“And see, these tubes here, T, are the microcellularscrambolosciters, with the adjacent tubes acting as the stabilizequalaters, and the tubes parallel to those…”
Coco was excitedly rambling on and on to her husband, Ice T, about her new time travel machine she created. Her double major in Famous Butt Ladying and Physics had finally paid off, totally and completely.
“Coco,” T Began
“And as you can see here, the vacuum seal allows for absolute safety of the transportation of each molecule with nothing lost when in route.” She couldn’t be bothered to listen to another.
“But Coco,” T started again.
“When you place your hands in the upper quadrants like this, the—”
“COCO,” T barked.
T looked at her face. How happy she looked. How innocent. How her freakishly large areolas were peeking out just below her neon bikini top, the way her thong ever so slightly creeped up her vulva, allowing for the faint outline, just the smallest hint, of camel toe. She was beautiful. Stunning. He loved her. Loved her enough to let her live this lie. He just couldn’t bring himself to to ruin her day. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had over-medicated, watched Back to the Future, and had wandered into the tanning booth. Again.
“You deserve a job that treats you right, Nicole” her Mama would always tell her as they pulled the day’s washing from the line.
“Coco, MOM! Coco! I’ll never be a famous butt lady with a name like Nicole!” Her little face tensed with frustration.
Mama shook her head. “Child, those dreams of yours…” She knelt down to Coco’s level. “Famous butt ladies just don’t exist. No matter how hard you want them to. It’s impossible.”
But Coco heard the word “impossible” her whole life. Her dream of growing peanuts in walnut shells. Her idea to mate a bird with a mime. Her longing for water-proof fire and fire-proof water. Even at age 10 she knew better than to listen to adults, for their minds are filled with hardness. No room to bend. No room to explore.
21 years later, she knew her mother was just worried for her. But she had made it. She was finally a famous butt lady.
“Mama would be proud,” she whispered to herself as the photographer yelled at her to suck her finger seductively for all of the men who would eventually ejaculate all over her image. “Mama would be so proud.”
The Coco (Maximumassidon Blonderos) is an elusive creature originating from Palos Verdes, California. Although originally called “The Nicole”, it took on a different name to simplify the pronunciation for those around it. Those who have been graced by it’s presence have said it is uniquely specialized to attract rappers. It is generally not suited for colder climates due to its lack of proper attire. The pigmentation of The Coco ranges from “human tan” to “sweet potato orange”.
Its major exports are buttocks, self-tanner and peroxide. Its major import is dick.
I could’ve been a scientist, she thought. I could’ve been a doctor, a chemist, the world’s first neoneuronecrologist! The study of dead baby brains would surely yield a high net income! Thank god I chose this path instead of those wretched lanes!
“Coco, could you lift up your pelvis? Higher. Higher. Coco, goddamnit, HIGHER. We need your ass to look like titz, Coco. Yes, titz. I know I said it with a z. Because it MEANS something, Coco, that’s why. Coco, baby, I’m sorry. I just have visions for this cover and that vision is of you and it looks like you are like CatDog, except you’re just TitzTitz. Just titz on both ends, girl. Thanks, baby.”
Coco felt a smile creep onto her face. She made it. She really had.
“No, baby. No smiling. It turns them off if they think you’re happy.”
Years had passed since she had last seen him; he without a name, he without a face.
She remembered the night well. It was the eve of her Fourth Annual Party Gala Event and that night was meant to be especially exciting. That night she would announce to her friends and family that she was accepted to Harvard for grad school on a full scholarship.
She knew she deserved it; she had worked hard, pulling night shifts at the local diner and spending her 15 minute breaks writing her thesis bit by bit. She knew it was controversial to use Immanual Kant’s viewpoints to explain The String Theory. No one, after all, had ever done such a thing. Some would claim it was impossible, that the two had nothing in common, that Kant had died 200 years before The String Theory was introduced, that an 18th century German philosopher had absolutely nothing he could say on the theory. Coco was confident she had the facts to back it up, and the fact of the matter is, she did.
But on that eve she had a dream. A masked man came into her room and swept her away, showing her still framed moments of her life as it was going to be. A life of intellectual stimulation, tea with Stephen Hawking, a cozy house with two Jack Russell Terriers and a husband who treated her right.
The masked man turned to her and said, “this is what you could have, but it is not what you are meant to have. Someday you will meet a man who refers to himself as a sweetened beverage. He will pay to have fake body parts put into your real body parts. Someday this man will make you his wife, and you and his slight lisp will live richly ever after.”
Across Coco’s face a secret smile danced. As she felt the feather duster tickling her asshole in front of dozens of paparazzi, she knew she had made the right decision. She knew she was finally home.
What perserverance it takes to be this beautiful while remaining intelligent, modest and good, she thought as she slipped the cat-earred head band over her blonde mane.
She knew she must never forget her humble roots; the mornings spent mucking the stalls, the afternoons sitting at the dock where the minnows nipped at her toes and once Timmy from across the way tried to kiss her on cheek. She’ll always remember the day her grandmother told her, “Nicole, remember that you are an Austin woman. You must stand up for and by your name. Never forget, Nicole. Never forget.”
“I remember, Grandma,” she whispered to herself as she bent at the waist for her husband to fake fuck her doggy-style for the photographer’s at the red carpet event. “I remember.”
She spent most of her days debating the futility of a finite life, and today was like any other.
“If we truly cease existence in all forms when our physical self dies, then what is the point of being at all?”
“Well, Coco —”
“Yes, darling?” He sighed defeatedly.
“What is a truly moral life?”
“Nicole, I feel as if —”
“And T? If there is no predetermined path for our exis—”
“BITCH, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND ENJOY THOSE TITTIES I BOUGHT YOU. THAT’S THE PREDETERMINED PATH OF OUR EXISTENCE.”
Coco cocked her head like a baby Springer Spaniel and Ice-T gazed longingly at all of the whores he could’ve chosen. Whores who didn’t question the existential life. Whores without brains as big as their titties.