You sir, are a bugger

I didn't much feel like handing out leaflets after that. It all felt a bit wrong.
Eventually, after a lot of wandering round, I found Roger negotiating a job-lot of rubber vaginas.
"What d'you reckon on these?" he said, proffering one, "I'm thinking of shift-workers as my target market. That and maybe ugly blokes..."
"I don't know," I said, "all this seems... wrong somehow."
"Wrong? What d'you mean wrong?" he asked in a baffled sort of way.
"I've just seen my mum being rubbed up by some dwarves," I said, "and it's got me thinking- maybe this whole thing is just the degradation of people to serve as a feeble substitute for real human interaction and that maybe by taking part as consumers, all we are really doing is denigrating ourselves and tacitly admitting that this is all we can ever hope for..."
Roger pondered this for a good few minutes, his brow creased with concentration, then he said: "Yeah, I agree... they do fuck you up - your parents."