Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Weird Wednesday Woo (Part 5): When Photoshop effects attack



Greetings, minions of Earth! I am Demonica, the Belly Dancer from the Eighth Dimension. Yes, mortal fools, behold the bizarre arrangement of my left leg and despair! Right leg? What is this "right leg" you speak of? I, Demonica, have only a fleshy, square plinth beneath my skirt, the better for balancing with.

The wonders of my body are what you with your pathetically limited number of joints and laughably extraneous number of limbs can only dream of. This foot is detachable, you know. Other anatomical differences between our kinds provide me with hours of mirth at your expense. The main joint for my right right arm is actually at the wrist, where it attaches to my skull, and I do not have a shoulder as such –  what you would consider the 'top' of the arm is actually the bottom of mine. It so amuses me to see your reactions when I deftly swing my scapula towards you like a club (a favourite party trick in Eighth Dimension speakeasys when foreigners are in the audience).

Your worship of the rounded breast confounds me, when plainly my own "twin soup bowls" arrangement is the pinnacle of desirability. Gaze deep into the shape on my chest that closely resembles a pair of outsize novelty sunglasses, and feel the shudder of fear you SHOULD feel when you realise that I am peering back at you with the eyeballs-cum-nipples my costume conceals. MWAhahahaha! While you are often compelled to say "My eyes are up here" to one of the many repellent males of your species, I, Demonica, need never waste my breath on such a fatuous instruction for I have eyes everywhere even in my barest suggestion of a navel.

Ah, I wish you could see as I do the looks on your repulsively mobile faces when I poke the two skewer-like digits on my left hand at your disgustingly moist eyeballs! Although it turns my stomach to be in such close proximity to you, how your yowling justifies my own permanent facial expression of malevolent glee! I, Demonica, the Belly Dancer from the Eighth Dimension, need never trouble myself with this "anti-wrinkle formula" and "Botox" your puny race is so enamoured of.

Your kind is so grotesque to me, and the light in this realm is so bizarrely un-nauseating, that out of sheer spite it is tempting to levitate out of the screen and clack my Zagats of Madness at you until blood streams from your nostrils. Instead I shall return to the infinitely superior Eighth Dimension, where I believe we are having Lobster Bisque for lunch.

So suck it, plebs. Enjoy your sandwiches. Demonica out.

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