On front of a penny, the reluctant picture bride protests, her usually complaisant voice high-pitched to offset the sailor moon being clouded by so many knockoff Akari lampshades cheaply made in distant Occidental sweatshops.
The rage beneath her schoolgirl uniform, though, swells her bosoms into two engorged cannonballs, fuses lit as enemy sheep wearing men's clothing begin to bleat, ready to pounce.
A mild-mannered manga balloon lady transformed into orange high top Pumas now ascend above the giant robot standing at her ready. And the forty nine tars who gather delirious from yellow fever are driven back by three old and wise ronin wielding long-needled syringes containing the proper dosage of cloroquine and doxyocycline.
Relieved, she, too, bahs like a lost lamb before calmly stripping off every stitch of clothing to draw numerous lines in ink, acrylic, oil on primed canvas in the arid quicksand. Now spinning her metaphorical wheels or an actual industrial lathe, beautifully striped spoons appear along with simultaneously contrasted polka dots which inflate and fill the time-based space, castrating all phallic shapes with double vision.
Yet swarms upon swarms of mosquito nanoids still penetrate the easily torn rice paper screens meant to shield the rows upon rows, floors atop floors of hentai from prying alien tentacles. Her mentor from beyond the valley of the dolls reaches out to grab her hand but it slips by. One hundred thousand miracles cannot repair the damage, though.
Looking into the three-sided full-length mirror, she enjoys being a girl.
Thankfully Kusama finally awakens in time and shoves the old pervert Araki off her tatami mat for getting too frisky.
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