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I love America. Want to know why? You don't? Well, too bad! You're going to hear it anyway!
I love America because this is the land of people who get shit done. Get sick of your boss? Well, if you're an American, you'll pull out your Van Halen in front of her and yell "Harassment!" Bam! Problem solved, bitch! Can't get a date because your breasts resemble two pieces of fish tank gravel glued to a cardboard box? Be a goddamn American! Knock over a convenience store and get those suckers professionally inflated! Nothing like a good boob job to make you publicly presentable! Get tired of feeling unloved and alone in the world?
...well, that kind of sucks. I guess you'd need Prozac for that one. But if you were American, you'd totally pop those pills with a vodka chaser because, in this country, we do everything hard, fast and with little to no thought involved. Yeah, baby!
That's why we're called Americans: Because we cans take care of business. And, no, I don't give a shit if that's improper word usage. This is America, bitch: Only terrorists and queers bother with appropriately utilizing the language.
When I was in high school, I wanted to have my own newspaper column where townspeople would mail in questions and I would give them timely answers. (This wish was just under "A Night With Carmen Electra" on my The Ten Things I Want to Do Before The Robot Apocalypse Destroys America list. Back then, I was pretty horny and she was still of some relevance.) Really, I wanted to use the column as a platform to screw with people's lives - you know, tell them that lice infestations are hereditary and that drinking copious amounts of room-temperature milk can scramble drug test results. Stuff like that. But, alas, I never received my own column (if I did, I damn sure wouldn't be blogging to you idiots right now). Sometimes, when I think about it, I get a little choked up. That’s why you should never dream, kids. Ever. Shoot low and you’ll never disappoint yourself.
Unless you’re retarded, of course. Then every day that you wake up is a disappointment.
I hate warehouses - especially working in them. They're always lousy with dirt, infested with all kinds of arthropods/hobos, and the lighting is designed specifically to break the spirits of employees (while conversely reinforcing the evil auras of management). Warehouses just plain suck. I think that the United States government should give up waterboarding (it’s such a 2007 form of torture) and, instead, put all of our enemy spies and terrorists into warehouses and make them move boxes around all day. And then when they get sick or hurt on the job, deny them time off or worker’s comp. Yeah. That makes sense.
According to the National Endowment for the Arts, poetry reading in the United States is at a sixteen year low. (Yeehaw! Fuck the Taliban! Go America!) Now I like to think of myself as a pretty helpful guy, so to assist in continuing our statistical trend, I offer up some easily-ignorable and totally-skippable poetry of my very own.
Mechanical Horse
I had that dream again,
the one with David Hasselhoff
riding a mechanical horse
across the beach.
Except, this time, he stopped
and asked me a question.
“Do you know
who I am, boy?”
I thought about it for
a moment,
and then replied,
“I’m fairly sure you’re
television’s David Hasselhoff,
former star of hit shows
like Knightrider
and Baywatch.”
He smiled and nodded.
His teeth were as white
as those of Zeus,
if Zeus had known to
brush daily and
used Crest Whitestrips®.
I reached out then for
Hasselhoff’s
perfectly tanned hand,
but he pulled back
on the horse’s reins
before I could
and rode off.
On the wind
I caught
the faint murmur of,
“Recognizing me doesn’t
make us butt-buddies,
asshole.”
I like Transformers. Really, I do. And not just that crazy movie where Shia LaBeouf randomly became, like, sixteen again and where Michael Bay decided to have a close-up orgy with all his fight scenes. I mean the whole Transformers universe. It’s awesome.
Awesomely hilarious.
Seriously, who the fuck thought that creating a race of gigantic robots/aliens that come from an industrial factory/planet was anything more than completely nonsensical? Even for kids, that's hard to swallow. Certainly was for me. I remember seeing Transformers on television when I was about six. All those colorful robots flying around their psychedelic machine-world, shooting lasers at each other and talking gibberish about Decepticons and Autobots. I thought it was lunacy. I actually remember thinking to myself, “Those Japs sure do come up with some crazy shit.” And, if you put to the side my unabashed racism and the fact that the most enduring concepts associated with Transformers were, in fact, American ideas, it’s not hard to see the truth in my juvenile potty-mouth.
Who’s going to be fooled by a robot that folds up into an 800 pound, 6 foot high cassette tape, anyway? Cassette tapes went out with Kid ’n Play.
Guess what? As it turns out, I'm not funny anymore. At all. I found out just yesterday. Very big surprise. But I guess I should have known: I've had this nasty rash on my knee pit for the last couple of days; isn't that a sign that Jesus doesn't love you anymore?
And, to think, this entire time people have been lying to me. Complete strangers with nothing to gain from boosting my ego, telling me how hilarious they find my writing - liars, the whole lot of them! Dirty, deadbeat liars! It's pathetic, really. All they were doing was encouraging my insanity. Because, you know, what I do here is, in fact, insane. I mean, who talks casually about the scrotum? (Oh, well, other than physicians and men who're confident enough with themselves that they can talk openly about their physiology. But, hey, they don't count. They're all insane, too.)
Oh, and please, by God, let's not talk about my literary skills. My grammar and syntax are about as noteworthy as cow chips - and I'm talking pre-Al Gore, pre-"Farts Are Gonna Kill Us All" cow chips. You know, when it was just dry shit in a field.
There's simply no value to what I write on this blog. None at all. It's trash. Dreg. And I should have known that. (Stupid, stupid, stupid!) The economy is in shambles and sociopolitical stability is at an all-time low across the globe. What in God's name made me think that people wanted to laugh a little?
The greatest vehicle in the history of Time and the Universe is the 1985 Dodge Prospector Van.
I know. An awe-inspiring name, isn't it? I'll wait a moment while you catch your breath.
Imagine a van so beautiful that even Jesus himself wouldn't order fast food through it's driver's side window. Imagine a van that comfortably seats eleven (and many, many more if you're hauling circus performers or soon-to-be Mexican-Americans). Imagine with me a van that rides so smoothly that falling asleep behind the wheel and driving directly through the wall of an elementary school cafeteria, killing masses of innocent children, is a matter of time, not of your will power.
That, my friends, is the power of the 1985 Dodge Prospector Van - a magical rhinoceros with 14” wheels.
For more aneurysm-inducing shots of this mighty van, got to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxhS8DyqGf8.
It drives me up the wall when I hear people arrogantly explain how they never touch cigarettes. It’s all “chemical-additives-that-shrink-your-scrotum”-this and “satanic-cigarette-execs-with-their-evil-private-jets-and-their-Italian-business-suits-made-from-the-pubic-hair-of-pedophiles”-that. But, then, those same people go home and light up joints. And why? Because - and stay with me here; it’s going to get a little crazy - marijuana is nothing like a cigarette. I mean, it’s not like smoking marijuana can give you emphysema or lung cancer, right? Oh, wait. My mistake. I forgot that this isn't Bizarro World and stupid things don't become spontaneously valid for no reason. But, hey, nobody ever dies from just occasionally getting baked off doobies, right? Wrong, you stinkin’ pothead (i.e., Communist). Try walking a tightrope after blazing some purple! Try firing a Gatling gun in a Civil War reenactment or riding a humpback whale on an undersea adventure! None of that stuff is going to be particularly easy if you’ve been toking on hydro for the better part of a Sunday afternoon.
That’s why I don’t smoke anything, period. It’s all liver-busting scotch and whiskey for this kid.
A long time ago, I saw a picture in this occult book of a psychic performing a séance with a group of people. Most everything was séance-standard: Everyone was holding hands around a table, had their eyes clamped shut, and the psychic was sitting at the head, chanting over a set of candles. Like I said, couldn’t have been anymore stereotypical -
- except that the psychic’s head was covered in ectoplasm.
Yes, my friends, you read that right. Ectoplasm. Ghost guts. Spirit jizz. It was all over the psychic’s hair and running down the side of her cheeks. She looked like she’d gotten lost after shooting a L’Oreal commercial.
Since then, I’ve wondered what that ectoplasm must have tasted like. I mean, I know some of it probably dribbled into the psychic’s mouth. Did she throw up all over the guests? Did she scrape it off with crackers and stuff it into doggie bags for everybody? The stuff looked just like vanilla custard. I don’t think it’s a leap to imagine it tasting similarly.
Wraith custard. That’s all I’ve got to say.
Have you ever had a little too much wine and crank at a family funeral and ended having your adopted sister practice the reverse cowgirl squat on you in the back of a stolen taxi with the dead Pakistani driver still behind the wheel, bleeding heavily from the fire axe in his chest?
Well, I certainly haven't.
My mother is black and my father is white. Contrary to logic, I came out a weird yellowish-brown color instead of steel gray. On top of that little letdown, being biracial has made it difficult to fit into society’s classification systems. Many black people are embarrassed by my relative inability to breakdance and my stalwart use of proper American grammar/a belt for my pants. Many white people are afraid of me because my penis is extremely muscular and my hair is more akin to a Brillo® pad than... well, hair. The whole situation is very stressful. I ride a shaky fence that most people don’t even notice - a fence where you’re two things, but most people see you as nothing - a fence topped with barbwire and straddled by angry wolverines with paws that feature retractable power drills. The only solace I find is in accepting myself as neither black nor white - and yet simultaneously both. It sounds complicated but, really, it isn’t. It’s much easier than juggling a codeine addiction and a job as an eighth grade counselor. I simply call myself a “Caucafrican” - a beautiful marriage of the words “Caucasian” and “African”, if I may say so - when my race comes into question. Most people are so confused that they just nod slowly and inch away backwards. And in the case that I get bothered further? Bam! I deliver a punch square to the baby-makers! Take that Michael Richards!
I don't have a lot of respect for people who view brushing their teeth as an avenue to exercise their spontaneity instead of the almost religious, regimental act that it should be. (Oh, and you fuckers know exactly who I’m talking about. Don’t click the Back button! Don’t type a new address in up there!) See, as far as I’m concerned, there’s a distinct and immutable hierarchy to daily human hygiene - the higher on the list it is, the more necessary its inclusion in a sociable adult’s routine. The list reads like this: - Washing your hands frequently
- Wiping your buttocks, left and right
- Brushing your teeth - with toothpaste and a brush, not that water and a finger thing you saw on that one episode of Who’s the Boss?, goddamnit
- Taking regular showers (or baths if you’re friendless and have too much time on your hands)
- Using some deodorant every so often
- Shaving - the upper half and, if necessary, the lower
- Running a comb through your hair occasionally
Now, I know, all that probably sounds like a lot. And, if you’re particularly objectionable to the eyes, doing it all on a regular basis might just seem like beating back the wind. The thing is, the first 75% of that stuff is totally necessary. I think a lot of people get away with slacking off hygienically because they’re really funny or they have a lot of disposable cash or their breasts are gigantic/succulent, but, you’ve got to understand, this is a serious health issue. (Sure, I could argue that self-esteem is also a factor, but, if self-esteem mattered at all in America, I don’t think Jackass or Lindsey Lohan would have ever been allowed to exist.) Bottom line, if you don’t wash your hands or your teeth, you will die. Slowly and painfully. It will be 3.4 times worse than Whitney Houston’s career. Take care of yourself or prepare for the consequences - Bobby Brown will get you addicted to crack and gamble all of your money away on dog racing.
The problem with this economy is that Americans have lost their healthy fear of dinosaurs. Think about it: In the mid-90's, right after Jurassic Park was released, this country was riding a cash-wave (i.e., a wave made entirely of cash). Fears about imminent giant lizard attacks pushed Americans to go out and spend their monies before Tyrannosaurs started using the malls as latrines and Velociraptors sliced open all the tellers at the community bank. But now it’s only a little over a decade later and, just because no one’s seen a dinosaur outside of a movie for 60 million years, everybody thinks that the threat’s disappeared. Not even the damn Cloverfield monster helped and that was a giant crab covered in giant spiders - the thing was, like, four times worse than any dinosaur. How the hell did that not stimulate the economy? So, I think the only logical answer is for President Obama to order the military to begin randomly staging “dinosaur” attacks on American towns and cities. This will likely involve US soldiers dressing up as Dilophosaurs and Deinonychus, but might even incorporate the occasional Pterodactyl-themed helicopter, complete with 12-foot leathery wings/miniguns. The way I see it, once the military levels a couple of counties to smoking ruins and the locals get to believing that dinosaurs have come back to reclaim their territory and destroy Wal-Mart, Americans will have no choice but to blow their paychecks on Blu-ray discs and designer dog food. I mean, if you’re eaten by dinosaurs, of what worth is money, right? Unless you’re only mauled, not killed. Then, between the cost of recovery and possible cosmetic surgery, money could be pretty important, I guess. But I don’t think that should really be a concern. Dinosaurs have always been fairly thorough and I think Barack Obama knows that.
Yesterday I read that Oprah Winfrey will soon share the cover of her official magazine with another person other than herself for the first time. Said other person turns out to be Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama, current First Lady of the United States and amateur bodybuilder. Needless to say, I found the news a little unsettling. It was kind of like a homeless man wandering into the restaurant during your wife’s birthday dinner and taking a crapper all over the cake while humming “Yankee Doodle.” And it’s not even because of the obvious stuff, I swear. Sure, they’re both as stuck-up as a Viagra test patient and they dress like they were both in a freak accident involving nuclear waste, an explosion and a Coldwater Creek clothing store. But my real issue? What really keeps me up at night, popping valiums one after the other and making VHS recordings of infomercials for later viewing? They’re so damn ugly, the two of them. Oprah was pretty terrible by herself - she looks a little bit like Admiral Ackbar, if you ask me - but then you add in Nazi Superwoman Michelle Obama and you’ve got yourself a USDA-certified two-lady lifetime membership to Club Ugly. (No offense, of course, to the proud men and women who serve America by certifying that our beef is indeed mostly beef, rather than a composite of beef, cardboard and aluminum siding like they sell in Cambodia. I’m not honestly trying to say that you guys are some kind of certification board that oversees this “Club Ugly” that I devised for Admiral Oprah and her Herculean companion... Sometimes I just get really flustered when I’m typing quickly and I write strange things that don’t make any logical sense in the real world. Like that stuff about warm soymilk fights. That’s crazy. Warm soymilk is best for diving and swimming; pie, as I’m sure you well know, suits fighting much better.) If the world survives those two on a magazine cover together without resorting to nuclear war or a mass conversion to Mormonism, you can count me among the officially surprised.
I like to think of myself as a dog person. Dogs just make sense to me. If the tail's wagging, everything is awesomeness. If you've got growling and lip curling, cover your nuts - a beatdown is about to be delivered via Express Mail straight to your gonads. Dogs are masters of obviousness. Unlike cats. Fucking lunatics, they are. You’ll never catch a dog in your kitchen at 3 AM smoking clove cigarettes and cleaning a Desert Eagle. Simply won’t happen; at 3 AM, the average dog is in Dreamland, diving in and out of rivers flowing with zesty bacon-flavored kibble. But cats? Those little bastards don’t even sleep. Ask any veterinarian, they’ll tell you all about it (unless they’re on the take, in which case they may stab you in the jugular and dive out a window). A “sleeping” cat is nothing but a decoy. The real one is likely watching you from a nearby air conditioning vent, sharpening a butterfly knife and sizing you up.
In my experience, white men can, in fact, jump to varying degrees of height. The stereotype asserts that Caucasian men are challenged with verticality because of a lack of soul* and/or a curse to weaken their calve muscles inflicted upon them by Haitian witch doctor slaves. And while both claims are entirely factual, neither of them can explain the existence of Larry Bird. Who knows? Maybe he isn't even human, let alone a Whitey McCracker. Maybe he's an angel, sent here by God/Morgan Freeman to lead the Boston Celtics into basketball legend/bring about the Apocalypse through good sportsmanship and the mysterious number 33. Or, maybe Larry Bird is a demon, rising from the darkest corner of the netherworld every four thousand years to put his uncanny free throwing ability on display and, thusly, taunt humanity into submission, securing his demonic superiority.
Phew. That blog post got weird fast. Glad that’s over.
*"Soul," in this case, being the innate ability to begin breakdancing skillfully whenever a piece of flattened cardboard is happened upon.
If I spontaneously transformed into a mythological beast (either as a result of the Liberals unleashing a genetic plague with their devilish stem cell research or by going on some sort of mystical mind-quest after getting knocked in the head by a greedy prostitute with a platform shoe and a powerful backhand), I'd want it to be a unicorn. Except this unicorn would be carnivorous. I'd have multiple rows of eight-inch canine teeth and hyperextensible jaws, just like a shark or Kathy Griffin. Children would be instantly attracted to my beautiful golden coat and my magnificent ivory horn, but the moment they turned their backs, I’d impale them through the chests, killing them only after long minutes of agonizing pain and pitiful cries for their parents - who I would, of course, slaughter and feed upon next. It would be just like the My Pretty Pony animated series, except awesome.
As a young boy, I formed a distinct fascination with fire - particularly in the act of burning random shit with it. New things that I discovered always made my mind drift to flames. I'd wake up early and spend half a Saturday scouring the house for items of interest - Dr. Scholl's® foot pads, the television remote control, jars of old kitchen grease - and then I'd drag them all into my secret sanctuary: The closet. Strange as it may seem, I found a sort of peace in the darkened claustrophobia that came with shutting myself up in my bedroom closet. It was sort of like being back in the womb, except I didn't feel my mother punching her uterine wall so frequently and it smelled a whole lot more like tweed. I'd sit on the floor Indigenous Peoples of the Americas-style, bust out my trusty matchbook and burn random shit for hours. Cathartic doesn’t do the act justice. If I had to describe it in a word, I’d choose two words, tie them together with a hyphen and call it “super-cathartic.”
Yeah. "Super-cathartic" sounds about right.
Because he had a real hard-on for pain and, frankly, he was too young to be overly-imaginative with his hobbies, my brother, Stephen, used to give himself terrible rug burn on all sorts of places across his body. He was probably six or seven at the time; in my opinion, way too old to be considered sane and still allowed to act like a complete lunatic. But, then again, this is a criticism about the nature of someone's mental health coming from me, a person who champions the merits of warm soymilk fights.
It was the first thing Stephen thought of after a long day at school or a Buddhist monastery or the local asbestos factory. (Stephen's always been a roamer: The kind of person who will sit patiently at a funeral for forty minutes and then, suddenly, stand up, open a window, dive through and disappear for two weeks, after which he'll blow back into town with several gang-related tattoos, a colorful eye patch and a severed human foot in a large pickle jar.) He'd run into the living room, shedding his clothes in the kitchen and the hallway as he went, and dump himself on the floor, twisting and twirling, assaulting his skin with violent friction. To see it was like watching an E! True Hollywood Story about Gary Busey - you're disgusted, angry, saddened and even a little bit constipated by the ridiculous spectacle but, try as you might, you can't stop watching until the end (or, at least, the first commercial break). After about sixty seconds, Stephen would have tears streaming down his cheeks. Damn if that ever stopped him from rolling around on the floor again later, though.
The problem began when people started noticing. Nosy people. Nosy white people with too much time on their hands. My mother started getting calls and my father started asking questions. It was very awkward. You see, I’ve always had a pretty healthy relationship with my brother - I didn’t ask where he disappeared to and he didn’t ask why I was stockpiling so much kerosene in my bedroom closet - unlike most brothers, our relationship was forged in a mutual respect for each other’s dirty secrets rather than an incessant stream of violent encounters - but all the strange injuries Stephen was racking up started to make his big brother look like an Irish drunk. (As if there’s any other kind of Irish.) Of course my parents had seen him going apeshit on the carpet, but when your kid’s got enough rug burn to make Jesus wince, you start to wonder if it’s all really his own doing. And Stephen would have explained his fascination with skin-on-carpet sports but, frankly, I think he was embarrassed. Crazy or not, he knew that what he was doing wasn’t ever going to show up at the Winter Olympics - it was a strange hobby all his own and he didn’t want to have to justify himself to parents that would have surely branded him psychotic (or a bit of a retard, in the least).
So, I took the blame. It came with some consequences - no television for a week hit me the worst because it was November sweeps and I had to find out whether or not Sam and Diane were going to keep dancing around each other or finally hit it off - but protecting Stephen still isn’t something I regret. Still, though, it would have been a bit more satisfying if I had deserved the punishment.
Tip of the Week: Beat the shit out of your siblings when you get the chance because you’ll probably get blamed for it even if you don’t. Life sucks and that’s just how it is.
I talk to myself a lot. Like, ten times a day for fifteen or twenty minutes. It's the obvious but rather unfortunate result of loving the sound of my own voice and consistently finding that I'm simultaneously the most interesting and intelligent person in any room I step into. (Except when I go to Girl Scout meetings. Damn, do those girls do some fascinating activities.) And, if you're an auto-conversationalist like I am, then you understand the grand satisfaction that comes with a lounge in your front porch easy chair, sipping from a tall glass of lukewarm goat's milk and having it out with yourself verbally. I and my incredibly good-looking self discuss politics, art... On occasion, I even challenge myself to a little game I call "Celebrity Fight Club®," where two Hollywood stars are chosen from the bunch and then pit against each other in an imaginary grudge match, where the winner is chosen according who (I or me) argues most convincingly that their combatant deserves it. (Recently, I've been picking Shia LaBeouf for both fighter’s spots - old, pussy Even Stevens Shia versus new, dickhead, half-beard-wearing Transformers Shia. As far as I’m concerned, whichever one dies makes the world a much more awesome, less half-beardish place to live.) My point, difficult to keep in focus as it is, is that talking to myself has always been a great way of getting to know one of my favorite people. Me.
If only women understood the magic of auto-conversations. I’d probably lose a lot less dates to Lady’s Room windows and family emergencies involving bears.
Stupid women.
As it turns out, Matthew McConaughey and P. Diddy (formerly know as a dumbass) have the exact same birthday of November 4, 1969. I found that little nugget in a back issue of a People magazine on my bathroom shelf while I took a moderately-sized shit this afternoon. Now, normally, I don’t give two shakes of a damn about celebrities or the unfortunate fact that some lady, at some point in history, made the mistake of carrying them for nine months instead of getting into an “accident” with a “misplaced” pool stick, but the fact that these two particular sons of bitches have the same birthday is intriguing. Intriguing because they’re both such blatant weirdoes. To imagine that God - with all his infinite wisdom and those super awesome abs - deemed it satisfactory for both a guy that views the surf board as a valid alternative to public transportation and another guy who wears Aviators in the pool and during eye exams to be born on the exact same date brings God’s sense of logic into question. Abs are great and all, but not when you’re dropping the ball like this. You really let me down, G-Money.
I do a lot research on Wikipedia – research in my case meaning that I read up on something random until I get bored, type something equally random into the Search bar and then repeat the first two steps about 270 additional times. There’s a distinctly fascinating aspect to spending 45 minutes reading hundreds upon hundreds of words about an array of subjects but, in the end, gaining absolutely zero advantageous bits of knowledge that could ever be applied to any real world situations. It’s kind of like having sex with a hole in your garage wall. Do it if it feels good, but don’t expect anything good to come of it.
Anyway, that’s how I ended up getting interested in falconry. The Wikipedia Fates led me down a long and winding road: It began with “Super Mario Bros. 3®,” then flowed pretty logically into “poisonous mushrooms” and “violent hallucinations,” but then took a weird turn to “fancy wigs,” and then, somehow, an even weirder turn towards “birds of prey” which pretty much dropped me square in the lap of “falconry” a few minutes later. Needless to say, I had been drinking a lot that night.
So, as it turns out, falconry (or “hawking” as certain lames refer to it) is an ancient form of sport hunting in which a falconer (or a “hawker” if you belong to said group of lames) raises a raptor (not to be confused with the equally cool but super-extinct Velociraptor) for speed, ferocity and, above all, a wicked sense of obedience towards its master. Falconers use raptors to hunt small game like squirrels, leprechauns and baby humans, all the way up to medium-size animals such as foxes, dwarves and teenagers. Followers of the sport primarily utilize falcons, hawks and eagles, but buzzards and owls can also be trained if you’re into using crappy birds that nobody else respects or cares about.
I wouldn’t be using my bird for hunting, though. I’m firmly against the hunting of game, unless it involves my local Best Buy® and ends with me getting something new for my Xbox®. Rather, I’d use the bird for tasks that are beneath me, like shaking me off after I’m done taking a pisser or attending jury duty and always voting “guilty” regardless of the evidence. I mean, if I want squirrel meat, I can go to the flea market. I don’t need an expensive hunting bird for that. It’s my laziness that needs assistance.
Okay. I’ll (again) do the ballsy thing here and say what everybody else is tiptoeing around: The robot threat is real, people – and it’s a pee-your-pants-while-projectile-vomiting-all-over-your-best-friend’s-face-and-clothes kind of scary.
I mean, first of all, robots are made of metal. Whoever settled on that initial decision really fucked up. They should have used hemp or vinyl siding – you know, something easier to punch, if and when you decided to put a back-talking robot in its rightful place. Seriously, everybody knows that metal beats everything. What’s the only viable option when your asshole cousin repeatedly out-guesses you in Rock-Paper-Scissors? Duh. Of course, you call “metal.” Metal rips right through single sheets of paper, blows up basically any brand of scissors and makes a standing mockery of rocks, Earth and Moon varieties alike. Metal is the ultimate choice of any wise tactician and we (the idiots) let robots (the bastards) cover themselves with it. Jesus.
Moreover, I’m roughly 67% sure they’re smarter than we are. R2-D2 doesn’t seem to have much of a grasp on English, but he consistently makes audiences around the world, year after year believe he’s the wittiest character in all of Star Wars. And, while that’s probably true to a very large extent, that doesn’t make him any less of a manipulative little dildo robot. Oh, and let’s not forget his good buddy, C-3PO. I wouldn’t normally give much of a second thought to a dude dressed entirely in shiny gold on a daily basis, but have you heard his accent? Exactly! It’s distinctly British! Now, I know, I know, this is supposed to be a robot bash-fest, not a platform for my continued jihad against all things Brit, but, honestly people, can you really deny the obvious truth? We all know the British can’t be trusted. (Even my therapist agrees, and she thinks I’m crazy and she’s a woman!) All of history’s cleverest bastards have been Brits. King George. Phil Edwards. Scar from The Lion King.* All very evil folks, and C-3PO is proof that robots are among their ranks. And we all know that the British are superior thinkers. It's common knowledge that unusually large teeth and foreheads like football fields make Englishmen exceptional thinkers. So, to put it simply: Robots+British Accents=Super Smart Robots with British Accents and Massive Teeth/Foreheads.
My God, what a terrible combination.
I’ve seen all of the Terminator movies and watched a hell of a lot of Battlestar Galactica. What’s the verdict? Science fiction rocks. But, we all knew that. That’s old news. So, what’s the additional verdict? Robots are a clear and present danger.
You wanna live? Invest in a Super Soaker®. Your children will thank you.
Especially if you get a few of them. Because then, after the 1000 Year Robot War, the kids can totally have squirt gun fights, which are super fun for the whole family.
*Man, I hate Scar.
