by Andrew Kramcsak

I am a boy made of steel. Please adopt me. I was constructed in a laboratory in the Blue Ridge Mountains but I escaped and now I am here on your doorstep. Pat me on the head and feed me a box of cereal. I am the most normal of boys. I can run 40 miles per hour, have the skeleton of a low land gorilla and have been programmed to know everything about the civil unrest in Tunisia.

Have you ever heard the phrase “the human eye is a camera?” My eyes are literally cameras and I have taken pictures of many things. Scientists running, a security guard lying face down at the bottom of a stairwell, an open hatch, and you, right now. If you take me in as one of your own, I will let you see the pictures because they are very good and your walls are empty.

I don’t have a heart. I have several microchips and a piston engine. Show me where the hearts are kept and I will take one and shove it inside of me if it will make you happy.

Children smell like barbecue sauce and hope. Tell me where the nearest sauce factory is and I will bathe in it. Give me your love.

If any Tunisian warlords attempted to harm you, I would murder them by punching holes through their bodies. Their families will know my name and fear me. Take me clothes shopping and buy me a shirt with the face of a cartoon on it.

I like doing chores. The scientists used to fill me with canisters of uranium and cyanide and I would spend a weekend in Tunisia doing things to people. When you adopt me, give me an allowance so I can buy bubblegum.

If you desire to know how old I am, you can look at the serial number on my inner plate. Afterwards, you can buy me a cake and presents. I don’t need any grenade launchers. I already have too many.

Sometimes, I like to work on little projects. Last week, I made a warhead. Let me inside so I can see the contents of your pantry and medicine cabinet. It will be fun for both of us.

Children like telling jokes. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Orange. Orange who? Oranges have citrus in them, which has a very pungent smell. Whenever I would track someone down in the Tunisia foothills, I would mask my scent with citrus. I have many more jokes like this. I can tell you them when you tuck me into bed at night or whenever it is children sleep.

I would like a best friend. A best friend who likes sports and blames his farts on the dog. I would teach him how to use his body like an artist, but instead of reds and blue, it would be pain and destruction. But first you must let me be your son.

Andrew Kramcsak is a writer and comedian from New Jersey.