5 Celebrities Who Are Probably Robotic Surrogates
Based on the Top Shelf graphic novel, “The Surrogates” hits theaters tomorrow with its story about a future in which man can operate robotic stand-ins every moment of the day, never having to step outside to see the sun or dare attempt interaction with another person. It’s classic science fiction, and the movie adaptation seems poised to impress a lot of people and make a lot of money.
Too bad it’s too late. According to the murder demons in my brainpan, rich jerks and big-time celebs have been using surrogates for years, and it’s high time the world discovered the truth. Rise up, my flesh and blood minions, and reveal the dark truths awaiting you!
(Author not responsible for the stalking, assault, or murder of any person on this list.)
Shocked at this coincidence? Don’t be. Though Willis has always been believable as an action star, he was kind of the everyman action star, not in amazing shape, just fit, tough, and cocky. Then a few years ago, Willis watched his former wife marry an idiot, inexplicably gained thirty pounds of muscle, grew four inches, shaved his head, and in general looked like he had killed and eaten his former self. Somewhere the real Bruce Willis is sitting in a control chair, still looking like a gas station attendant, controlling his surrogate as it makes the interview rounds for “The Surrogates.” Deep stuff.
If you think bodies like this occur in nature, you’re crazy. Megan Fox is clearly the result of years of research and engineering, a “Weird Science” situation all the way. A bunch of nerds got together and tried to make the perfect woman – long legs, ample breasts, slender waist , crazy eyes – for the real Megan Fox, in in fact a New Jersey man named Morton Foote, an emotionally-stunted fifty-year-old with a glandular disorder and a serious case of eczema. When Megan Fox says she likes comics, she’s telling the truth; it’s just that her controller can’t think of any other artists than J. Scott Campbell because he’s contemplating how this is the closest he’ll get to “being inside” a woman.
Have you looked at Prince? I mean, really looked at him, studied him, memorized his every feature for the late-night fantasy file? Yes. You have, because you’re human – it’s a well-known fact that every person on the planet wants to bang Prince. No friend, you’re human. But is Prince? Has he aged one minute since he burst onto the scene? According to my photographic memory of every uncomfortable sexual thought in my life, no. In fact, according to my records, he actually looks older on the cover of his eponymous second album than he does now. There’s only one way to find out for sure: take “Prince” hostage, give in to those impure desires, and gently probe with your love fingers until you hit the shiny parts. Make your own little “Black Album.” (Or, if you prefer, “Basement Tape.”)
Remember when you heard Magic Johnson had contracted HIV? Remember how sad and shocked you were? Of course you don’t. It was twenty years ago. Here’s what usually happens when you get HIV: You die. A very sad, prolonged, painful death. HIV treatment has come along leaps and bounds in recent years, but this guy got infected somewhere near the Bicentennial, and all he’s done is gain weight. If it’s really Magic, I’m very happy for him, and hope that his remission is proof that we can really beat this thing. If it’s a surrogate, I say we collectively rise up, formulate a world-wide search plan, and find the real Magic, wherever he’s hiding.
Deep within the heart of the Andes, the One True Grant Morrison lies dormant in his cocoon, sustained intravenously by wheat germ and LSD, his mind fed a constant stream of Boing Boing updates, “Wired” news, and “Fortean Times.” Mr. Morrison grows tired of his surrogate models after a while, and trades them in for new versions. He as previously enjoyed Arty Goth, Anarchist Fop, and Transcendental Businessman. On December 12, 2011, the One True Grant Morrison will arise from his enlightened slumber and shine the bright light of his wisdom upon all the world. And we, as one people, one species, one world, will have absolutely no idea what he’s saying. “S’grate, iyer conshusnuss is wonrful, m’tellin ya.”