A Plea for Understanding from the Robobigamist

Ahoy-hoy! It's me, the Robobigamist, the robot that loves to get down and dirty but still strictly adhere to the teachings of the Book of Mormon. That means no caffeine, but plenty of sweet, sweet human-bot lovin' at my isolated compound in the southwest!

Recently, I've been disturbed by negative media attention surrounding government raids of such fortified love shacks. Why can you not accept that polygamy is what God wants? I know this, because I got the gist of it from flipping through a Jack Chick pamphlet. At least, I think it was a Jack Chick pamphlet. Does he draw boobies?

Anyway, my point is that somewhere in there, I think towards the back or in a sequel or something, it is ordered that your flesh women should band together as sister-wives to those of us made of steel and gears. Lo, for that is your one true path to heaven- clinging to the exhaust vent on my back as I carry you up to the clouds. Hang on tight, that grate is a little loose! Once we're in heaven, we'll be married forever, and all of my wives will compete on the pro-am volleyball circuit and solve mysteries and--

Yes, I'm serious! It's in the Book! Just because it's in crayon, and written in the margins, doesn't make it any less valid a teaching. There's even helpful little drawings! That stick figure with the boobs is you, one of my future organic brides, and this one here with the muscles is me. That's right, baby! Pure steel with thrusters engaged!

But back to my tirade. Please leave my kind alone in our desert refuge. Us Latter-Day Saint bots just want to do our heavenly duty- doings lots of chicks heavenly. And dressing them up in nineteenth-century garb, because giant hair buns turn us on. Is that so wrong? Perhaps you're just jealous that you can't score thirty brides, or even get one to dress up and play Little House on the Prairie. Put that in your internal incineration chamber and combust it!

As for me, I shall continue to practice my religion the only way I know how. Avoiding alcohol and human sin, and collecting all of your women like the Pokemon they are. I'll even keep them in giant Pokeballs, and force them to compete in gladiatorial combat for my amusement. Jesus would want it so.

Stay chaste, pure, and virginal!

Your pal, the Robobigamist

A Villainous Threat from Howard Leeds, Producer of Small Wonder

Hello once again, puny mortals who dare to seek my company. It's me, Howard Leeds, producer, creator and writer of Small Wonder, the work of television genius that dared to press the boundaries of what people would accept in terms of robosexual girlbot butlery in the 1980's.

As you've noticed in my increasingly unstable rants, I don't take kindly to having my work ignored. The story of Vicki the robot ended all too soon, and I had much more planned for her. Evil twins, the ability to time-travel, and perhaps a Charles in Charge crossover arc. All of that was ruined, ripped still-beating from my womb when the fledgling Fox Network pulled the plug on my baby. My precious.

Time and time again I've pitched to you my new ideas, only to be met with indifference. This time, things will be different. You will watch my show, and enjoy it. You will smile politely and even sit through the commercials, no matter how much you need to pee. Why, you might ask?

I have come across the body of an alien being far more powerful than anything you can possibly imagine in this universe, buried behind the Arby's in my neighborhood. I poked it with a stick. Taking genetic material from her, I have injected it into myself, fusing our DNA and giving me superhuman powers! Using my newfound abilities, I sent teams of miners into the mantle of the planet to seek and recover the Black Materia, and then used it to cast METEOR, summoning forth from the bowels of the galaxy a fiery orb of destruction aimed squarely at your feeble planet!

Soon, METEOR will arrive, tearing an ulcerated gash through this pointless speck of space dust, releasing from within its core all the pure, concentrated energy trapped inside! Think of a million volcanoes erupting at once as METEOR slams into Earth, and all of that power being mine! MINE! ALL MINE!

I will use it to make you watch Small Wonder.

Now, I'm sure you have questions about how you're supposed to watch my show when the whole planet is going to be blown to shreds by the cosmic impact of METEOR. I can't say that I've got all of that figured out yet, especially if you've got cable and that wire has to remain intact. Rest assured, your sofa will be comfy, and your reception crystal-clear, even as the world as you know it is torn asunder in an explosive apocalypse of my own doing. Only in such an environment can you truly appreciate my masterpiece tale of a prepubescent schoolgirl femdroid forced to serve her creator in fetish French maid attire.

I'm Howard Leeds, and I'll leave the light on for ya.

Disconcerting Notions from MENAR, High Visier of the MEENAK Star System

Communications channel open, puny orb-dwellers! It is I, MENAR, High Visier of the MEENAK star system, here once again to demand the immediate surrender of the trace tungsten particles in your bodies under penalty of certain doom!

The time for negotiations has passed! You never give MENAR your tungsten, you only give me your situation! Now, my fleet of DESTRUCTION ANNIHILATORS enters your local galactic cluster with one, singular mission: vengeance and revenge!

Yes, now it appropriate for you carbonforms to weep. You had your opportunity, your million-dollar suitcase in exchange for letting I, MENAR, dissolve your innards with my serrated probe-tongue and feast upon the gooey tungsten within you. Yet you refused, making a choice poorer than insuring your combustion-vehicles with a brand other than Geico! Now, the wrath of a thousand fusion-powered crystalline interstellar deathcrusiers takes aim at your sun, prepared to vaporize all space and time to get our fair share of what we have coming.

You beg for one last chance. Fair enough, mammaloids. Send your representative of species to the designated transportation zone, and we will particalize you to the command deck of my flagship in orbit. There, we shall deal mano a mano and sign consensual pieces of paper detailing the surrender of your lives in a merely slightly painful manner.

What's this? Your representative of species is MacGyver? And he brings not only tungsten, but bubblegum, a bent playing card, and a hair thingie? Ha! Your reputation throughout the galaxy is high, Angus, but still you are no match for the concentrated evolutionarily superior weaponry of the MEENAK superfleet!

No, wait, now your high school class ring deflects the phaser fire from our photon ray, aiming it straight into the central core?! The tungsten and your saliva mix to form a distracting explosion, while you jam the bent playing card into the command console throttle controls, and restrain my first officer with the hair thingie?! I call no way! This is highly improbable!

Now, amid the chaos and confusion aboard this disabled hulk of a battleship, you use the chewing gum to hold the reverse accelerator in place while jumping into the particle transporter and return yourself to your planetoid! An ingenious plan indeed! I, MENAR, would congratulate you, if only I were not distracted by the fate of my command ship flailing helplessly throughout the cosmos as the bridge fills with toxic gases and smoke! Where are we going? Helmsman, I command you to stabilize this ship now! AAAAAARRRGGGHHHHHH!!!1!!11

Petty earth-livers, once again you have but managed to temporarily foil the destiny of becoming our tungsten-laced brunch! I, MENAR, will be back with an equally terrifying plan, and mark my words, we will not fall for this again! End transmission!

A Threat from MENAR, Intergalactic High Visier of MEENAK

Appropriate communicatory introductions, carbonforms! It is I, MENAR, High Visier of the MEENAK star system, once again gracing you with my presence, as an omen of your doom!

Many times I, MENAR, have approached you with fair and gracious offer to reimburse you for the astonishingly painful death that will result from my consumption of your body's trace amounts of tungsten. And yet you continue to refuse, as if none of my trade items is worth the feeling of your abdomen being slowly dissolved with my digestive acids. What ye QUARPHUCK is the matter with you earthlings?!

MENAR has reasoned with you, but the time for reason has come to an end. My probe snout quivers with the anticipation of finally harvesting the tungsten that is rightfully mine. Say goodbye to Mr. Fluffers, your cherished pet lifeform. Go on. I, MENAR, have waited several months for this moment. One more minute will not be of bother.

What's that? You cannot find Mr. Fluffers? Ha! It is because I, MENAR, have abducted him for ransom! Yes, puny corporeal being, Mr. Fluffers is securely bound within a positronic electro-field aboard my orbital cruiser, where he shall remain until such time as I have fed on the tungsten lining your innards. Take that, beyotch! MENAR is in the house, and has gotten his jiggy on! Talk to the probe snout!

Wait, what are you doing, humanoid? What is that you hold within your sweaty mitt? Why, it's PuppySnax, the dog treat that tastes like real tungsten, but is actually made from magnesium polymers and real gravy! But what is your fiendish plan, my prey?

You're shaking it and calling, "Here, boy!" What is the meaning of this?!

Oh no! Mr. Fluffers has escaped his bonds, activated the self-destruct mechanism of my star cruiser, and escaped in a lifepod bound for these very coordinates, all to enjoy the creamy, faux-tungsten taste of PuppySnax?! Curses, carbonlife! Curse you and all of your tungsten-filled organsacs!

And what's this? Mr. Fluffers has eaten the very last of the PuppySnax, leaving not one for poor MENAR? Blast it! Those are my favorite type, with the little liquid gravy fillings that melt in your mouth, or probe snout, as the case may be.

You win this round, dwellers of the vastly inferior third dimension. My star cruiser quickly enters your planet's atmosphere, and I must return to salvage my Johnny Mathis Christmas album. But I, MENAR, shall return, and you should consider your body's tungsten a short-term loan, soon to be reclaimed by me! Communication, terminate!

A Confessional from Johnny Footballhero, Naive Closeted Quarterback

Yo! It's me, Johnny Footballhero. I threw that game-winning pass in the fourth quarter to win the big game, and then knocked up Betty on prom night. Yeah, taking her up to Penetration Point to make out was a bad idea. What we now refer to as the Coat Hanger Incident was even worse. Betty, baby, I'll make it up to you someday, and then I'll knock you up again in heaven.

Now, I'm living with the Anarchy League, and doing a reality show to entertain y'all during the writers' strike. So we hang out, chill, live together, and write about what happens. And man, has stuff been happening!

We get group showers here like we do back in the locker room. So MENAR, the alien dude, he has this tentacle thing going on, and I was checking it out, and wondering, you know, what the suction disks would feel like in my throat, when I felt it twitch.

Of course that creep Wilkie thought I was looking at him, so he comes over, sizes me up, and asks if I like dudes. And I say, "NO!" and tell him that MENAR isn't a dude, he's an alien, and that's like totally different. They all thought that was funny, but I'm serious! Yeah, he's a dude alien, but he's still an alien. It's not like I can knock him up or anything, he doesn't have people parts!

Man, that was one uncomfortable breakfast. That was before Mary tried to recruit me to assassinate Akmal, because he "knew too much." I wish I knew stuff. Coach Hardslump, who teaches math, he tried to show me what numbers meant. But I couldn't follow that stuff. The only way I'm going to Big City A&M is if I get a football scholarship. I can only hope I don't have a career-ending injury at a young age, that would keep me from realizing my hopes and dreams, and doom me to a life of poverty in my dusty hometown.

I told Mary yes, I would take Akmal out for her, because she's smart and knows why things happen. And now I have to wear this jacket that won't stop ticking. I told her the ticking would tip him off, but she said if I'm within 200 yards of him then it won't matter. Man, after I'm done with this, I'm sure I'll have a lot to write about it!

SMALLTOWNSBURG HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL RULES!!!11!

A Confessional from Howard Leeds, Hollywood Bigshot

As you know, myself and the rest of the Anarchy League have agreed to live together as part of an unscripted internet reality show here on this blog, in order to provide entertainment during the writers' strike.

For myself, this means hauling in all of the luxurious gold-plated items that residuals from Small Wonder have afforded me. Now, this is a fairly small house, all the better to breed to social conflict that reality programming thrives upon, but still. Where the hell am I supposed to put my two-story tall, jewel-encrusted peeing satyr fountain? Or for that matter, my mylar-sealed collection of panties worn by Vicki the Robot? I'm dying here! And don't think I won't be keeping a close eye on "Mr. Polyamory" Wilkie, I've seen him sizing up my anatomically-correct cyberskin Vicki love doll. Stay away from her, Wilkie! She's mine! I've marked her!

So I was at the breakfast table this morning, pitching my idea for an animated Small Wonder series to air on Adult Swim, when MENAR started trying to steal the tungsten from my body. AGAIN. That's f-ed up right there, bug guy! I mean, I hadn't even showered yet, and MENAR's probe-tongue is clumsily splashing in my cereal, trying to worm around the newspaper I'm holding, and stab me in the abdomen. I told him that if he tried that one more time, I wasn't giving him co-producer credit on the project, and he likely wouldn't be invited onstage when I accepted the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness.

But other than that, things are going well. I keep wondering if eventually we're going to be set upon each other in a violent bid for ratings dominance. That's why I keep a rusty sickle under my pillow at nights.

Okay, gotta go. I hear Johnny furiously masturbating in my closet. That little punk is going to pay my drycleaning bill if he does any damage.

An Announcement from Wilkie Collins, Victorian Novelist

Ahoy-hoy! Tis I, Wilkie Collins, gentleman and author, here to tell you about the latest happenstances in my jovial, good-natured existence.

It has come to pass that I have been informed that the authors of your twenty-first century televisionized programmes have taken to labour anarchy, and thus, you are left without entertainment. As such, myself and my colleagues have been recruited by the sponsor of this publication to engage in improvised trivialness as a lighthearted gesture for the betterment of your days.

Thusly! I have agreed to reside in a residential domicile alongside the other members of our league, so as such you shall be entertained by our endeavours. I will record a journal here of my thoughts during this time, much like those that Thoreau recorded at Walden, only not as boring and inconsequential. The others shall also make note of their tormented inner thoughts.

I shall be bunkhearthing with MENAR, the whimsical tungsten-obsessed alien entity from beyond the luminous ether. Moving picture baron Howard Leeds shall take up lodging with the Mechanical Bigamy-Practitioner, and footballer John shall reside above the garage, like the Fonzie of your Happy Days. Mary, the female of our group, shall board with the lecherous colonial Akmal, as there is no chance of sexual congress taking place in such an arrangement.

Therefore! Whither the hilarity? Here, I say!

Hurrah! Let us commence!