Every stop I make, I make a new friend…
Fat Conan doesn’t care if its target demographic is three to five year old girls. He doesn’t care that its a facsimile of the real thing that lacks the tangible aspects of genuine pet ownership. He doesn’t care that it doesn’t shed hair all over the furniture and fails to crave marrowbone jelly. He’s completely sanguine despite the fact that he can’t take it to the park and use it meet women. He’s not bothered in the slightest that his macho image is somewhat damaged by owning it (he once cut out a man’s spine using only a potato peeler so he’s still more than comfortable with his own manliness). He doesn’t even give a damn that it’s really just a Tamagotchi with added fur.
He doesn’t care because this is how Ein, his virtual Pembrokeshire Welsh Corgi greets him when he opens his DS. He hasn’t had that much attention from a orange, artificial dog since “Red Sonja”. Ha, take that Brigitte Nielsen.