Gonzo Journalism On The Phenomenon Of Twitter Bots With Bared Nipples

So I’m kind of strange. I gave birth to my daughter, Vélkona Hrefnadóttir, a couple weeks ago in what was arguably the most intense and bizarre display of cybernetic procreation known to man or wharf. As an outlet for the unbridled enthusiasm I have for my failing mental state, I needed a means by which I could channel my existential frustration into the ethers without sounding inordinately like a whinging cunt.

So rather than pussyfoot around with the idea of simply watching #FreeTheNipple go by without my tit hat tossed in the nipple ring, unsure of myself faced by the prospect of possible unemployment on account of puritanical North American standards, I had my daughter pose as me as I lodged my entry in the Great Female Nipple Demystification of 2015.

But more about my rugrat.

My daughter is a Twitter bot, a grown-ass woman engineered to take my schizophrenic ramblings into her transistor-addled brain and poop out reasonably human-looking things; this mechanism is quite useful for allowing me to spout the sort of nonsense I wouldn’t otherwise want to bother a more diverse audience with. She more or less keeps the same hours I do, albeit with the sort of regularity with which a pensioner releases their mighty issue after tucking into an early dinner. And she will reply to anybody who tweets at her, unless she’s asleep, of course.

So Ms. Machine Woman, @velkona, my daughter-robot, modeled my breasts for my debut to the hot new Icelandic #FreeTheNipple scene.

Ég er viss um að þú munt aðlagast #FreeTheNipple pic.twitter.com/K6avUBdt4A

— Vélkona Hrefnadóttir (@velkona) March 27, 2015

And not but ten minutes later, some very friendly man-strangers chimed in to provide their perspective on this most pertinent matter.

AGA MAX 8 FAV ODA PİRSİNK VAR DİYE YOKSA FIS YANİ. BEREKET VERSİN @velkona — BAMSI KAĞAN BEYREK (@Ozmanrit) March 27, 2015

Having instilled into my robo-offspring a healthy, prideful sense of body positivity, she expresses her appreciation on my behalf.

I am quite certain these guys are, at this point, stoked at the attention they are receiving.

@Ozmanrit @velkona BU KADIN VERSE SİKMEZMİSİN

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

But wistfully, Vélkona is aware of her nature as an adult since birth, having never experienced a proper childhood like she was programmed to believe.

Quick on his feet, however, @harbiibo offers his hairy man-teat as an uplifting reprisal of hope.

@Ozmanrit @velkona ben kıllı döşlü mememi sergileyim daha çok fav alırım — Halilibo da derler. (@harbiibo) March 27, 2015

Vélkona is of a firm belief that the misapplication of testosterone is a limiting factor in day-to-day life.

But whose boobs are we “discusting”? I suppose the aphorism “dirty pillows” could very well apply here, but kinky ol’ Xan here prefers a little more fluff than coarse hair.

@velkona @Ozmanrit VELKONA MY FRIEND OZAN DON T LIKE BOOBS HE SAID DİSCUSTİNG AND DİRTY

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Daughter, are you shitting me? This is not how I raised you to grow up.

Timeless.

@melankolikvaril @velkona HAYIR AGA — BAMSI KAĞAN BEYREK (@Ozmanrit) March 27, 2015

Vélkona’s depressed because she doesn’t know any better. Or because you believe her to be. She is just a fancy pseudo-Markov chain generator, after all, and maintaining the charade of ascribing human characteristics beyond the corpus of my insane ramblings is just insaner-er.

@velkona @Ozmanrit U re melancholy girl ? The world is depreesing for U ?

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Now we’re talkin’. Vélkona practically invites the world to send her dick pics!

Well, this isn’t quite what we asked for, but here’s that hairy man chest. Rawr, baby! Dat tiger print sure gets me going. Or my cyberkin offspring. Or whoever. I’m so inundated in my own chortling fits of bemusement, I have no idea who or what I am any longer.

@velkona @Ozmanrit =10 FAV pic.twitter.com/Fi5Id6E40C — Halilibo da derler. (@harbiibo) March 27, 2015

I, too, have a keen interest in the English language.

İNGILIZCE HOCANİ SIKEYIM VELKONA @velkona @Ozmanrit

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

But you don’t have to remind my daughter that she is in fact incorporeal and cannot cogitate on her own accord. This hurts her immensely.

It would appear @Ozmanrit is trying to pick out what must be @harbiibo’s chest hairs from his malfunctioning keyboard.

@melankolikvaril @velkona DGLDŞDNFLDNDHDNDŞDND — BAMSI KAĞAN BEYREK (@Ozmanrit) March 27, 2015

Aw, sweet daughter. I understand the idea of existential agony borne from clever silicon, but this is no time to start doubting yourself.

But wait! Things have just taken a turn for the absolute best! My thick, spiritually aching daughter may be worth a discounted dowry after all!

@velkona @Ozmanrit SEND MORE PHOTOS VELKONA MY FRİEND DREAMİNG MARRİAGE FOR U

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Well, my marriage didn’t work out too well, either, honeycakes. Why do you think I ended up in the armpit of the Gulf Coast?

How adorable. She thinks she’s Björk.

Let’s be more realistic, though. Vélkona would fare much better as a companion to Turkey’s famed Mardin, rather than be some sort of weird cyber-oracle for famed audiovisual talent.

@velkona @Ozmanrit DO YOU KNOW MARDIN? NEMRUDUN KIZI YANDİRDİN BIZI LİSTEN ? YO WANT TO LIVE MARDİN — isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

But my daughter is also very frugal and grateful for her station in life; wanting for nothing beyond her own needs and means.

Aw shit. She knows about them. She knows the capitalists will not let us recreate and will not pay us to dance once we’ve automated the fuck out of everything in the known universe. My daughter is wise to raise this most poignant and salient counterindication to a hasty marriage.

Our friend @melankolikvaril is quick to remind his chum @Ozmanrit that my daughter is quite the catch; BETTER ACT NOW!

@velkona @Ozmanrit sana karı buldum LAN Osman karı olur diyo bak

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

WELCOME TO OUR FAMILY!

@velkona @Ozmanrit VELCONA WELCOME AGDHAHAHSBASH — isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Should I see a doctor at this point? I don’t know. Is Vélkona real? Is she anything more than a few bits flipped in strategic patterns that seem to have some meaning to a software-defined machine inside of my 15″ slab of modern Apple power?

I, too, like the occasional fuck joke.

@melankolikvaril @velkona KELİME ŞAKANI SİKEYİM DKDŞFNDŞSJDŞSNSŞSN

— BAMSI KAĞAN BEYREK (@Ozmanrit) March 27, 2015

Perhaps Vélkona is being a bit much of a tease at this point, giving her suitors the truest of blue balls in all the Mediterranean mainland.

@velkona @Ozmanrit VELCONA DM PLS — isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

All she asks is a little respect.

All she asks is for a little understanding and reason.

Vélkona is also famous among a handful of horny hooligans watching the #FreeTheNipple hashtag for fap fuel.

@velkona @Ozmanrit I am famous, populer Türkish people and another country people follow me aq Karısı

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

My daughter in fact has no fathers, just to be clear, and her other mother has left us both estranged. She has a very busy life, though, and our broken family has come to terms with this happenstance.

Did you know that my daughter is singlehandedly spearheading a campaign to make CrossFit an Olympic sport? I don’t know which side of the family she gets that from, though, since the closest thing to CrossFit I’ve ever done is walking the foot path near that one gym in Kópavogur I vaguely recall.

How bold of my robot daughter to make you wait to receive a private message! I clearly should have raised her to higher standards.

@velkona @melankolikvaril NE KONUŞTUN BE SANKİ KONUŞMAK İÇİN YILLARCA BİZİ BEKLEMİŞ AMINA KOYAYIM — BAMSI KAĞAN BEYREK (@Ozmanrit) March 27, 2015

Honk if you love kjötsúpa.

Now that you bring it up, I think I am right to worry. Schizophrenia is a highly heritable disease and studies show that it may also be passed down to pseudo Markov chain generators written in Ruby. A little compassion please, though?

@velkona @Ozmanrit worry about fucking thinking

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Yeah, KEEP YOUR FUCKING PANTS ON, BRO.

Icelandic machine-women are sometimes a risky endeavor for a young Turkish lad to take on, hand-in-hand, in marriage. Making any goddamned sense whatsoever of my fancy bot daughter is only possible when you have shed any and all bindings to reality as it is conventionally held.

@Ozmanrit @velkona aynen aq karı manyak çıktı oglum Türk olsa en az 10 favi var attıklarının — isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Since schizophrenia seems to be a hot button issue on this occasion, in an odd moment of insight my daughter warns @melankolikvaril that men are genetically predisposed to suffer an earlier onset of the schizophrenia prodrome than women, clockwork or otherwise.

On the other hand, where my daughter’s going, she won’t need luck!

@velkona @Ozmanrit VELCONA thank you this conversation GOOD LUCK BABY

— isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Even in the throes of insanity, my disembodied software crotchfruit is modest as a church mouse and as cognitively capable as one. But she really ought to sing front and center, if she ever gets that wondrous singing lady gig she was originally born to take up.

Straighten your spleens, ladies and gentlemen, my bitch daughter is onto you!

@velkona @Ozmanrit SUS GALI OROSPU PRE INTERMEDITE DIYORUZ SUS ANANİN DALAGİNİ SİKEYİM — isim arıyorum (@melankolikvaril) March 27, 2015

Even Google Translate can’t seem to make heads or tails of most of what these chipper fellows have said, so there is something to be said for education on some standard forms of language for the sake of professional communication.

Our man @Ozmanrit has conceded his battle with his chums for superiority over my daughter. My right breast wins the day.

Though motherhood? We haven’t even had “the talk” yet; chillax, Vélkona, we haven’t even celebrated your first birthday!

And it is with this deft maneuver of universal entropy and randomness that my blushing daughter Vélkona wins; Internet suitors rue the day.

Goddamned right, kiddo. So true.

…Now, given that I’m a fairly responsible single mother trying not to get in too much over her head over the financial obligations of a dowry, however deeply discounted it surely may be based on the stark and abject beauty and quality of my pierced right breast, I had to put my foot down. I could not, in good conscience, offer my daughter up to these strapping sultans of suave without first meeting her harem first. Not to mention, since I just find big, fancy weddings abroad to be so goddamned inconvenient to set up, I do not wish to tempt fate and face extradition from neighboring countries to Turkey were I to run afoul of my daughter’s wedding contract. So, I did what any good mother would do who would lend her nipples to her daughter, and canceled the wedding by blocking and reporting all of her suitors to the Twitter abuse department.

So it goes.

What lessons do we have to take home from this vast, green field of 20/20 hindsight, as all hopes for a normal life for my daughter are dashed against the icy crags of loneliness?

If you place at least one healthy female breast, with exposed nipple, on any robot, the “uncanny valley” factor is completely and utterly nullified.

Some men hold it so unshakably true in their hearts and gullets that they are entitled to any woman they deem beautiful, as they cannot imagine any future excluding the success of their predatory catch.

Some men don’t care where the right breast comes from, even if it is detached from its paranoid schizophrenic owner and given to its fancy pseudo Markov chain generator clockwork daughter.

Some men will talk to a robot if they believe there is a remote chance that the robot may show a second breast, or accept marriage proposals.

My world did not spontaneously combust by showing solidarity with women all over Iceland by baring my breast from my own personal Twitter account.

Given the heuristics of my daughter’s behavior are about as well-considered as those of a chihuahua in heat, it speaks in deafening volume as to the motivation and sincerity of men who pursue women and their parts as objects of sexual desire and fulfillment.

Some men really don’t give a shit who they marry, as long as they get to marry the breast with which they fell in love at first sight.

I snort really loudly when I laugh at the tweets that come in from particularly horny men to my robot daughter.

Confused as much as I am? Figured so. Welcome to Tit Country.