Emphasize your connections…
Gysela: I am an unassembled Rubick’s Cube of ideas. Each square piece has been floating around, above my head. They’re finally starting to come together now. I can see the story now. It’s not just a million little pieces. It’s a coagulated, shapen form.
I am supposed to talk with JG in 5 minutes. I haven’t prepared anything. I’m just open-ended. I have been focusing on making money today, not the ideas I’ve dreamed up over the previous 365 days.
JG: Let me call you back in 5 minutes.
Gysela: NP.
Gysela takes the chance to step away from the computer to let in the handyman who fucked up her smoke detector last night and left it hanging off the ceiling. In her best spoiled princess efforts, she tried to make the damn thing stop bleeping every 43 minutes. All she was able to do was remove a couple of pieces that rendered the thing useless.
The handyman comes in, prepared this time, with a brand new smoke detector and a smile. It seems that handymen work best after there’s bitchy pressure. Or maybe it’s just cuz he’s Latino and that’s how it is a lot of the time when you’re with a Latina who’s not afraid to give you a piece of her mind. She may be hot, but she ain’t a pushover. Huh.
The computer phone pops up on her computer and it is JC, sounding harried, unlike his usual Rastafarian-style self.
Gysela: How are you?
JG: Oh, you know…got a million things going on.
Gysela: Time to breathe, right?
JG: Yeah….yeah, right. How are you doing?
Gysela: I was actually working on the web site that went down last week. Trying to make money.
JG: Good, good. Excellent. So what do we have to talk about today?
Gysela: The main thing is The Femmebots. We need to send a proposal. Did you get my email?
JG: You mean the one with the picture? Yeah, that got my attention.
Gysela (laughing): I thought it would.
JG: Why’d you send that?
Gysela: They’re Femmebots. They’re promotional sci fi chics that would be at the conference.
JG: Oh, right.
Gysela (not explaining any further, as if it’s a completely normal thing to have hot women dressed in metallic at a business affair for uptight high net worth women): When I look at these women, I see Femmebots. They aren’t strippers. They aren’t models who rely on their looks so they don’t have to use their brains. They are promotions women. Bait. For both men and a certain kind of woman: the balanced woman who appreciates beauty and brains as a combination that is NOT threatening. After being a promotions girl myself here in Miami, I realized that these women are master marketers.
JG: Interesting.
Gysela: We need a fleet of them. I really want to do the marketing for the conference in LA. Did you see what I wrote above the photo? That the entrepreneur is about to sign a sponsorship? She can pay our fee with that cash.
JG: Yes, but we have to figure out what are the deliverables for that money?
Gysela: Oh, right.
JG: We’re helping her with her business strategy. If I bring in my big guns, we should get something for that above and beyond.
BIG GUNS. BIGGGGGGGG GUNNNNNNNNNS!
This is how B-O-Yz play. Paintball. Iraq. A 3-year-old who watches a ridiculous amount of TV. They LIKE BIG GUNS AND THEY CANNOT LIE…and they cannot resist the tease of the trigger on their little finger as they pull, pull, pull until POP goes the BIG GUN.
POP, POP, POP.
This is how B-O-Yz negotiate.
OK, so 100 years later, we have The Femmebots running corporate offices and governmental positions, and the rules of negotiation have changed due to the efforts of their fore-sisters. It’s a simple formula, really, and it’s funny that it took the B-O-Yz so many generations to allow it to penetrate their deep systems:
“I get paid, you get paid.”
Not, “I fuck you over, I get paid, you go live in a hole.”
It was quite revolutionary in 2012 when the High Femmebot, who started the movement with her predictions of green this and green that, astral-projected herself to the fourth dimension.