The cutting edge blame orbiting the sharp rectangular table was hard to get a good hold on. It backtracked, whistled, bubbled, and whizzed. The circular drain under the table became clogged with oblong, sticky goo. Many guilty parties paled. Then an unwelcome hiss glommed onto a sordid buzz, and stayed stuck. The elasticity of eau de toilet merged with the fragrance of ancient grody toes. Old toes like that are no good for grabbing. Modern blame like any decent self-serving missile seeks its ideal hot target. Decent markets value elasticity over girth. If targets get missed, more advanced blame must be produced. Middling shit don’t make the good ol’ steep grade on a winding curve anymore. Clogs become too messy to dissolve under most random conditions. Global production must bow down and become industrial, robust, gaseous, obese. Robots know best how to thrive under most gooey conditions.
“Can we see a simple show of clean hands?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Unless messy complications arise.”
Those with padded seats at the table sat awkwardly on their sticky fingers. Throats constricted and short hairs split. Performance anxiety climbed briefly on cherried pie charts before petering out. No one dared to laugh out loud. Chops were licked and loins were charred. Chairs became molded to damp asses. Asses included rabbits, rats, weasels, skunks, lemmings, lambs, hogs, wolves. And robots, of course. Unless those chars were scars. Only the robots knew the identities of the human spies lurking underneath.
“What’s that smell?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
At the No East So West Texas Institute for Regional Blame Research robots prepared counterspies for action against spies. Widespread guilt demanded pinpoint precision to stick where the sun don’t shine. Mealy bugs crawled deep into cracks to dig for guilt to blame. Many asses became reinforced with a petroleum based innie and a poly-vinyl outie as a defense. It would take a time bomb to loosen those nuts and screws. Blame often works wonders in overcoming faulty genes. Look at Donald Trump and douche Putin. Remarkably slick sphincter control, considering.
The all-time best animal equipped to deal guilt-free with ancient blame, the furious red scorpion stolen from a banana tree in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains of Colombia, who was currently wreaking havoc throughout the Santa Cruz Mountains above Silicon Valley, was not present at the table. He didn’t need no stinking table to be irate, provoked, irked, and disturbed. He had his special place reserved on the all-time all-angry team against all comers. No ground breaking developments eluded him. No provocations were too small. Tundra or swamp, no biggie. He only needed to eat once a year. Any more was a gross indulgence. Every animal present on the surface of the planet for less than 400 million years, by any definition of objective reality an interloper, was also by any definition of objective reality, to blame. Why don’t they all go back to the ocean where they came from?
“I move we take a cute potty break to tinkle.”
“What’s that smell?”
The marauding scorpion reluctantly had to concede that creatures in the ocean had first dibs on most of the prime real estate. But he didn’t have to like it. And he did not appreciate the taunts.
“Living on the surface? What’s up with that?”
When the ground shifted and the pillars splayed, spewed verbiage clumped in mid-air. Many sputtering butts ducked for cover. The scorpion was naturally first to learn the soiled details. His claws snapped acutely to attention. All responsible parties wearing panties, boxers, hybrids, briefs, or derivatives, covered up. Though the foundation supporting the table buckled in several soft spots it remained upstanding in the same way addicts master control with the aid of a glass pipe.
The robots modulated a somnolent hum from the sidelines. Pixels bounced and flew from non-guaranteed screens before failing to reboot. Rotten Adams’ apples bobbed and weaved. Forlorn humans took a nose dive into the pits. Robots stood tall, though, impervious to blame. A few human crackpots called it a miracle that their God was not dead, only crippled.
“It’s a miracle I’m alive.”
“I’m on your side.”
“Get that thing off of me.”
Once enough blame had passed through soft tissue and vital organs, and became metastasized inside hollowed out bone, many robots felt free to commandeer more abandoned turf. But they did not account for the scorpions blocking their linear way.
The angry scorpion began his advanced onslaught in the hills above Silicon Valley before noon. His marauding was exemplary. By mid afternoon he had picked off a dweeb downing a smoothie, a geek grinding his gears, and a douche wiping off on a rag. The whimpers and yelps irked and spurred him on. The heat not only stirred the pathogens in the dirt, but swirled enough crud to make deep breathing deadly. What could be more perfectly apt than that? Soon, another pair of splattered khakis bit the dust. If he had possessed a sense of humor, or a revealing ass, he could have laughed it all off as one big fucking joke.
“Did you hear the one about the guy who walks into a bar and sees a sign.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let me finish.”
“I’m in a rush.”
“You have to wait for the punch line.”
“I’ve got a job to do.”
“Would you just please hold your panties on?”
The simple formula employed by robots to lure guilty humans down into the cesspool of blame relied upon the attraction of guilty humans to faith based idiocies. Empty heads that know nothing and retain it well are best. Tell ’em anything to get those empty heads spinning and watch them fall down on their wobbly knees: Have faith that the earth is flat. Have faith that you are where it’s at. Have faith that trees only exist if you are there in the forest to observe their fall. Have faith that the boogey man won’t get you. Have faith that brown is the new black. Have faith that less is the new more. Have faith that thy Batman is way holier than thou Spiderman. Have faith that your God can whip the ass of the other guy’s God, the imposter. And by any means necessary have faith that no matter what, wrong is the new right, and you are never wrong, and nothing will ever change that.
Even a marauding scorpion with no sense of humor could be induced to laugh uproariously at that one.
“Did you hear the one about the guy who…”
“Not now. I can’t be disturbed. I’ve got an important job to do.”