interviewed the world’s first living Pokemon while “she” sipped Bouillabaisse in a French cafe.
“What started you on your plastic surgery addiction? I asked.
“Well, my lumberjack boyfriend and I were watching the Perseids naked, and out of nowhere, he told me I needed labiaplasty.”
“Yeah,” she teared up. “I was so despondent that I staggered out and got a Brazilian wax. But that milquetoast said it wasn’t enough. So I went for the labiaplasty. Here’s the before and after pictures.” She shoves them my way.
“Oh.” I cringe. “Did you get back together?”
“No that Beelzebub said I had to do more to keep a man of his caliber. The melancholia made me so exhausted, it’s like I had narcolepsy or something. I heard stories that breastfeeding makes you feel better, but I misunderstood I had breast augmentation.”
“What?” I held in a chuckle.
“The happiness that the surgery gave me was like a geyser. I wanted to…what’s the word…pronk through the air like a gazelle. It’s like it was enlightening the interstitial spaces of my mind.”
“Then I heard about this doctor here in France and I knew I wanted him to transmogrify me into a hummingbird. So I got my passport and left the same day. Or it was actually the next day because it was the thirteenth and I have Triskaidekaphobia.”
“And I had to compete with that Lizardman microfiber-looking nemesis of mine, so with the Pokemon craze I decided to become Pikachu.”