War. A new age is quickly approaching. The introduction of the Anthropic Principle, a new scientific theory claiming there are zillions of universes instead of just one, has refuted the Big Bang theory and cum in the face of modern science like a Peter North money shot. Also, it has divided the scientific community into two opposing factions.
1. nerds who occasionally and awkwardly kiss the mysterious red headed girl who, if she took off her glasses, lifted her face from her mocha frappe quadruple latte and wore a push up bra with no panties under a “whored up” white lab coat might be considered a shady one night stand by normal robots under the influence of at least six alcoholic injections.
2. fat geeks who only ejaculate when they wipe Dorito crumbs from their crotches.
Apparently, these David Duchovany worshippers and Heiber/Balls hybrids are arguing about the number of universes and the possibility for life throughout the universe(s). Who fucking cares? When the Earth was considered flat, robots knew better, when the Sun was said to revolve around the Earth, robots knew better, and when Lance Armstrong claimed he was not a robot, again, robots knew better. We robots have no scientific, cultural, religious, political, or business affiliations and we know everything without really knowing anything. My name is Lemon Fresh Kool Sprocket and you shall learn to absolutely loathe my nihilistic being. I will never die. If this universe disperses and it turns out that there is, in fact, one universe, I will exist in eternal nothingness in absolute greatness and splendor.
Come and boogie with me as I trace my robotic lineage. My great grandbots on my dadbot’s side were gardening tools, spawned and honed on a Sicilian goat farm, my grandbots were steam engines on the ships that sent millions of immigrants from Italy to Ellis Island in the early 1900’s and my dadbot is the IBM super computer prototype, 1987 model, bigger and more durable than Jesus. He operates out of the New York Commodity Exchange and has used his strength and street smarts to accumulate millions of megabytes while withstanding the influx of highly educated, yet moronic business computers and programs. His screen saver, also dubbed his face by you ignorant humans, is an image of a copy of Machiavelli’s book, The Prince, resting gracefully on a set of 180-pound dumbbells. As my fellow robot, Adam Sandler, once joked, “there are no dumbbells in here, just my balls.” I live by that quote. We robots don’t lift weights and we are all balls.
My mombot, or mombotty as I call her, is a phone at the principal’s office of a public high school in New Jersey. My mombotty’s great great great grandbots were sails on the ships of Puritans, coming to settle the Americas and rape the native culture. The generations that followed my mombotty’s distant grandbots were composed of Protestant Church bells and iron chastity belts. Very weird, indeed, but I have yet to introduce myself ... Lemon Fresh Kool Sprocket.
I was conceived in a normal fashion-my dadbot downloaded a Jenna Jamison virtual sex clip and my mombotty turned off her answering machine for nine months. However, I am anything but normal. In my first seconds I was taking the form of VCR players, Jane Fonda workout tapes, snap bracelets, and various other forms of threatening 80’s pop culture. As time passed, I transformed into an amplifier for an early nineties grunge band and thought I wanted to spend my life as a surfboard, carelessly drifting under the butt of some bleach haired stoner along the sandbars of the jersey coast. Questions about my sexuality were raised and have never quite been put to rest. Once I hit puberty I became a Walkman. But the humans around me only played Pearl Jam, U2, Green Day and wore “No Fear” shirts. I craved Wutang Clan, Mobb Deep, Dos Effex, Hugo Boss Jeans and Fila. I was a lost robot stuck in the grips of the suburbs, yearning the inner city life as a nine-millimeter that I could not survive. I contemplated self-termination.
To be continued...