No, of course not, that's absurd.

You skip to the end of the agreement, check 'I agree,' and upload your digital signature before clicking 'Confirm.' You're then redirected to a receipt page, which assures you that your new futanari fuckbot will arrive in 3-7 business days.

...

Early in the morning, on the fifth day, there is a sharp rap at your door. Trembling with excitement and pent-up balls, you quickly head to your front door, smoothing your hair back and checking your teeth in a mirror. You open the door to find - a sweaty, overweight, and impatient truck driver at the door.

"Here you go buddy, sign here," he says curtly, shoving a clipboard into your hands. A flatbed truck with a crane idles in the street behind him. There's a large pallet on its bed, covered with a plastic tarp.

"It's her!" you think happily. Then you read the manifest. "Acme Metallurgy? What the fuck?" you think. There's a single item, designated by a long acronym, ordered to be shipped to you. "I didn't order this, whatever this is," you say.

"Sure thing buddy, it's for the rat-men that live under your house," the driver says sarcastically. "Sign here," he jabs down to the clipboard. Grumbling, you scribble your name and rip off your copy, determined to call up these jackasses and give them a piece of your mind. "Where you want it?" the driver says, as he starts to walk away.

"Umm, the driveway?"

"You sure? It weighs one ton."

"One ton? What is it?" you think. "Uhh, just on the front lawn then," you say. He nods and returns to his truck. You watch him as he fires up the crane, and with the cranking and squeaking of gears, carefully sets down this mysterious package. You walk over to examine it, compressing your lawn, as the truck roars away. You take off the tarp to reveal...metal ingots. "Pretty heavy - there must be a mistake," you think, testing the weight of the shiny, multicolored block.

You head back inside your house, and call up the metallurgy company. After an hour of arguing with them, they finally convince you that no, there's no mistake, this huge-ass chunk was ordered for you - by GFK, the conglomerate, call them and complain. You hang up and are just about to try, when there is a light tapping on your front door.