Hollywood Swine
by Lemon Fresh Cool Sprocket


These women judge others for a living
The best part about being a robot is the endless opportunity to cruelly murder large quantities of humans. The worst part about being a robot is coming to the realization that the laws of physics prohibit you from cruelly murdering thousands of humans per second. Something about velocity, dry ice and the meaningless pursuit of the impossible and pointless. I’m a low brow robot, it’s beyond me. I decided to attend the 2004 Academy Awards to test this pesky postulate of physics. What better place to eradicate thousands of the world’s most irritating (and gorgeous) humans? The following is a reenactment of my trip to the Oscars:

Joan Rivers: Oh my Jesus, Lemon, you look fantasmiscal! Who are you wearing?

LM Fresh: Thanks, Joan. Well, nothing touches this metal besides the hair, blood and flesh of Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon, and their two “you just know these little pricks are going to piss you off soon” children. I was going to wear a necklace of Michael Moore’s acne scar hiding beard but his facial hair disintegrated after I put out the fire that I started on his face with an ice pick. But you know how that goes, Joan.

Joan Rivers: I do! I do! Well, you look amazablous. Oh mercy! Some small virgin children have wandered onto the red carpet. Melissa, hurry, bring the sickle and the rusty trough. Mama needs to fill her hollow insides with the blood of the innocent. Wondercoccical!

Melissa Rivers: Mom, stop making up words. You’re embarrassing me.

Joan Rivers: Blasphematic! It cleans and purifies! Virgins! Mouth! Immediately! I must satiate my incessant hunger by feasting on the body parts of the innocent.

LM Fresh: We’re kindred spirits, Joan…kindred spirits.

This gathering definitely doesn't merit a red carpet
I proceeded into the award ceremony, wearing the scalp of Susan Sarandon, the political ignorance/what the fuck? of Tim Robbins and a pair of small boy penis earrings. I sat next to Lorenzo Lamas and discussed his recent movie, 13 Dead Men, which co-starred convicted rapist and gangsta rapper, Mystikal. I grew tired of the conversation and decided to spin Lamas around by his luscious blonde locks. His body eventually separated from his head and flew into Billy Crystal. The impact knocked Crystal back into an era when he was funny and not awkward. The saggy-titted little weasel is still floating in the vast vortex of time. The stage was mine. I vaporized the crowd and disproved the aforementioned law of physics, which I later found was merely a working theory. Apparently, humans have been testing it for ages and still are not convinced by the mountains of instant corpses produced by their “experiments.” After the smoke settled, I saw Joan Rivers, with a mouthful of children’s body parts, in the back row. Tiny fingers that probably once clutched Play Dough and baseball gloves crept from the corners of her lips. I saluted her as she moved on to gnaw on the charred remains of the Olsen twins. I looked into the camera and addressed the world.

LM Fresh: Humans of the world, hear me now. If you ever feel bad about yourself, commit suicide. You can die with the comforting reality that some hippy is going to become filthy rich by documenting your misfortune. I hope you all choke.