mikeTheFable's Journal - Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!

This is "Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!" I wrote it in May or June of 2006, if memory serves... so we're going on 22 months since it's been posted anywhere. I'm sure that's not much of a loss, since it's probably as inaccessible as some of my other concept stories.

I was inspired to write it after reading No Logo. I bet the author would be mortified to know that.

Again, as with pretty much everything else here, it's a form of pornography. Usual restrictions apply, talk to your doctor to see if BTSBSET is for you, and so forth.

Bimboism and the Corporate Agenda
(Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!): A Social Psychological
Analysis of Bimbo Expressionism and Descent into Adverbial Addiction;
An Informal Academic Non-Fiction, Marred by Swearing and a Short Story, Set In a Fictional Future by mikeTheFable

”Never let integrity stand in the way of fulfillment.”

--- The Bimbo’s Guide to Shamelessness


“As long as it’s off the record, I’m proud to say that we’ve finally achieved in this industry what we’ve tried for so long; the complete branding and ownership of the female body.”

--- Allen Matterhorn of the Radiance Cosmetics Oligarchy, January 17th, 2012




The Butey Mith

1


Throngs of people clamoured about in front of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences to witness Doctor Brandy Bernard’s unveiling. Apparently, and somewhat scandalously, she had finally answered the questions begged by a Unified Theory of Everything. It had all happened inside, within the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities. This was the rumour, anyway, and so the crowd was buzzing with all the droning of a crowded bee hive.

In two rows of twelve upon the front steps of the Neo-Colonial style building were two rows of twelve prim and well-kempt scientist bodies supporting big, smart brains with vast intellects hidden behind bittersweet faces who saw though eyes aided by the finest lenses money and technology could manufacture.

-inhale-

They were all dumbfounded. Abso-fucking-lutely dumbfounded. How could their brainpower – their combined brainpower – have been beaten by... by that DUMB girl?

That Bimbo! The woman was all tits—so they used to think.

Not too long ago, Doctor Brandy Bernard had been running through the halls of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences, confused by a report that a trans-dimensional porn studio had spontaneously materialized within the confines of her finest, most expensive, most well equipped laboratory: the lab for the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities.

In spite of conflicting reports and heavy panting over the intercom, it had indeed been a porn studio that had taken up residence in her lab, though at the time it only appeared to be an inter-dimensional carnival of porn. There were Teamsters, Directors, Producers, Camera Guys and Porn Stars and everything else, but in reality—because reality mattered so much at that point—it was but the latest attempt by the cosmetics industry to hammer yet another insecurity, quick fix and expense into the self image of women here, there and everywhere. It was an attempt, it seemed, to overlay a new reality over the current one in which all women would be transformed into suggestible, branded bimbos obsessed with shopping and cosmetics.

The studio crew was recording the transformations of hapless female victims, with most of the attention being paid to the transition when each freshly created bimbo suddenly realized just how hawt she felt and how much she needed to perform for the camera. The readings and tapes accumulated through the sacrificing of female lab technicians obtained more than enough information for the forging of a template for reality alterations on a mass scale.

Supplanting reality, at that point, was merely a matter of switching things when people's attention was diverted. Sleight of hand.

This attempt—this evil plan—w as not very novel. It was in most respected relatively mundane and expected. Okay, unlike most evil plans it was marginally perverted, but the primary intent underlying that perversion was to generate power and sales for the corporate agenda. The plan was more original for it’s execution, rather than its aim. Evil and Villainous plans have sadly suffered from a lack of originality these past hundred years or so. Either every bad apple is chasing the same worm, or they all went to the same School for Villains.

The pharmaceutical industry, for example, went nuts when they found out what the cosmetics industry had done, when the new reality of things had set in and women's brains—sharing the innate human need to understand the world—accepted the new reality as the one that had always been. Real is real, whether it's one or the other. The fact that the new reality was new made little difference in the end and attracted little attention from its targets, whose attention spans and IQ's began to shrink just as their busts began to swell.

Ely Lily's executives, by example, fired all of their think tanks, hired new ones, and spent a whole week brooding about why they hadn’t thought of skewing reality in their favour by teleporting a porn studio facsimile into a school or hospital or something somewhere that had the power to convert and condition the mental and physical coalescence of any woman close enough to stand inside it.

-inhale-

They had, after all, been after the female body for quite some time, trying to medicalize the menstrual, telling women that the delay in their drug development was because female biology was complicated when in fact human biology was not. In truth, the APA was simply and rightly blocking their troglodytic attempts to brand the female hormonal cycle as a disease. A branding of biology, it was, that they were pushing among other initiatives in fuckwittery.

So as one can see, the kind of manipulative corporate behaviour demonstrated by the cosmetics industry when they redefined reality (and the female psyche) to suit their needs was not exclusive to it, and had been going on for some time in the honoured tradition of the free market economy.

In any case, just before her big reveal, Doctor Brandy Bernard had run awkwardly on high heels down the hall towards the door to the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities. The floors had recently been buffed and so glimmered with gloss; the white walls had not been painted in years, and were starting to look a tinge blue. This kind of half-assed dichotomy in maintenance was characteristic of the publicly funded institution she worked for.

She was what many would have called a slender woman, even agile, but regardless of what people said, she sucked when it came to running on heels. Not that it’s easy, but still, she sucked, and her lack of game had caused her to trip through the lab door as she was running toward it.

She tripped just once, just before the access to the lab, but was at least close enough to the doors for the makings of a very dramatic, albeit stumbling, entrance.

Brandy burst through the doors wearing the expression of a woman on the edge of being SheHulk with her lab coat thrashing behind her like the wings of some hellish banshee. From her tastefully bunned chestnut hair, a few lashing strands had broken free in her rush and were whipping at her back.

What greeted her just inside the door to the Department of Inter-Dimensional Universalities softened her expression until her scowled faded completely. It did more than that, in fact, as once she burst through the doors she was then standing within the surreptitiously pornographic extravaganza that had taken over her precious lab, and was thus also standing under the field of its controlling, conditioning, libido enhancing and bimboizing effect.

Dr. Brandy Bernard’s breath had paused for a moment, though not long enough of a moment to be considered autoerotic asphyxiation. The lab had become a grippingly sexual theatre of bewitching libidinous energies. Her desk had become a bed on which three latex nurses were busy ploughing a sweet, young, red-haired and freckled bimbo three ways from Wednesday morning. That bimbo, by the way, had been her former assistant, Anna, a Harvard graduate turned air-headed slut.

The Doctor’s failure to breathe was also attributable to her broken nose, which she had broken when she ploughed face first through the lab access after tripping. This also explained her angered and irritated mood, kind of. She didn’t like people fucking on what used to be her desk, either.

She attempted to argue with a nearby Teamster about manners, reality, and not taking over her desk without asking, but was stonewalled by the Teamster’s near total lack of effort and enthusiasm. This, combined with what appeared to be an abstruse profundity claiming to be the Unified Theory of Everything planted on a nearby workbench, baited the Doctor sufficiently for her to stand near the surreptitiously pornographic extravaganza long enough for its completely unexplained effect to reach critical mass. And so, not long after that, Brandy became Brandi.

What first started as an itch on her scalp soon became a teased, flowing, platinum blond mane of hair. As she held some of that hair in her hands, examining the new change, her nails grew from the tips of her fingers, the end result resembling a manicure of whorish, French style.

The disappearance of her clothes worried her some.

But not as much as the subsequent appearance of her new cheerleading outfit.

Then the g-string. And a sculpted, curvy, tight ass. Then the push-up bra.

Then followed a pair of growing, spherical, perky tits.

The only thing to shock the poor Doctor more than her shifting form and diminishing mental capacities was the realization that she had suddenly become obsessively anally fixated. While her ballooning tits fought with her shirt her ass was relatively free and breezy; her micro-mini skirt was just so tiny that she was barely covered. In her hyper aroused state she reached behind herself and inserted a finger into her anus, shuddering and falling to her knees as her digit slid wetly inside. Her clutching ass hole, self-lubricating by that stage in her transformation, throbbed against her invading finger, sending new heated pleasures through her body.

On a brighter note, she got a new nose.

When Brandi finally emerged from the front entrance of the National Laboratories for the Tangential Hyper-Sciences—greeted by a gasp from the gathered gaggle of gawkers—she was walking rather calmly, sensually, and with a measure of eroticism she had never possessed before on four-inch fuck-me stilettos. She luvved lip gloss, too. And cocks.

2

About a year later...

Brandi stood once again at the steps to the Neo Colonial style National Laboratories of the Tangential Hyper-Sciences, feeling rather tired with continually having to read, type or say it’s long name. So she abbreviated it. Cum Sluts like her didn’t need long names like that crowding up their brains anyway.

A Throng of spectators stood together for a second time in front of the N.L.T.H.S. waiting for the bimbo to speak. The difference this time around was that each and every person in the crowd, this time, was a woman. What was the same was that like last time, when a Theory of Everything had looked to be within humanity’s grasp, the crowd was filled with hope—hope for a solution to the reality altering, bimboizing scourge that had been released on the female populace, turning near all of them into insatiable sluts.

And while it was a scourge, it was marketed by the corporate agenda as liberation. Women, they claimed, were just becoming more sexually free. Naturally they greeted the new market with glossy, sparkly new product lines.

Last time the hopes of the crowd had been thoroughly crushed; the sheet of paper posing as the Unified Theory of Everything had simply been placed on a lab bench as bait to keep Brandy Bernard from leaving the patented Bimboization(™) field. It hadn’t even been the Theory of Everything on that folded slice of paper, it had been the Latin name for cornstarch. When Brandi emerged from the building, that one year ago, holding that piece of paper, the distraction became a success, thoroughly diverting the attention of most people from noticing the change in reality at the moment it occured.

No men or corporate executives were available for comment at this time.

The few women who made up the crowd were resistors to the new reality. They waited anxiously, hoping they could hold out against the incessant prodding, testing and conditioning of the Cosmetics Industry’s still misunderstood method of conditioned branding (the industry had become so huge from the bloated sales of make-up, lingerie and clothing that they made it illegal to even mention their market without capitalizing). These women struggled to remain within a continuous cycle of disbelief, believing nothing they heard, saw, tasted or otherwise sensed from the world around them. Were they to do that—believe in such perceptions about reality—they wold be lost, and bound forever to the will of the corporate agenda by implicitly accepting that the world outside themselves was real.

The CEO's had turned the world into a contract. How commerical of them.

Former Scientist (and current Porn Star) Brandi Buttslut clacked up to the podium, which had been placed there by a row of Cosmetic, Clothing and Sex industry CEO’s—all old, wrinkly, bloated, balding, white men—and let out a meek bimboish cough to clear her throat. Glad to let the tramp speak, the Industry moguls standing behind her on the steps were eager to see what stupidity would come pouring out from the former brainiac’s mouth, hoping that the Asian Sex Starlet’s failure to conjure any kind of coherent defence in the interest of her once proud but decimated gender would crush the will of the remaining resistors. The result, it was predicted, would be the dis-empowering of sharp, smart minds in favour of swelling lips, bosoms, asses and a surge in frock sales.

In other words, the CEO’s waited for the End Of All Hope—for those few women who still had the strength not to believe in reality to understand that there was no one to left to help them. A vacuous speech from one of their fellow women, they assumed, would surely do that.

A few of the Suits chuckled quietly to each other, reminiscing about the corporate dream turned reality—Brandi—who had just that morning had come to them in a foot-stomping fit demanding to speak publicly in the interest of her fellow women. Never fools to give up an opportunity for publicity, they agreed to let her speak, and put out advertisements across the network. Since it was compulsory to watch at least four hours of television a day, all of the remaining female intelligentsia had heard about Brandi’s scheduled speech and shown up—all eleven of them. They weren’t entirely sure why they had come, but they recognized Brandi as an important woman, even for a hardcore bimbo. Cum-Slut, even.

Perhaps it was because Brandi was widely recognized as the gateway victim, the woman who’s bimboization was the turning point at which the plague of reality alterations changed step from contained, private tests to mass experiments; perhaps hope was so hard to come by at this point that the gathered women were willing to listen to anyone. Either way, they were there and they were listening. Those women hoped for anything that might help them resist the intangible ubiquity that was trying to turn them into susceptible, suggestible, stupid, sex addicts and rampant shoppers.

The CEO's, in their ten thousand dollar Suits, sat upon the steps like icorrigible young boys hiding mischievious intentions, their hands on their cheeks and their elbows on their knees, grinning widely at Brandi’s branded body. Tattoos of every brand name were inked across her skin. Brandy was wearing very little in the way of clothes – a pair of black lacy boy shorts and a glittering spaghetti-strap halter-top – since the lawful maximum body coverage allowable for any bimbo’s outfit had recently been adjusted to fifteen percent from twenty. Panties were illegal, too.

These laws were not imposed on any of the female intelligentsia, as the corporate players were confident in the inexorable force of their marketing brands. Regardless of how many women they did or didn’t bring into the fold, the CEO’s were more than happy to see La Senza Slut tattooed like a collar around Brandi’s neck, KY Lover at the small of her back, and Hershey’s Milk Chocoalte in bold lettering across the upper lobe of her round, implanted billboard of a right breast.

Although the eleven members of the remaining female intelligentsia were fully clothed in long coats, jeans (though one was wearing capri pants and was suspected to be falling under the influence) and tasteful colours, the CEO’s were unworried. After all, they weren’t just selling make-up, lube, skirts or vibrators anymore, they were selling women a new lifestyle, a new way to live.

And everyone had to live one life or another, and if their version of life was being sold everywhere, than no amount of resistance would ever amount to escape. They smiled, like ugly emperors lined up in a row. Unstoppable marketing ensured that, in all likelihood, the lifestyle any woman chose would undoubtedly be the one the corporate agenda offered; the lifestyle of the branded bimbo shopper.

When a bimbo thrust a Vibro-Tech dildo into her inflamed and eternally needy pussy, she wasn’t just getting off, Vibro-Tech was getting her off, and the Vibro-Tech name inked into the flesh above her pubic mound reminded her of that. So after every orgasm she said her thanks, the appropriate display of respect involuntarily arising in her thoughts as an exuberant: “Thank you, Vibro-Tech!” As per her programming, saying was believing.

It was a process of branding that no woman could resist, those CEO’s confidently believed. For example, tattoo parlours – gateways for women entering into the subservience of the owned bimbo lifestyle - were stocked with massage specialists, sex slaves, mechanized cock-chairs and plenty of geniunely throbbing cock to sip from. This meant that when any woman finally caved into the overwhelming pressure of the new reality’s marketing she remembered not the cost and pain of having those corporate names tattooed on her body, but the orgasmic experience that came with handing herself over to them. No mind could resist.

It was utterly seducing and bewitching for any woman.

Downright totally controlling, in fact, a quality of the marketing that helped in convincing women that what they needed were cosmetics, short skirts and KY jelly. To get these things, she was convinced to enter into a "voluntary" partnership with her corporate caretakers, thereby achieving the apex of her "self concept" and in the process becoming everything she saw in the fashion mags and on teevee.

And is that not what she wanted?

Through it all she always believed she was getting what she wanted, what she deserved, when her lips were parted by the head of that stranger’s cock and filled with his jellied semen, the providing of that cum associated with the itching needle sketching corporate slogans onto the skin of her shoulder blade. Once she became involved, she wasn’t just buying into the new reality, she became what was being sold. Bimbos were so much a commodity, in fact, that every suburban home was stocked with one, slaving away blissfully in the kitchen wearing an apron or in the bedroom wearing a collar (if she wore anything at all, though it was common for bimbos to be highly fetishized).

Brandy Buttslut tapped the microphone. It squealed, the intelligentsia squinted and covered their ears. Brandi opened her cock-worthy mouth and spoke into the mic.

“When I first looked at the Theory of Everything, I, like, remember it being shorter than I thought it would be.”

The eleven listeners all chuckled quietly, stifling their grins in the face of their speaker, who was snickering along with them. Behind Brandi, the white men sitting in a row along the steps had missed the joke.

“I’ve, you know... learned a lot in the past year since I was like, last in the lab for Tangetal Hyper-Silences. Life’s got a new meaning these days, ya like, know what I mean, Ladies?”

The women nodded sombrely. Were they really all that was left in the local area? Were there so few women left unowned?

Impossible, they asserted, they refused to believe.

“And I was thinking...” Brandi explained.

This time, the line of CEO’s chuckled. The intelligentsia scorned the men with their eyes, who either ignored them or didn’t notice.

“I kinda, like, wanna be more, you know?

“I really love my titties, I do, and stuff, and the, like, sex is so totally awesome, but...” And in thought as she spoke Brandy kicked the hard steps with the toe of her stiletto, trying to think how best to put what she was feeling into werds.

“So like, as I’ve said, I learned a lot of things and I think I understand what life’s all about, what it’s meaning is. Hell, I’ve, like, understood it three ways at once. It’s so hawt. And I really love boyz and all; women are really hawt, too, I know.

“Women have this history though... I mean that, like, if you look back at the generations, you have the first wave generation, and the second wave, and the third wave generation, and then there was, like, the raunch generation, and it just makes me think that girlz are supposed to be like this – the way we are. We’ve always been totally hawt for sex and stuff, and for making dinner, and being pretty and doing house stuff. I mean, you have the three waves, and then we just go back to being raunchy sexy girls; we didn’t even, like, wait for the third wave to finish. It sure is fun... taking care of boyz and always having, like, such hot sex all the time.

“Gawwwwwwd” Brandi breathed, eyes closed while she rubbed her mound with one hand.

Smiles began to fade as the eleven (this was now considered a throng, by the way – eleven) watching women felt their stomachs sinking and their throats choking up. The old boys smiled at the bimbo speaking from the podium in front of them, still retaining their appearances of reckless mischief. The throng was starting to second guess their hopes for the future, and soon, the old boys hoped, the End Of All Hope would be near and eleven new bimbos would be born today and branded by tomorrow.

Brandi continued.

“Awnestly, some of you girlz would look so hot and lovely in a shade of pink.

“But, like, here’s the thing...”

A glimmer of hope? The attention of the intelligencia returned undivided. Was Brandi about to do an about face?

“Maybe girlz are supposed to be a certain way, maybe not. All I know is that I like the whole new generation we got goin’ on – the Bimbo generation. And like, when you think about it, this is so totally us, and it’s so totally a logical conclusion! We’ve got a movement, girlz.”

The CEO’s rubbed their hands together with glee. Yes, they all thought, it is so totally you. Buy Venus razors!

The bimbo ideology had been so thoroughly stamped into every women’s mind by the new reality that they had co-opted Bimbo culture as there own, come to believe that the bimbo life was the way it was meant to be, the best way it could be. The holy anchor of that life was the style, the clothes and the hair. All of that available at the local shopping centre, of course. And while no woman’s space was so valuable to keep singing advertisements out of the bathroom stalls, the brands that had become her public culture remained privately owned, just as she was the brand. Corporate property had taken on a life of it’s own; the Barbies now literally came to life.

Brandi was a shining example of just how efficient the corporate agenda had been in that regard – in bring brands to life – and she proved it right there on the steps to the National Laboratories of the Tangential Hyper-Sciences...

...by trumping the corporate agenda, the new reality and starting the Bimbo Revolution.

“This is the way it’s meant to be, ladies, pink and frills are the future. Big tits and, like, slick asses galore! I totally love the bimbo in me, but I’m like, having so much trouble with this whole boredom thing. Why do I need commercials to show me the stuff I need to buy? I already need that stuff; I know that! In fact, I’d like, even say it isn’t enuff! Being a bimbo, like, has an image, ya know? Just say the werd, and people totally think up a whole visual package.

“But, I need something new; I want bigger boobs, hawtter clothes, brighter lipstick and all that jazz. When I bring something home from the mall, I use it, like, maybe once or twice, and then just leave it somewhere. Why does it look like they’re trying to say that we should be pretty and sexy and busy shoppers? How can I be busy? I’m, like, always the one waiting for them to come out with something new!

“So I’m, like, thinking I’m going to take another step, be the most bimbo I can be, because I’m bored standing here in this one place!

“So ladies, what do ya think?”

A silence progressed. The old CEO’s weren’t sure what to make of the speech, and neither were the eleven intelligentsia – except for one. The girl wearing the capri pants had taken a bit more from the speech than the others, and when the other ten came to looking around at each other in a go to gauge each other’s reactions, they found her standing there with a grin on her face and eyes full of lust for the doll standing at the podium.

And she was wearing nothing but a cherry-red micro string bikini, barely substantial enough to cover her shaven pussy. Had she hair down there, it would have been seen, and it would have been hella blonde, but the fabric as it was turned out to be just enuff to hide her slit. That was to say nothing about the back, where the stringy thong was quite happily tucked snugly within the cleft of her buttocks. The beach-Barbie bimbo glistened with oiled, bronzed skin, pony-tailed blond hair lighter than the tone of her flesh and lips fat enough to provide that permanent pout. That’s to say nothing of the girl’s breasts – huge, round, implanted breasts. Possibly two thousand cc’s (by the narrator’s clumsy estimate) of pure, soft, squishy silicone better than the kind money could buy. Her hard pointed nipples were barely covered by the small patches of fabric that posed as a bikini top.

There was something almost obscene about her, now, yet at the same time alluring.

!Poof!

It seemed that just like that the girl’s resistance had crumbled; the new reality had caught her and she was now in sync with the corporate agenda. By all appearances, anyway...

That was the point really. Appearances. The other ten women mulled it over. What did this latest conversion mean? Had the girl lost hope and caved into the bimboizing pressure? Or was that nagging feeling about Brandi’s speech having special meaning worth analysis? And what had Brandi meant by her sermon on boredom?

The silence progressed ever more, because the CEO’s were still getting nowhere in deciphering the bimboish babble that had spouted from Brandi’s mouth. They hadn’t expected to hear what was spoken, but then what had they expected? Stupidity, for sure, but any specific examples? None of them could think of one. It turned out they’d gone into this feeling confident, nothing more. Surely the speech had meant something – it had struck that kind of ominous chord with them – but it was something they couldn’t explain.

And they never got the chance, because their thoughts were soon drowned out by the chattering, giggling cheers of eleven top heavy cum sluts bouncing and clapping in string bikini’s, with their hawt breasts breaking and bouncing out of their tops. They laughed at each other’s nakedness, even relished in the touch of each other’s manicured, inch-long, painted nails tickling their sensitive nipples. The thoughts running through all their empty heads were so chaotic and uninhibited that they were completely incomprehensible. Some would have called it a display of sheer stupidity.

But the chaotic stupidity was eager, horny, and willing to try anything. That willingness, it turned out, became the corporate agenda’s Japanese Navy to its Pearl Harbor.

3

That’s how it happened, really, how the corporate agenda came crashing down under the weight of it’s own dogma. So focused was the commercial institution on teaching it’s never-ending cycle of brand idolatry, that it never realized how it had been too good at it. In the ways that brands became more than just objects, but idols, states of mind, and the new reality, so too did people become more than just what they were sold as. In the end, it boiled down to the existence of a single word – an idea – called ‘Bimbo’, and the mind’s tendency to spin webs, true or false, around those words and ideas. The Bimbo Brand had come to life.

“I am a bimbo.” Women would think, in between the times at which they couldn’t think at all, which were frequent.

“I” Was the key concept. With that one word came a whole image, a whole definition of existence itself, and before long it produced a real, huge juggernaut of a brand – a new idol to worship – competing against the corporate agenda.

Bimbo.

By: Brandi.

Brandi and her gals were Bimbos, after all – cum sluts*, even – and they knew it. They loved it. They believed it. They brought cum sluttery to the level of life and art. They needed something that could keep up with their rampant libidos and need for frills, something that could follow their zig-zagging attention spans.

When it came down to it, breaking the cycle of corporatized bimbo-ownership relied on the buyer outpacing the seller. More on that in time.

Brandi’s word was ping-ponging around the commercial channels in no time at all, as in their pride the attending CEO’s had televised the speech as an intended example to all the bimbos out there just how silly and stupid they were. Naturally, the speech had been interspersed with commercials for anal lube and thongs.

Soon after the live broadcast, though, clinics were swamped with appointments for breast enlargements and extreme makeovers. Forget consultations; the bimbos wouldn’t have a doctor telling them what size they wanted, needed, or what would look good on their bodies. They knew what they wanted; big bimbo tits, the kind guaranteed to turn a real woman into a sure-fire fantasy sex doll. An object of her ownhad to stand and stick out.

Tailors were slaving like dogs to stitch the next day’s craze. Repair shops were flooded by tired sewing machines. Everywhere in the city it was bigger tits, skimpier clothes, higher orgasmification and ‘who can stand the longest over the blustering utility grate without underwear’. The one thing on every girl’s mind was not what she could do or buy to be a good woman and a good bimbo, but just how bimbo could she be? Doing was a physical thing; actions like shopping and fucking. Being a bimbo was a thing of its own altogether. What it meant to every young woman was that she had arrived. For a woman in the new reality, achieving that bimbo being was all about surpassing orders and commands, taking anything she was told and going that extra step, or five, for the hawttest most bimboish style she could create.

And by the next day, the style and expectations would change. If you wanted to go that extra mile and be all the bimbo you could be, you had to keep up.

The day after that, it would change again.

The bimbos, made so susceptible and suggestible for the purposes of corporate gain, came to co-opt what they had been programmed to believe and turned that into something else; their own generation; their own movement; something all their own and un-owned. So easy were they to control and influence that anything one of them did spread like wildfire to every other, too fast for men or consumer society’s architects to comprehend or, most importantly, influence.

That gossiping gullibility and bandwagon mentality forged a kind of mental Internet, it was said, to which only the ladies had hook-ups.

Only bimbos could move at the bimbo’s chattering, blinding, so-screwy-it-was-genius speed. The gals were back in frills, thongs and in force, tearing up the bed sheets and the city streets in exclusive clubs, nearly turning their backs altogether on the blockbuster event of all-day shopping. Now it was into the mall and out in five minutes, if at all, then off to play dress-up and dress-off with all the other gals.

And when the bimbos did go into the shops, they went in to instruct formerly choice-robbing brand artists turned hapless know-nothings that what was in stock was so totally that morning. By noon most bimbos were into their second of third outfits, with sex in between each break, and with the fashion themes drifting each time they got dressed. The entire shopper-supplier dynamic was turned on its head. The superstores and brand names were no longer able to tell customers what was best for them or what they needed, and were instead being told they were no longer any good. So inadequate were the stores becoming that bimbo culture started to rely on swap meets and random acts of scissoring, giving birth to a sort of trial and error fashion movement in which clothes were mix-and-matched, torn apart, stitched back together and reused. Run out of panties? No problem, just stop wearing them. Why buy?

Suddenly, ‘Bimbo’ became unbuyable, nightclubs all over the city turned exclusively lesbian, and everywhere guys were left smoking out in the cold.

The night, as they said, was still young, and bimbo culture was restless. There was never too little time for something to morph into something else, and transmission of transformation in bimbo culture happened with the pace of fruit fly evolution.

So the cosmetics industry’s (no longer worthy of caps) image of female perfection and gussy glam was eclipsed by the unquenchable pace set by the shortest attention spans ever possessed by human beings, anywhere. Not long after that, bimbos attained the Barbie doll perfection set by the fashion mags. Then they surpassed it, setting and becoming the trend for hyper-feminized sexual caricature themselves, leaving market analysts and focus group co-ordinators running like spent, first-time marathon runners choking in the dust kicked up by their five-inch fuck-me heels.

Yet nobody saw it coming, nobody saw a flaw in the corporate agenda at all until it was already too late. Most of the involved media and corporate conspirators had thought reality altering technology foolproof, and had charged forth with the plan thinking they were invincible (except for Stan).

Many speculated that the corporations had become so bloated and fat that they collapsed under their own grandiosity. Others speculated that the corporation, driven so far along it’s path of endless striving for ubiquity, believed it was godlike and had no conceivable limit to it’s abilities and so was blind to its overextension.

Whatever the case, the commercial institution lost its access to tits, ass and hawt accessories – a market it had cornered for years – and handed it over on a silver platter to a generation they themselves created using the ideas and powers of their own marketing workshops. They were so surprised and dumbfounded that they couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Any work-around they contrived was immediately countered – albeit with blissful ignorance – by the swirling, mental tides of the budding, zygotic Bimbo Generation (worthy of caps).

In their ears the marketers heard the echoes of two dozen scientists and one bimbo, the eggheads chanting ‘we told you so’ endlessly, while in the background on the shifting cultural winds they could hear Brandi, who had stepped up to her podium at least one time after her speech to ask one last question...

“Hooz Stoopid Now?”**

THE END

*Cum Slut culture is a subculture of bimbo culture, and part of the new extreme direction that current Bimbo culture is taking. Where majority Bimbo culture gradually shifted over to draft lesbianism into the femininity, fashion, fetish, talk and walk of bimbo behaviour, Cum Sluts started to revel in their nastiness, extreme objectification, religious devotion to the male orgasm, gangbangs, marathon fuck-parties, near exclusive preference for heterosexual sex*** and swallowing. Also, different games of endurance abound in Cum Slut culture that differ from Bimbo culture. Cum Sluts don’t play “Who Can Stand the Longest Over the Blustering Utility Grate Without Underwear”, they play a game called “Walk Down the Busy Hallway and Fuck Every Man You Pass”, a game also called by the alternative “We’ll See You At the Other End in Three Days”.

** Stupidity is a loose term that still escapes definition. Most dictionaries include the proviso that stupidity is difficult to determine. By normal standards, unwritten social convention defines a smart person as one who knows and uses lots of facts, and a stupid person as one who does not. Others rate by IQ score. It is the author’s opinion that stupidity is a fluid term capable of many meanings. Intense programming, for example, can train any bimbo to be the perfect sexual champion while she remains relatively thoughtless in other facets. Additionally, Cum Sluts are the sexual savants of Bimbos, who themselves are already sexual Olympians. Recent scientific study has uncovered a correlation between intelligence scores and cultural association, however. Self described Cum Sluts average at an IQ of 62 (R=55-73), whereas women adhering to the practice of the cultural Bimbo majority average a score of 77(R=69-91). This provides evidence to contradict the oft-held perception that greater IQ translates into greater skill while also showing yet again that the more "stupid" you are the more men in your life.

*** Mere technicality. Sex is also a fluid definition, and Cum Sluts revere cocks to such an extent that any sexual interaction not involving a cock is not considered sex. Therefore, like the deceptive statistic, Cum Sluts are just rampant bisexuals only counting their hetero encounters. In reality, they go cocoa-bananas over any chance to fuck anything that moves, vibrates or is rigid.

+ Dialogue featured in this article courtesy of the National Archives of Fleckenschtien