It seems there is no limit to the things that can be purchased online. I have seen on online auction oddities like already-worn and soiled underwear, a young man’s virginity, and a 65 million-year-old skeleton of a T-rex.

I also saw that several supermodels are offering their eggs online for thousands of dollars.

For now, I am more interested in buying than selling.

I found a website where a few clicks of the mouse will allow a shopper to try on and purchase clothing without ever having to leave the house. No more dealing with the traffic or facing the dreaded dressing room mirrors. This is for me!

After answering a series of questions about haircut and color, facial features, and body shape, a virtual model is created which looks remarkably like the at-home shopper. A variety of clothing items are shown. The model can be directed to try on specific clothing, then make a full turn, showing the model and her outfit from all angles. Another click and the outfit is ordered, charged to the shopper and shipped to her home.

I named my look-alike model Vivian. I spent hours dressing her up and parading her up and down her virtual street. It was just like the Barbie doll days of my youth.

I began to live vicariously through my alter ego, Vivian. I rarely left the house. When we, I mean she, was not modeling, the vivacious Vivian earned a living as a street vendor of vivid violets. Vivian, who was valedictorian of her class (hey, this is my virtual reality. get off my back!), occasionally visited her boyfriend Victor, the violin virtuoso, who was a Vietnam vet and owned a Volvo dealership on Valley View Viaduct Boulevard in the village.

Vivian was a virgin, although we, I mean she, occasionally let the virile Victor kiss her on the Victorian veranda. (I thought that was a body part until I Googled it).

One day, while Vivian was modeling the velvet vest I had ordered, I thought I detected some movement of her virtual lips. I enlarged her image and turned up the volume, only to hear her sneer at me through the computer screen, “Were you kidding with that hideous skirt you ordered for us last week? Didn’t you check out our rear view? We looked like the 18th green at the local golf course. Why don’t you lay off the donuts, Lady? And could you possibly be any more boring?!” she asked sarcastically.

“Look, Vivian,” I said, “You just try on the clothes and do whatever I tell you to do! I am running the show here.”

There was no controlling her after that. Every time I logged on, she had become more rebellious. Eventually, Virtual Vivian had become a vision of vulgarity; a vixen without virtue. She began to hang out at the corner of cyber Hollywood and Vine, smoking Viceroys and guzzling vino provided by her pimp, Vince, the former vaudevillian ventriloquist from Virginia. There were rumors that Vince had a police record of violent crimes and vehicle vandalism.

Vivian had become vain and thought she was too good to model for me. The money was inadequate to support her desired lifestyle.

Soon she was performing in vulgar videos wearing nothing but a Viking helmet. She shed her virtue like cheap veneer. In short, she had become a cyber slut. I had created a monster.

After that, she refused to wear the clothing I had selected for us and I had to give up internet shopping.

That was when I remembered the supermodels and their unique, money raising, egg selling scheme. I could do that. I have eggs. All it would take was a phone call and I could become rich.

“Hello? Is this the internet auction site? Yes? Okay, I heard about the supermodels selling their eggs for big bucks and I want in on the action. I have a dozen large eggs in an attractive styrofoam container. One of them is slightly cracked and I used two to make a Denver omelet last Sunday. I paid $1.49 at the grocery store, but I would expect a decent profit. How about fifty bucks? After all, if the supermodels can get…”

“Ma’am,” she said, “Not chicken eggs! We need human reproductive eggs. They are purchased by  potential parents who are hoping to produce exceptionally beautiful babies.”

“Oh, I see,” I answered. “Well, at my age, most of my reproductive eggs are way past their expiration date. How much do you think potential parents will pay for the eggs of an average looking older lady with flat feet, poor eyesight and hearing, and a slight overbite? Hello? Ma’am?”

I believe we have been disconnected. That happens to me a lot.


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