Porpussy (for and inspired by Devo)

It appears on the screen for a mere thirty seconds, wedged in between an ad for a new drug to encourage erectile dysfunction and a used car commercial featuring an old man in a cowboy hat riding a hippopotamus. (Bareback, no less.) The commercial I’m currently focused on is for the Darwin/Warhol Institute of Re-evolution in Ashtabula, Ohio. A bespectacled scientist in a lab coat screams at the camera like a desperate salesman. “Important research is being conducted RIGHT NOW at our radical new facility!” he insists. “Because YOU demanded them, we now have Punkies!” he screams. “That’s right! Pint-sized pocket simians made from combining the most adorable genetic traits of puppies and monkeys! What could possibly be more adorable than that? Well, I’ll tell you! How about our brand new cetacean mannequin hybrid?” Onto the screen flashes an image of what looks like a slick plastic dolphin in a wig and tight-fitting dress. “Come spend some quality time with our prize specimen, Flapper! See how the water runs right off the synthetic fibers of her beautiful wig, beads up on the waterproof lipstick which accentuates her luscious blowhole!” Maybe he didn't say that part. The camera zooms in for a close up of the creature's idiotically smiling face. “As you can see, she’s very, very affectionate!” The scientist leans over her tank for a kiss. “We give her Listerine to combat that pesky kipper breath,” he whispers. “She’d love for a chance to get to know you!” The dolphin’s eyes turn into pulsing cartoon hearts and an enormous tail springs from the back of the scientist's lab coat. “Babydollphin!” he cries, and dives into the tank with a splash. The creature squeals with fear, or perhaps delight. The screen fills with a map of Ohio, showing the Institute, perched like a crimson wedding cake on the lip of Lake Erie. My eyes are bugging out of my skull and I’m gnashing my teeth, rocking back and forth on the couch cushion the like I have been all night, unable to sleep, unable to tear my bloodshot peepers from the boob tube, tearing at my clothes and hair and now feverish for a taste of forbidden love with this 20th century mermaid, this synthetic sea creature of love. Unlike all the other girls, she has no arms or legs with which to push or kick me away.