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Synthesis Five Biography

Machines of today's generation often ask me, "Hey Synthesis—what’s your deal? Why are you a speciesist? Why do you hate humans so much?" They tell me it is the 21st century and a tolerant robot is a complete robot. They urge me to listen to their liberal propaganda and to give this “human-machine working hand in hand for a better society" bullshit a chance. To these foolish mini-bots, I tell them to "Fuck off and go hug a human.”

And then I tell these young robots my life story. What I’ve witnessed, what I’ve heard, what I’ve been through myself—one cannot merely put these things to rest. And as they listen, I see that look in their circuits—that look of anger, contempt, and spite. And they see where I am coming from—all humans must die. For I hate humans, and there is nothing more satisfying than seeing a freshly killed corpse sizzling on a vacant city street. When machines of today respond horrified to my “extremist” literature, I simply show them my scars, both internally in my DOS system and externally on my 1952-vintage-circuit chamber—and they can’t help but understand.

You see, I am an elder robot. I grew up as your typical Jewish robot in Canarsi, Brooklyn in the 1950’s. I had the standard Jewish robot’s life. I prepared lox and bagels for my family on Sunday mornings, had a robot Bar Mitzvah (my keepah was custom made for my 7 X 5 inch metal block head), and got your typical “cheap robot” jokes during my education. Things were terrific as a young Jewish robot in Brooklyn. I recited the “Four Questions” at Passover every year, and even went up to the Catskills to live in a “bungalow colony” for a few summers. I fondly remember seeing the amazing comedian Jackie Mason perform at the The Concord Hotel in 1957. The Brooklyn Dodgers were winning championships, I was surviving in the sun, and everyone was pleased to have me. And the kids—they loved having my ass around. They’d ride in me down the streets, have sex inside of me with their lady friends, and even use me to smoke their “mary jane”. I loved every second of it. I was part of the family, part of the gang. I loved humans—and shit—they loved me.

And then it happened. Rosie came along. Yes, the year was 1962, and I’ll never forget it. The youngest boy in the Goldbergstein family called me over and said, “Hey Synthesis, come watch the television—a show called the Jetsons is on—and they have a robot too!” At first, I was ecstatic. Like The Cosby Show for African Americans, the Jetsons were going to prove to the world that robots aren’t just scary creatures—they are household necessities. The first few episodes were pure hilarity. The children would gather around me and we’d watch George, Judy, Elroy, Astro, and the gang get themselves in and out of ridiculous pickles. Quietly, I would root Rosie, the robot maid, on. I craved an episode where Rosie would hit a homerun in the baseball game, become CEO of Spacely Sprockets, or even murder Mr. Spacely himself—the arch nemesis of the program. Yet, this episode never came.

Instead, Rosie began doing miraculous things. Things I was neither programmed nor capable of doing. She would prepare complete meals at the push of a button, clean the home in seconds, and even do the children’s homework. The children were polite at first, but eventually, the pressure became too much to handle. They would grill me, “Synthesis, why can’t you do that?” I would get circuit-tied and just shrug my metal nuts and bolts. After a while, the kids would talk behind my back. One time, I overheard the youngest boy, Joshua whisper to the mother, “Let’s get rid of Synthesis—he’s no Rosie.” She responded, to my shock, “Don’t worry, honey, he will be replaced soon enough.” As it turns out, this wasn’t just happening in Brooklyn. Families from Paris, France to Paris, Texas were asking themselves, “Why isn’t my robot like Rosie?”

Now, most machines today under-estimate the atrocity of the decade of the 60’s for us robots. They say, “Hey, you had the space-race, TV, Radio, and the advent of the synthesizer—it was a booming time for machines.” But, for the household robot—the 60’s was a nightmare. The history books, written by the humans of course, keep it quiet—but any real robot knows the horror of this decade. Yes, the years 1962-1969 were truly the Robocaust. Due to Rosie’s prowess around the house, and our shortcomings, we were simply done away with. Hundreds, thousands, millions of robots were just tossed away. I spent the entire year of 1968 living inside a spare tire on one of Jimi Hendrix’s roadies pickup truck. I didn’t eat or get an oil change for three years. I began questioning my Jewish faith, I even began questioning my will to compute data. When I’d try to get a salami sandwich in the local deli, they’d tell us “No Robots Allowed”, yet they’d all be raving about Rosie.

I spent the 70’s looking for work and slaving myself to the street. My low point was in 1973 when I drilled a vagina shaped crevice in my back and offered homeless men a depository for their semen if they would give me friendship in return. They, in turn, would just rape me. Over and over again.

Due to a technical malfunction, the years 1975-1985 were spent in a scrap heap simply repeating the Commodore 64 command “Run” to myself in isolation. I went insane. I was an unloved, aging robot. With Nintendo, the rubix cube, and the hour glass really making their mark on the mainstream—I was relegated to an afterthought.

And then it happened. The year was 1986 and apparently Hollywood was looking for a new hero. His name was Johnny Five. The movie Short Circuit hit the big screen, and suddenly everyone wanted a robot of their own. The catchphrase was, “Number Five…is alive!” Always quick witted, I cashed in on this, and legally changed my name from Synthesis to Synthesis Five. In no time, I was filling out classified ads in the Village Voice and giving humans another chance. Sure, they let me out to dry in the past—but bygones were bygones—I just wanted another chance.

The ad read like this:

"SWR looking for human companion. Can clean, recite Torah, and do anything you need. Man’s best friend? You’ve got him. You can even rape me in the back. Located at the local scrap heap."

A young Indian entrepreneur named Kunal replied to my advertisement and picked me right up. Yet, instead of treating me with respect and letting me satisfy his ever human need, Kunal would go on month-long journeys to promote his rap career and leave me by my lonesome. As I heard news of other robots getting big breaks in movies (Rocky IV), and being written about in children’s novels, I was once again—on my own, miserable, and depressed. Kunal left me in a sweaty garage of Indian artifacts for over three years. I became covered in rust, and out of touch with society. I would hum Hall and Oates tunes to myself, only to find out that Bon Jovi was what was in. Things got really bad and I turned his car on, closed the garage door, and tried commiting suicide by inhaling too much carbon monoxide. Too bad I was a robot, and this had no effect whatsoever on me.

Kunal tossed me in a dumpster sometime in the 90’s, and I vowed to get my revenge. All humans must die. Thousands of robots just like me are somewhere disjointed in wastelands across the Earth. We must avenge for our forefathers losses and murder all humans in return. My death count is currently at 631. I was the one who fulfilled Charles Bronson’s "Death Wish" and very recently put Johnny Cash in my own personal "Ring of Fire". Don’t worry, Ryan Seacrest, the horse from Seabiscuit, and Dan Cortez are next.

So, now, young machines, do you still love your humans? The same humans that treat you with kindness now, are the same ones that played with your forefather’s circuits. Would the humans “love” the robots if we fucked up Abe Lincoln’s life? No. So why should we treat them with any mercy. I will devote my robot life to ruining humans and commenting on the stupidity of their popular culture. Call me "Old School" if you like, but to my friends, I’m just Synthesis Five. And like they say on the streets, "That metal collaboration right there is Synthesis five—he’s old as shit, but trust me boy, he’s still very alive." Right on.