If you are in possession of an infant, I WILL KICK IT.
I no longer look like a hobo. I now look like a robot. I am deadly serious about this. If you were to joke about my roboticism—if you casually dropped a line, during a tuna salad dinner at Java Joe's, about how my corneas seem to be rotating like gears—I would use deadly force against you. I would actually disembowel you, using your own hand. I would grasp your fingers, twist them into a hook, and then jab your own hand into your belly. I would then use my robot brain to study a diagram of your human nerve system—it would take about 3 milliseconds in all—and I would then lightly tap your spinal column in such a way that certain nerves would fire and your hand would go into what I can only call a gut-scooping motion, or series of motions, until you yourself had emptied your torso like a Halloween jack-o-lantern.
I was just in the bathroom washing my hands and staring at my disfigured face in the sick other-worldly neon ligth when I realized: I look a lot like a robot today. I look fake. I look "scene." As if I'm part of the robot scene. Or, really, as if I'm a robot who wants to be part of the human scene, and so I've liberally mixed together a paste of wood pulp, sliced turkey, and pipe cleaner covers into a faux-skin and applied it to my stainless steel shell.
My coworker gave me a muffin today. It tasted mealy, and I found out it has been in her freezer for about a month. Still I worked on it, despite its disgusting texture and flavor, until I realized that it was designed to taste like that; it's some sort of oat flavor.
The quality of that last paragraph was insufficient. I apologize.
There is no greater television program in the breadth of human history than Knight Rider. Last night I returned from WalMart ready to sit down with a gin and juice and string out five pages of Mom Swap, but Ryan and Bunbun were watching David Hasselhoff cavort around beautiful San Francisco. Or something. Here is a synopsis of the episode, the first full-length episode of this program that I've seen:
David Hasselhoff is being chased by David Hasselhoff in a fake goatee and black clothes. Whereas ungoatee'd Hasselhoff drives the bitching and whining but intelligent KITT, goatee'd 'Hoff drives a semi rig the size of the capitol building.
Evil Hoff and Good Hoff look the same because after Good Hoff's face was ripped away in a freak gasoline fighting accident (or gunshot, who knows), an eccentric millionaire had his face reconstructed in the image of his [the millionaire's] son, Evil Hoff, who was imprisoned in an African prison.
Evil Hoff, back in the present, captures Good Hoff and places him in the African Prison cell, which he has transplanted to America BRICK BY MOTHER-F'ING BRICK.
Etc.
The following episode was about a sassy back-talkin teddy bear.
Neither of these episodes are as good as the Bayou episode, my inaugural but incomplete virginal experience with Knight Rider.
Anyway, in all seriousness, if you'd like something to watch while you drink with your 80's-obsessed friends, there is no better show.
You know how Wolverine gets hurt a little every time he extends his claws? That would suck. Sometimes I wonder if analogous abilities would be worth it. If, for example, I could send functional helicopter blades sprouting from my shoulder blades, the associated pain would probably be acceptable. But what if I could only extend a pen through the tip of my finger? Or a tire gauge out of my toe? Those abilities would suck. If I had those abilities I would wander around Des Moines kicking infants without discretion.
I was just in the bathroom washing my hands and staring at my disfigured face in the sick other-worldly neon ligth when I realized: I look a lot like a robot today. I look fake. I look "scene." As if I'm part of the robot scene. Or, really, as if I'm a robot who wants to be part of the human scene, and so I've liberally mixed together a paste of wood pulp, sliced turkey, and pipe cleaner covers into a faux-skin and applied it to my stainless steel shell.
My coworker gave me a muffin today. It tasted mealy, and I found out it has been in her freezer for about a month. Still I worked on it, despite its disgusting texture and flavor, until I realized that it was designed to taste like that; it's some sort of oat flavor.
The quality of that last paragraph was insufficient. I apologize.
There is no greater television program in the breadth of human history than Knight Rider. Last night I returned from WalMart ready to sit down with a gin and juice and string out five pages of Mom Swap, but Ryan and Bunbun were watching David Hasselhoff cavort around beautiful San Francisco. Or something. Here is a synopsis of the episode, the first full-length episode of this program that I've seen:
David Hasselhoff is being chased by David Hasselhoff in a fake goatee and black clothes. Whereas ungoatee'd Hasselhoff drives the bitching and whining but intelligent KITT, goatee'd 'Hoff drives a semi rig the size of the capitol building.
Evil Hoff and Good Hoff look the same because after Good Hoff's face was ripped away in a freak gasoline fighting accident (or gunshot, who knows), an eccentric millionaire had his face reconstructed in the image of his [the millionaire's] son, Evil Hoff, who was imprisoned in an African prison.
Evil Hoff, back in the present, captures Good Hoff and places him in the African Prison cell, which he has transplanted to America BRICK BY MOTHER-F'ING BRICK.
Etc.
The following episode was about a sassy back-talkin teddy bear.
Neither of these episodes are as good as the Bayou episode, my inaugural but incomplete virginal experience with Knight Rider.
Anyway, in all seriousness, if you'd like something to watch while you drink with your 80's-obsessed friends, there is no better show.
You know how Wolverine gets hurt a little every time he extends his claws? That would suck. Sometimes I wonder if analogous abilities would be worth it. If, for example, I could send functional helicopter blades sprouting from my shoulder blades, the associated pain would probably be acceptable. But what if I could only extend a pen through the tip of my finger? Or a tire gauge out of my toe? Those abilities would suck. If I had those abilities I would wander around Des Moines kicking infants without discretion.
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