Poképhilia is a sexual interest in Pokémon. Oh sure, humans are okay. But most humans can't be compressed inside of small plastic balls, and the ones who can are awfully outspoken against it. Not that it really matters. Well, it does. But it doesn't.
The way I see it, the issue at hand really is whether or not a cartoon can be considered true eroticism. Now, obviously nobody wants to be caught with their shorts down on this one, but nobody held a gun to their head and said "Be a world-renowned Taiwanese flautist." I mean, I knew it was going to be difficult for them to learn to play the flute with no lips, but I didn't even realize that plastic surgeons could successfully alter a person's entire appearance (apart from the lips, of course) to that of another race. This did give me an idea, though. Why not turn people into Pokémon? I'm sure there's plenty of people who wouldn't mind, and the rest of us can buy actual Pokémon for like a few thousand dollars, which is the equivalent of about twenty-four thousand wax crayons, not including the most recently discovered "sandpaper" shade, as these crayons were all manufactured before the January 10th switch to including it in with packs of twenty-four and thirty-six. Don't ask me why. I don't know many kids who get all geeked up over coloring sandpaper.
More To The Point, Back To What I Was Saying About Quantum Physics
You just cannot tie up and/or whip a cartoon. Now, I don't know about you, but what's the use of sex without some rope and chain? In that way, sex is like a pirate ship. A pirate ship with psychedelic lightshows and beer that tastes like coffee. No coffee that tastes like beer, though. That would just be silly.
Naturally, if we were within the vacuum of space, things would be different. Namely that we'd suffocate and then implode, or at the very least be forced to eat nothing but spinach pie for a week. Personally, I'd rather implode, but most of my friends are taking the spinach pie, so I'm just gonna tag along because I'm out of whiskey and heroin. Not that I actually drink the whiskey or shoot the heroin. It's just that for some inexplicable reason the only thing besides hanging out with my weird friends that actually entertains me anymore is watching a mixture of whiskey and heroin seeping from the ceiling and onto the walls, so I try to spread it around the inside of the attic as often as possible. It may not be practical, but it is terribly arousing.
Edweena Gave Me Mushrooms
But the eyeballs really have very little to do with it. Well, Pokémon eyeballs do I suppose, but most of them are in ink, and the real ones are not particularly erogenous, so to speak. To speak. To speak is to dream aloud. To take comfort in hearing certain frequencies resonating within particular areas of the skull. In that way, the skull is like a sitar. But in more important ways, it is very similar to a pirate ship. Pirate ships don't lie, and neither does your skull. So call a cab, will you?!
Look. I didn't order a High-Definition television for nothing. If you're not going to the beach, then put it back, you'll never be able to boogie board it across the street. Unless there's a flood. Which is very possible. The water tower is starting to melt. Won't be long now until the farmers can start growing again. Of course, the only thing they could probably grow in the midst of a flood would be raspberries. I hope that they can still afford a pair of raspberry pants after this drought we've been going through lately. Some farmers are down to their very last nickel. Easy to do, I suppose, when you blow it all on space hookers and Kosmik Brü, but the situation with the bicycle harvest was still a rotten deal.
Okay. I'm Just Going To Get Right Down To It, Now
Pokémon. Are they sexy? That really depends on your meaning. By some interpretations, large breasts and a thin waist are sexy. By some interpretations, a bumpy ride in a turnip caravan can be quite sexy. This is contrary to studies made at the University of Connecticut in 2001, which concluded that turnips are simply not sexy, by any stretch of the imagination. While this news was not handled well by turnip fetishists, science generally gets its way in these things, and by the end of the decade they had been entirely eradicated from Earth and its history books, excluding the interesting case of Nova Scotia, where a family of three turnip fetishists has been allowed to live for the past six years on the condition that they not copulate with the indigenous turnip-shaped people residing there. While the family is rarely seen outdoors, the windows of their home are frequently found to be fogged up with steam and, occasionally, cobalt.
When asked to comment on Poképhilia (and its evil twin brother, Randall), the family of Nova Scotian turnip fetishists each looked into the camera, and at the very exact same time, in the very exact same cadence, were all three heard to utter this timeless parable, accompanied by the London Philharmonic Orchestra and their rendition of the Love Boat theme song superimposed over the amplified sound of maggots crawling across a putting green, played at half-speed on a dead man's phonograph record player. It is postulated that if we are ever to really know the true nature of Poképhilia, it will be imperative for linguists to study this statement intently, whilst hanging from an enormous jungle gym. God save the Queen...