Self-Serve

"Your problem, dude, is lack of charisma," admonished Brad, Dave's best friend and bot-buddy. "Better get some if you want a date for the dance this weekend."

He's totally right, thought Dave, flipping off the vidphone and opening his wardrobe closet. "I need mega-magnetism and fast."

"Yo, Davie-sweets, you super-rad bytehunk," replied Maxine, his pillow computer. "Would monsieur like a leettle turbo massage zees a.m.?"

He clicked her out of French Maid Survivor mode and into Ultra Macro-Mom. "Right now I need major image reprocessing. Open Attribute Update Program, extension C-13."

He glanced anxiously through the files: Camouflage. Cannibalism. Carbonation. Celibacy. Charisma. Bingo! "Maxine, access 'charisma,' then scan for viruses and neuron compatibility and quikpatch directly into cortical autolink two."

"You just strap down in that reset chair, young man, and get comfy while we fix you allllll up for your big date. You know, these nasal lobeports of yours remind me of your father more each day."

That Friday, from the moment he and Cindy stepped into the new PromWorld ThrillMall, Dave felt magic in the air. "I'm so incredibly drawn to you," Cindy cooed, as the holoband kicked into a surging medley of Miss America Ate My Puppy Dog tunes. "I always kinda thought you were smart, witty and athletically built, but nowwwwwww—I just can't take my eyes off you."

Likewise transfixed, Dave stared at her angelic, beaming face, which had only an hour before been reshaped by the new Sony/Chanel Elegance FaceWriter® Font. "Cindy, you’re so … so … divinely flawless—i-i-in a most extremely b-b-bodacious way. Will you, like, marry me?

Men, she chuckled as they strolled to the shuffle sleds. So easily deceived. Marry him? His mother probably still washes his diskdrive.