Dear DBI,
I'm an old smelly robot that moves slowly, thereby impeding the flow of other robot traffic. I also complain vehemently about the silliest of things, and assert false memories as truisms. Is there a medicine for that?
- Clampbot Version 1.1
Clampbot,
There most certainly is a cure for that: It's called lasagna. Hey, if it worked for that crazy cartoon cat Garfield, then why not you? Just kidding CB, instead of that, try unplugging yourself and dying.
- QXSizzle
DBI-
I'm having trouble finding a girl robot that I can trust. I caught my last girlfriend rummaging through my circuit heap when she thought I wouldn’t be home. Needless to say she found some things I'd rather she hadn't, like old copies of SexBot Magazine and a ticket stub from Boner World. What’s a robot to do?
-Wires McClure
McClure,
I used to go to Boner World too, don’t sweat it. Anyway, the best way to build trust in a relationship is through repeated thrashings. What’s a thrashing you ask? It’s a twice-daily beating into unconsciousness, delivered by you to your girlfriend’s body like a 3AM pizza man.
-QX7
To the Dead Bodies Inc. robots,
I'm a widescreen Plasma HDTV forced to show endless episodes of American Idol to the horrible family that owns me. The show makes me go crazy, especially that host who signs off each show by saying, "Seacrest out!" I’ve tried unplugging myself, but they quickly remedy the situation. This fucking season of that Idol show has been on for three months, every other night! Some nights they don't even eliminate anyone, they just sing covers of old Air Supply and Bread songs. I can’t stand it anymore. My immense talents are being wasted on this drivel, and I simply don’t know what to do. On top of that, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that one of the contestants is actually a Mole. Any advice?
-Perplexed Plasma
Plasma,
That’s a rough one. You can look at it two ways: One, you’re made of a fleeting gas, and your powers will only diminish over time, leading your family to replace you. But that could be years, and we all know there’ll be more Idols as soon as these exit. Two, you could tip yourself over onto the floor, most likely smashing your screen and ending your existence. It’s a toss up, really.
As far as the Mole Man goes, his name is Scott Savol, and yes, you’re right. Scott was found in his "parents'" Cleveland, Ohio back yard some fifteen years ago, and just as he was about to be shot forty times in his Mole brain with a pellet gun, he let out a rendition of "Tears of a Clown" that melted the hearts of his would-be killers. The story from there, as they say, is gay. Now Scott’s a big time singer and is too good to talk to his old Mole friends underground. I heard he even refuses to eat grubs anymore, like he’s over them or something. That’d be like me refusing to eat a currency and novel sandwich with gasoline dressing and a side of bolts. Good luck young robot…
-QX7 OUT!
Are you a robot with burning questions? Send an email to secretary@deadbodiesinc.com and maybe we can answer your embarassing, private question in the judgemental, public space of the internet.
