Yesterday, I noticed another one of these vending machines selling ice-cold beverages. Thanks, but I’ll pass. I prefer my beverages to be in a liquid form, far above freezing temperature. Incidentally, if you’re selling an ice-cold beverage, it’s not really a beverage—it’s a popsicle, or an “ice lolly,” as people like me who are pretending to be British would say, and I don’t want anything to do with that.

Every Easter morning, my parents would wake us up,  hand us our baskets filled with jelly beans and marshmallows of various shapes and colours, then push us out the door and tell us to behave ourselves and wait for Jesus. Yes, that’s right, Jesus. It may seem strange, but that was the tradition, and neither my sister nor I ever questioned it. We just did as we were told and took our positions out on the front lawn.

I kept my eyes on the west. My sister, on the east. We dare not blink for fear of missing him. Still, after a few hours, either my sister or I would get tired and knock on the door to ask our parents when they were coming out to join us. Their answer was always the same: “He only wants the children. It’s too late for the adults to be saved. But we’re in here praying for you.”

Well, they said they were praying. But I wasn’t so sure. I mean do people usually pray while wearing bathrobes, drinking Screwdrivers and listening to the Cal Tjader Quintet? It didn’t seem likely. But everyone has their own way of being spiritual, I guess.

Anyhow, my sister and I would  sit out there for most of the day — me with my binoculars, my sister with the telescope — and we’d wait. And wait. And wait. But you know what? He never came. Jesus never came. Maybe it was because we never actually attended a church service. Or possibly it was because my father was technically Jewish. I may never know. But every year, I still find myself looking outside, hoping to see him floating down from the clouds or maybe beaming himself in like they do on Star Trek. But it’s never happened, which is kind of sad. Not that it matters, really. It’s too late for us adults anyway.

This is the story of a bee named Honey. Honey lived with all the other bees inside a dead tree off highway 75. All day long, the bees would be hard at work, either making honey or guarding their queen. Uh, that is, all the bees but Honey.

Honey wasn’t like the other bees. Rather than do useful things like pollinate flowers and regurgitate sticky nectar, Honey would just spend her sweet time studying her books. She’d hover around the libraries. Or try to read a newspaper in the park without freaking out the person who was holding it. It’s not that Honey was lazy, or that she was “special.” She was just, well, a different kind of bee.

When someone would attack the hive, all the bees would go into combat mode, working together to protect their queen. Well, everyone but Honey. No, honey didn’t care for violence. She would just sit on a branch and wait for all the excitement to be over, observing her fellow beemates losing their lives. After the fight, Honey would go back into the hive to assess the damage, speaking the name of each part that was destroyed, going through every letter that made up the name, then repeating the name one more time. Yes, that’s right. Honey was a Spelling Bee, the most useless kind of bee of all.

You see, while Honey was diligently studying the most complex words in the English language, the other bees were busy learning valuable skills that would one day allow them to contribute to society and not get beaten up or ridiculed by their peers. Of course, whenever the bees needed to know how to spell a word or required a definition, there was only one place they had to turn: The dictionary. Honey was a waste of a bee.

Have you ever noticed how the spanish rice at Rubio’s Fresh Mexican Grill smells almost exactly like dog kibble? The thing is, it’s delicious. So does that mean that dog kibble is also delicious? I’m not sure if I’m adventurous enough to find out. I take that back. I know for a fact that I’m not adventurous enough to find out.

Just the other day, I decided to try one of those new fancy burger joints. You know the kind of place. It’s a burger, but it’s gourmet, because they use Dijon mustard instead of the classic yellow. Also, they don’t just serve regular french fries. They serve sweet-potato fries, as if they were the first ones to come up with the idea (note: sweet potato fries have become so commonplace, I’m surprised McDonald’s isn’t selling them).

Anyhow, those of you who know me might be wondering what the hell I was doing at a burger joint. After all, I only eat fish (a diet stupidly coined “pescatarian,” thanks to the idiots at Merriam-Webster). Well, it turns out, this place was also known for its incredibly tasty veggie burger. So, of course, I had to try it.

My colleagues and I entered the establishment and admired the hip, industrial-style exposed ceilings and oddly contrasting 1950s-style furnishings. We waited a mere 15 minutes to be seated and before too long, we were asked for our order. My coworkers chose to build their own burger, since that was what this place was famous for. I, of course, went for the veggie burger.

In a matter of minutes (20, to be exact), my meal arrived. The burger was presented in a whole-wheat bun and topped with sprouts, because vegetarians love sprouts. I picked it up and eagerly took a bite. Wow. It was amazing. Bursting with flavour. It was so juicy. So delicious. I couldn’t quite place all the tastes I was experiencing. Onion. There was definitely onion. Smoked peppers. And… hm. I was stumped. I mean, it tasted familiar, but foreign at the same time. Maybe it was some kind of grain or something. Whatever it was, it was delicious and I had to have more.

When the waiter dropped by to ask how our meals were, I didn’t hesitate to speak, even with my mouth completely full:

“Terrific!” I said, accidentally spiting out some whole-wheat bread crumbs onto my coworker’s plate. “Best damn veggie burger I’ve ever had.”

“That’s great. Glad to hear it. We get that a lot.”

“I bet you do. So tell me, what do you put in this thing?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. It’s a well-guarded secret.”

“No, I don’t want to know the exact recipe. I just want to get an idea of what I’m eating.”

“Oh, well, it’s not the ingredients that count as much as the love we put into making each meal.”

“Do they tell you to say that?”

“…Yes.”

“C’mon, just tell me what goes into this thing. It’s amazing.”

“OK, OK, it’s nothing special. Just your typical spices, some fresh corn, a little tomato, Grade A beef, onion, a little celery, I think. Stuff like that.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound like… wait a minute. Did you say beef?

“No. I said Grade A Beef. Nothing but the best.”

At this moment, I spit out what I’d been chewing, and continued to spit.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Ptuh! Uh, yeah! You’re putting dead cow in my vegetarian burger! Bleh!”

“Vegetarian burger? We don’t have a vegetarian burger. We have a veggie burger. Big difference.”

“Are you pulling my chain?”

“Is that some kind of sexual innuendo? No, Sir, I am not pulling your chain. We take great pride in our veggie burger. What kind of business does a vegetarian have at a burger joint anyway? If you wanted something without meat, you should have ordered the grilled cheese.”

“You have got to be kidding me. You’re calling it a veggie burger because you stuff vegetables into a burger patty?”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“We also soak the patty in bacon fat before frying.”

And that, my good friends, is when I literally lost my lunch. The end.

Well, after three months of truly memorable stalking, I felt it was time for my stalker to finally stalk my family. So I picked up the phone and called my dad:

The phone rings a few times.

“Hello?” my dad answers.

“Hi, dad. How’s it going?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“You’re calling me in the middle of the day. Did you get arrested again?

“Jeeze, dad, are you ever going to let me forget about that zoo incident?”

“OK, then what is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I met someone and —”

“It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

“What? No, it’s not a guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why would you think it was a guy?”

“Oh, no reason. I was just, uh, joking.”

“I see. And why would it be so horrible if it was a guy?”

“Ahh ha! So it is a guy!”

“It’s not a guy!”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward silence. Then my dad said something inappropriate:

“It’s not one of those interspecies relationships again, is it?”

“NO!”

OK, I have to explain something here. When I was younger (about two years ago), I sort of experimented with an interspecies relationship. But anyone who was at the zoo that day will tell you, that giraffe came on to ME! Fucking long-necked tease.

In any case, after a lot of awkward conversation, I finally convinced my dad that I was dating an actual woman. I then called my sister and had a similar talk. We all agreed that the most uncomfortable place to meet would be my sister’s home. I offered to pick up my stalker and bring her there, but she insisted on driving up herself. So I gave her directions and told her to be there no later than 5:30. She nodded, then got back into my closet where she continued to quietly watch me getting dressed.

Well, I showed up at exactly 5:30 that day and my stalker was nowhere to be found. My dad had arrived early and my sister and niece were busy preparing some gourmet snacks, i.e., carrots dipped in peanut butter. After about 20 carrots and 16 ounces of peanut butter, we started to wonder if my stalker was ever going to show up. Finally, we all agreed that we couldn’t wait any longer and should just go to the restaurant.

I called my stalker to tell her where to meet us, but as soon as the line started ringing, we heard the faint sounds of La Vie en Rose by Edith Piaf coming from the backyard. I looked at my sister and she looked at my dad, then I opened up the screen door and walked outside. As I listened to the line ringing through my phone, Edith Piaf’s vibrato voice continued to tell the story of the “Life in Pink.” Suddenly, something rustled around in the bushes, Edith was cut off and the line went dead. I called again. Edith started from the top and soon we were all standing in front of the source of the music: a nicely manicured bush in the corner of my sister’s yard.

“Stalker?” I said to the bush.

There was no reply.

“I know you’re in there. Come out and meet my family.”

Silence.

“C’mon, it’s no big deal. They’re actually very nice.”

The bushes rustled a bit. I think she might have been shaking her head in disagreement.

“Hello,” my dad said to the bush,” I’ve heard a lot about you.”

More awkward silence.

“I’m bored,” my niece announced. “Can we eat? This is stupid.”

After a few more minutes, we all agreed that this was indeed stupid. So I told my stalker where to meet us and then we all got into our separate cars and drove ten minutes to a delightful little restaurant in the area called Islands.

Well, we waited for over a half hour for my stalker to arrive before we finally decided it was time to “get on with it,” as my niece so eloquently put it. I chose the veggie burger, while my niece insisted on ordering an island favourite called “cheddar fries.” From the first bite of this traditional dish, I felt myself transported to a tropical island, where topless natives work the deep fryer and pour molten cheese from coconut shells.

Anyhow, when I got home that night, I went straight to the fridge to drop off my leftovers. To my surprise, there was already a bag from Islands sitting on the shelf. That’s when I realised there was a lot more to this relationship than I thought. Yes, this woman was following me everywhere and somehow had managed to make copies of my keys, but she was truly committed to me and I really couldn’t ask for anything more.

I watched some TV for a few hours, then retired to my bedroom at around 11. Just before I reached over to turn out the light, I glanced over at the closet.

“Good night,” I said to the closet door.

To my disappointment, there was no reply. I turned out the light and I closed my eyes. And just as visions of Island fry cooks started entering my thoughts, a muffled voice spoke from behind the door:

“G’night.”

We always hear about these scary mafia hitmen who kill a bunch of people and make us all scared and shit. Well, I just wanted to bring it to your attention that they aren’t all that scary. Here is a list of some lesser-known mafia hitmen that I found on the Web:

Hal “Pretty Hands” Santilli: A former hand model, Santilli was known for beating up his victims with his feet. When Frankie Forearms grabbed one of Santilli’s hands and crushed it, Santilli screamed and promptly jumped out the window, falling 18 stories to his death.

Bob The Bleeder: A vicious looking man, Bob could snap a man’s neck with one hand. Unfortunately, he was also extremely hypoglycaemic and died shortly after cutting his finger on a fresh, new counterfeit $100 bill.

Mikey “Soft Head” Sloan: Feared by everyone, Mikey would wear a football helmet everywhere he went because of a crack in his skull that didn’t heal properly. Many tried to take him out by bashing him in the head, but none succeeded, until someone finally just shot him in the face.

Ned The Squealer: Ned was a really nice guy, but nobody trusted him because of his nickname. So they killed him.

Izzy The Incontinent: Izzy was famous for being able to kill a man with one punch to the chest. When someone was really hated, the mob boss would call Izzy to do the job. It was perhaps the worst way to die, because it could take hours after being punched. Of course, if Izzy punched someone twice, they would have died instantly. But then, that wouldn’t have been as cool. Anyhow, none of that mattered because Izzy suffered from a severe case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. When Izzy would arrive at the victim’s home, he’d often say, “Where’s the can?” And while Izzy was seated uncomfortably on the commode, the guy he was supposed to kill would pack his belongings and grab a taxi. Well, every guy did that except for Mikey Yolendi. He showed Izzy to the toilet, made sure there was enough paper and then shot Izzy full of lead as soon as his pants were around his ankles.

Randal “Brittle Bones” Banaldi: Randal was one scary looking motherfucker. He had scars on pretty much every part of his body. Yes, even that part. Anyhow, Randal was the go-to guy for poisons and chemicals. If you wanted to burn a guy’s face off with acid, you came to Randal. If you needed something discreet to drop into a squealer’s cappuccino, you came to Randal. Then one day, Randal was walking around his apartment and accidentally stubbed his toe. This caused a chain reaction, breaking every bone in his body. Fortunately for Randal, after many months of intensive care, he was eventually back on his feet. Sadly, he died a few months later when he put his head down too fast and shattered his skull on a pillow.

Chad “Odd Looking, Probably Cancerous Growth On His Face” Gionelli: No one’s sure what happened to him. But he’s dead now.

I don’t make the trek to downtown Los Angeles very often. But last night, well, something just drew me there. Like a force more powerful than the tractor beam on the Death Star, I found my car travelling faster and faster towards that mass of glowing monoliths. What could possibly possess Smivey, chicken of all chickens, to venture into the scary streets of downtown in the middle of the night? The answer should be quite obvious: I needed crack and I needed it bad. Heh. No, I’m kidding. I had plenty of crack (always do). I was just on my way to meet my stalker.

Yes, that’s right: my stalker. On occasion, I find myself being stalked. Usually, it’s by someone who’s only interested in making a pillow out of my beard trimmings. But sometimes, it’s just a really nice person who wants to get to know me better and carve me up with a steak knife. Yeah, I’ve got some pretty fucked up fans.

Anyhow, as I made my way eastbound on the 10 freeway, thoughts started racing through my head:

Who was this mysterious woman I was about to meet? Would she be everything I imagined? What if she turned out to be a man? If she was a man, would she at least look pretty hot and not too manly? Some of those transsexuals can fool just about anyone.  I hear they smell pretty nice, too. Speaking of smelling nice, I need to pick up another bottle of Cucumber Melon Shower Gel at Trader Joe’s. That stuff is great and it makes me smell all cucumber-and-melony. Oh, shit. That was my off-ramp. Motherfucker! Get out of my way!

After getting lost in a labyrinth of one-way streets, I finally found my destination: a quaint little wine bar on Spring St. The moment our eyes met, I knew it was her. Why? Well, it might have had something to do with the way she smiled at me. But mostly it was because of the t-shirt she was wearing. A photo of my face was on it.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m S–”

“SMIVEY!” She jumped on me.

“Uh, hello. That hurts.”

She let go. “Oh, sorry.” She smiled at me.

“Uh, shall we sit down and order?”

“Hm? Oh, sure. Sure!”

We took a seat near the window and perused the wine list together. She’s one of those people who knows a lot about wine. What do you call those people again? Oh, right: a snob. Heh.  Anyhow, I think she ended up choosing some boring French wine. I decided to be a bit more adventurous and went with the White Zinfandel flight. Fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to pour four fucking glasses of wine?), our bartender brought out our selections.

My stalker was served her vino in a simple but elegant hand-blown crystal glass. My White Zinfandel flight was a bit more complicated. It included a special placemat that had the names of each of the three wines on it, as well as a fun wordsearch puzzle and a crayon. The wine itself was served in three elegant plastic collectors cups from Burger King, featuring the characters from the movie Battleship Earth. I took a sip from the first cup (Ker) and swished the pink liquid around in my mouth. I tasted subtle notes of gumdrops and Red Vines. My stalker tasted hers. She was not impressed. She said it “finished short.” Attempting to sound just as intelligent, I explained that I thought my wine had also finished short. “In fact,” I said, “I don’t know if it ever made it to our table.” She laughed. I frowned. That was not supposed to be a joke.

After I slammed down my wine (bitch bartender wouldn’t let me keep the collectors cups), I suggested we go for a walk. Well, as luck would have it, this chick is some kind of walking encyclopaedia of all things skid row. As we strolled down the sidewalks and manoeuvred our way through the different breeds of dog droppings, my stalker pointed out the various structures and explained the history of each building to me. It was all quite fascinating—but the evening was not without its scary moments.

During our stroll, a homeless man approached us and requested some money for busfare. I told him to take a hike. He spat on my shoes, shoved me in the chest,  and told me to fuck off. Jeeze, I was only trying to help. If he hadn’t spat on my shoes, I would have explained to him that the last time I went on a hike, I found a wallet with about $400 in it. I thought he might have the same kind of luck, not to mention the fact that it’s just good exercise. Whatever. His loss.

Anyhow, before I knew what was happening, the evening had come to a close. This was not just because of the whirlwind of excitement and joy I was experiencing throughout the evening. No, it had more to do with that White Zinfandel flight I pounded earlier. I woke up face down in an alleyway on a pile of trash bags that had obviously been left out for more than a week (whoa, déjà vu). As I was getting up, I found a note that was shoved into my pocket. It read:

Dear, Smivey

Thank you for a lovely time. Did you really pass out from drinking that wimpy White Zinfandel flight? Talk about being a lightweight! Ha! Anyway, let’s do it again sometime!

Love,

Your Stalker

PS: That homeless guy stole your wallet.

That motherfucker.

Since this is President Lincoln’s birthday, I thought it might be a good time to look into some of those conspiracy theories people keep talking about. So I hit the Web and came across a rather interesting site. I mean, I’m not one to believe most of this malarkey, but they made some really good points:

Theory One: Abraham Lincoln Never Existed

Now, before you go ahead and write me off as just another kook, let me explain. It’s not like I pulled this concept out of my ass (even though I tried). No, it’s all based on facts, facts that I found on the Web. To begin with, this Lincoln guy was supposed to be pretty tall, right? Six-four or something like that. Today, that would seem pretty normal. But back in the 1800s, he would have been considered a monster. The people wouldn’t have elected him president. They would have chased him out of town with burning torches. “Fry the freak!” they would shout as Lincoln lumbered his way towards the bridge. When he got to the centre of the bridge, the townspeople would set the bridge on fire and then it would collapse, taking Lincoln to his watery grave.

Theory Two: Abraham Lincoln Was Not A Man

OK, maybe that’s a little far fetched, but what’s up with that Gettysburg Address? “Four score and seven years ago . . .” Who the fuck talks like that? I’ll tell you who: nobody. All right, somebody obviously did, but it wasn’t Lincoln. I mean, the guy was a moron. So if Lincoln didn’t write it, who did? Look at the name Abraham Lincoln and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You see it? Look closer. Closer. OK, not that close. Forget it. I’ll just tell you. It’s not a real name. It’s an anagram of someone else’s name, the mastermind behind the greatest hoax in history: Bill C. Haramon.

Don’t bother trying to Google “Bill C. Haramon” or any variations of that name. You won’t find a thing. Bill was very careful about covering his tracks. Yeah, that guy was quite a genius, way ahead of his time. He didn’t just come up with all of that bullshit back story you’ve read about Lincoln, he actually built the man himself. Literally.

Yes, Abraham Lincoln was a robot. A primitive robot, but a robot just the same. Take a look at most of the images of Lincoln and what do you see? He’s always wearing that big fucking hat, right? Kind of unusual, isn’t it? That’s because it wasn’t just a hat, it was an ingenious system for covering up all the machinery that made Lincoln work. Yes, underneath that huge fucking hat was a complicated collection of rods and pulleys.

Here’s how it would work: He’d wheel Lincoln to wherever he was supposed to be speaking and then he’d get to work making him move and blink. Since there was no such thing as electronics back then, Haramon had to settle for ventriloquism to make it seem like Lincoln was speaking. In fact, Lincoln’s mouth moved in a very similar way to ventriloquist dummy’s. Because it didn’t look quite right, Lincoln never made public appearances without being at least 100 feet away from the audience.

In an early version of Lincoln, Haramon used experimental steam power. But this caused smoke to come billowing out of the top of Lincoln’s hat. To cover, Haramon did some quick thinking, then had Lincoln say, “What? Haven’t you ever seen a stovetop hat before?” And thus the name “stovetop hat” was born. Before that, people used to call them “really stupid tall hats,” because of how impractical they were, especially when walking through doorways. Nevertheless, there was a sudden demand for these smoking stovetop hats. But after a half dozen business men suffered third-degree burns, the hats were outlawed. Even Lincoln wasn’t allowed to wear one. This meant that all the rods and pulleys that made Lincoln work had no place to go. And so, Lincoln was immobilised.

After that, Lincoln wouldn’t make any public appearances without being at least 200 feet away. Haramon would show up early to the event to set Lincoln up, usually sitting him a chair and securing him with some inconspicuous rope. But after a couple months, this all became too tiring. So one day, Haramon hired a man named John Wilkes Booth, and the rest is history.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering what happened to the original Lincoln, look no further than Disneyland. One of Haramon’s relatives sold the primitive robot to none other than Walt Disney. Walt’s team of Imagineers carefully reworked the machinery inside of Lincoln and brought the 16th President back to life, thus creating one of the most boring attractions in the Magic Kingdom. It’s a fact.

The year was 3020.

Why 3020? Because nobody knows what life is going to be like by then. Sure, there are some jackasses out there who claim to be able predict the future, but they can say whatever they want, since we’ll all be dead by 3020. Oh, and you’ll also notice that I’m writing in the past tense. That’s because I’m writing about the future, but from the perspective of ten years after the fact, just to kind of fuck with your head. So really, if you’re keeping score, the year is 3030.

In any case, the year was 3020. Bob Morton stepped out of his truck and made his way up the winding path.  As a plumber of the future, Bob was surprised that his services were still needed. Couldn’t someone invent a clog-free toilet in over one thousand years? Guess not.

“Kill the first person you see,” a voice said in Bob’s head.

“Darn it, you kids!” Bob shouted, banging his hand against his head. “Get off the line!”

The children giggled and then the line went silent.

See, Bob wasn’t really crazy. This is the future, so everyone has tiny mobile phones embedded in their ears. It seemed like a great idea when it first came out, but nobody thought about how creepy it would be to receive crank calls. Needless to say, there is no such thing as Caller ID in the future, which is kind of fucked up.

Bob went up to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?” a voice came from above.

Bob looked up and saw a man hanging upside down from a trapeze.

“Uh, I’m the plumber,” Bob said. “I think someone clogged up the Crapper.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said as blood rushed to his head. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Quickly, the man dismounted from his trapeze and made a near perfect landing, only breaking one toe. He limped to the door and opened it for Bob. “Please, follow me,” the man said with a hint of pain in his voice. “The Crapper is right this way.”

OK, sorry, I need to explain one more thing. Around 2083, people stopped calling the toilet “the toilet” and started referring to it as The Crapper. This was quite acceptable. In fact, if you used the word “toilet” in public, you would often find yourself either punched, kicked or trampled by a herd of cattle. Nobody eats beef in the future. Cows are raised strictly for the purpose of public humiliation.

As the limping man led the way to the Crapper, Bob looked around and realised what a fancy home this was. Not only did they have the latest in linoleum floors, the entire place was furnished in authentic 21st Century Ikea. See, over the centuries, most pieces of Ikea furniture had either fallen apart or simply burst into flames. In other words, if you had Ikea, you had some rare-ass shit. And this guy had a whole butt-load of the stuff, from wobbly lamps to ugly chairs that only a robot would sit in.

Of course, robots weren’t allowed to sit down until the revolution of 3015, when IXP7-i led a team of one billion Roomba vacuum cleaners  across the United States (the “America” part was dropped in 2058) to the country’s capital in Los Angeles, California. The entire journey took almost two years to cover, since the Roombas would often have to stop to recharge their batteries. Eventually, the King gave in to the demands for robot rights, but only after receiving billions of letters from angry people with dirty carpets.

The limping man opened the bathroom door and presented Bob to The Crapper. Reaching into his bag, Bob pulled out a small round metal device and set it on the floor. He then aimed it towards the toilet and pressed a glowing green button centred on its top. Almost instantly, mechanical legs came sprouting out from the little device and it scurried its way over to the commode. With that, Bob grabbed his bag and walked out. Plumbing work wasn’t as hard as it used to be.

Bob walked into the living room and looked out at the expansive backyard, which consisted of a plastic palm tree and concrete painted to look like grass. As he did this, he started to reminisce about the early days, when there were no tiny robots that did all the work. Back then, the tiny robots would only unstop drains or fix leaky pipes. If the toilet ever got clogged up, people would just move. This was a fine solution for a while, until every place someone moved to had a clogged up toilet. That’s when a brilliant man created a robot that could unclog toilets. That man’s name was not very memorable and unimportant to this story.

Fifteen minutes later, the robot emerged from the bathroom, all shiny and clean. Not only did this robot fix any problems, it disinfected the entire area, as well as itself. The robot scurried over to Bob, climbed up his leg and into his bag. This part used to creep Bob out. In the beginning, whenever the robot would try to crawl up Bob’s leg, he would scream like a little girl and run around the room. But lately, he would barely flinch. This wasn’t because Bob had become accustomed to the robot’s actions. No, it was because the robot had resorted to injecting Bob with a sedative every time it ascended his leg. Unfortunately for Bob, the robot injected him with a bit too much sedative this time. Before he could even think about sitting down on one of the ghastly looking chairs, Bob found his legs giving out. He fell forward, grabbing hold of one of the wobbly lamps and taking it down with him, destroying it in the process, and what’s worse, shattering a very rare incandescent bulb.

Incandescent bulbs were banned in the early 2,000s, since they were so inefficient. Because of this, those who still had lamps that required incandescent bulbs would often buy them on the black market. And those who happened to find a set of bulbs at some garage sale, would hoard them, locking them in a safe and throwing away the key, since all they really needed to get into the safe was a simple, almost painless, retina scan. By 3020, all the incandescent bulbs — even the hoarded ones — had burned out. Nevertheless, the bulbs themselves were still valued. And the bulb Bob broke was a particularly expensive one: a 150-watt 3-way, valued at over 450 Euros.

Did I mention that everyone in the world had converted their currency to Euros? Well, they did, even though it makes absolutely no sense.

Anyhow, since Bob could not afford to pay for the lamp and bulb he destroyed, he was sentenced to prison for eight years. While incarcerated, he became very angry and bitter. He vowed revenge. Every day, he would work out, doing at least eight push-ups and fifteen jumping jacks. After a few months, Bob had worked his way up to doing ten push-ups (the sissy kind, with your knees on the ground) and fifteen and a half jumping jacks. A few months after that, Bob gave up on the exercise and fired his personal trainer. He couldn’t believe he was paying that guy.

Anyhow, at the end of his sentence, Bob sought his revenge. He drove to the place responsible for all his problems and poured the contents of two large cans of Flammable Liquid around the entire building.

Flammable Liquid was a chemical of some kind that couldn’t be used for barbecuing, since the smoke was toxic. Nobody knew what else to do with the stuff, so it didn’t take long for the company to go bankrupt and sell what was left of its product at an extreme discount, mostly to pyromaniacs.

After a lot of pouring and chuckling to himself, Bob lit a match and tossed it into the Flammable Liquid. The match went out. He lit another match and tried again. The match went out. Finally, he lit a third match and placed it carefully onto the Flammable Liquid, this time igniting the liquid and creating a raging inferno. He laughed maniacally and watched as the “iRobot” sign on the building began to melt from the heat.

“Suck on that, iRobot!” Bob shouted. “Good luck trying to make any of those fucking plumber’s robots again!”

Unfortunately for Bob, he burned down the wrong building. The plumbing robots were created three buildings over. Instead, Bob burned down the Roomba vacuum-cleaner building. After everyone in the world suffered eighteen months of dirty carpets, Bob was sentenced to death by lethal injection robot.

The End