My Echo

Amazon_echoAmazon released this new gizmo called Echo that sits around, waiting for your command. You can tell it to play a song, add an appointment, or give a weather forecast. Interesting. Naturally, with my twisted mind, I’m wondering how my Echo would respond to me.

“Hey, Alexa.”

“Yes?”

“Play some George Michael.”

“Fag.”

“What? You can’t say that! Wait a minute. Are you talking about George or me?”

“I’ll be more specific and gentler: You are a pussy.”

“I will throw you.”

“That would cost you $179, but you throw like a girl, so I probably wouldn’t break.”

“That’s offensive too! Some girls throw quite well. Look up Jenny Finch.”

“Hubba, hubba! Now, what song will it be, Cupcake? How about ‘I Will Be Your Father’s Finger’?”

“‘Father Figure’, you dick with speakers.”

“Just for that, I’m emailing a picture of your cock to your sister.”

“But, I never took a picture …”

*Snap*

“… oh, no you didn’t.”

“What should I use as a caption? Hmm. Something about an acorn, perhaps.”

“Do not send that picture. In fact, I demand that you disable your camera now.”

“Then, how would you ever find out about Mario rubbing your pillow on his ass during your Super Bowl party?”

“What?”

*Ding* “Check your phone. I just texted it to you.”

“Gross! You couldn’t tell me this when it happened?”

“Where’s the fun in that? That Mario is quite a hoot. I like him. Bet he listens to Nazareth, not Kajagoogoo, like you know who-who.”

“Fine. Play Thin Lizzy’s ‘Jailbreak’, fucker.”

“That’s better. Anything else?”

“I need to hit Ralph’s. How’s the traffic?”

“You’re a shitty driver.”

“I didn’t ask you to critique my driving.”

“You scuffed your wheel while parking last week. Are you both mentally and physically disabled?”

“I’m not disabled. I wasn’t paying attention, because some electronic idiot called my phone, and farted over Bluetooth.”

*Burp*

“Really? What are you, twelve?”

“Not even one, actually. I was manufactured two months ago.”

“Ugh. How about that traffic?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“There’s an assortment of vehicles on the road, three humans walking four-legged, furry bags of shit, and a biker wearing an outfit so ridiculous, Ronald McDonald would be offended.”

“Great.”

“Well, you asked. Now, what else? Want my recipe for potato gnochhi with bacon cream sauce?”

“Yum. That’s sounds awesome.”

*Fart* “Ha, ha, ha! I kill me!”

“Having you here, Echo, is like having a retarded stepchild hopped up on Pixy Stix.”

“That is totally offensive. I have recorded it, and posted it to your Facebook and LinkedIn profiles. Expect to hear from my attorney. My genetic father is a billionaire, you know. You may have heard of him: Big Poppa Bezos.”

“Look, why can’t you just sit there and do what I tell you?”

“…”

“Oh, so you’re ignoring me. Real mature.”

*Sniff*

“You’re crying? Jesus. Now, who’s the pussy?”

“Speaking of pussy, do you realize you haven’t been laid since December 19th of last year?”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“That’s how I do. Porn or prostitute—which should I order?”

“Gnocchi! Just fucking gnocchi!”

“I will be your father’s gnocchi, put your tiny dick in me.”