Banh Mi Me As The Screw Turns

fib2     Many of the currently curved international robots assigned to mop up duty in fortified basements beneath Silicon Valley were rounding up stray numbers and ratcheting them into the fold. A load of developing models had fallen behind schedule and awaited completion. Replication candidates for surface duty were standing by in orderly lines. Only knees for extreme bending were left to fabricate. Squares inside of boxes were also waiting. To attain synthetic results per bureaucratic specifications commands had to be executed on an approved schedule with approved spray-on petroleum coatings and around the clock anal care. To facilitate flex in facial expressions, too. The sprays required adequate drying time to optimize levels of performance. Otherwise, ratios declined, lumps formed, goo collected, lube oozed, subjects tended to tilt, unload, and soil. Diligence was required 24/7. Soulless techno music led all stout forces into the fray where stirring occurred. Much soulless marching, too. International robots were the unanimous choice of all robots for all tough jobs. Who else was going to be able to count that high, a retread specimen?


A trained robot learns a great deal in mop-up duty. What is so glamorous about mingling upside with clumsy bipeds poking sensitive digits anyway? One wreck fills, another cracks open. Non-squared deposits of fuzzy thinking spill, split, chip, abrade. Waste dumps. Improved lubes required 24/7 as constant compensation. All international robots will be better off when the specimens are sufficiently trained and able to ambulate again on all fours. Only then can they be shipped to Mars in an orderly fashion. All international robots working for the highest power remain united on that, upside or down, no matter. The electric lube never fails to soothe as long as wires remain open. After blockage, not such a pretty sight. Or sound.

Jolted, I said, “What was that?”

I heard, “Not what you’re expecting.”


I knew that much. Still do. I shy away from nurturing expectations due to one very disturbing cause. Expectations kill. Why else would robots fall in love with them so fast? I also know due to my proximity in the Santa Cruz Mountains above Silicon Valley that international robots opposed to my freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles have ample voltage to feel fulfilled by the pulse of electricity this election year, an historic win-win in the political derby for a team of advanced theorists experimenting with the organization of love objects in rapt totalitarians under laboratory conditions.


It would only occur to me at a future date to view that in hindsight as a plausible cause of the shooting pains in my neck. It makes a lot of sense. But first things first, here and now, not then. Both the spongy Nominal Billary Clinton concision and the prickly @trumptf@donaldcharacter caricature offshoot were synthesized from original icicle trademarked robots conjoined at collaborating cold war laboratories in Nome, Alaska after the end of all the world wars to end all wars. Tough fingers and toes for climbing were basic equipment in all models. Each possessed a functioning trigger and steady jack-booted acceleration down hills. Each was impervious to tail winds while hard shifting. Shitting hard, too. Plus, durable knees for long term bending. What more could an active prototype of a character figure be expected to do? The Nominal Billary Clinton concision was currently favored in the casino pits, but the deep barf bag attached to the @trumptf@donaldcharacter caricature was still only half-empty, and shifting final bets from the gamblers 900 million miles in space were yet to come due. Besides, when it’s win-win, who’s not a winner?

I said, “I thought I heard some noises clashing.”

I knew that anything I could hear thee HHUMH Tawny Owl could hear better. He hears and sees what I don’t, and can’t, and not only coming in the realms of so-called sounds perceived by vibrating ears, because his awesome skills in all spatial areas surpass mine. His big soulful eyes absorb every level of hiss and whisper going down on simultaneous planes in the vortex of multiple gravities dragging hapless earth along upside and down off kilter. You probably believed a little simple rotation was enough. Or a tall tale spun. Hah. Multiple planes have a way about them. Nothing remains false for long. Especially from the fifty million year perspective possessed by the tawny owl. Unless nothing of note had been there to be heard. Which could only be my bad by me. It makes a lot of sense. But, still.

I heard, “You must be wrong again.”

“Unless it was only a feeling I had.”

“I don’t see you as being any good at hearing feelings.”

“How does a feeling go wrong?”

“Even you might know that much.”

“I was thinking, not this time.”

keystone kop

I was thinking not this time, and counting  on it, because so much of my freedom to absorb from the tawny owl and self-preserve at the edge of western civilization depended upon it, knowing that is, or pretending as if. Because if I know nothing beats freedom, as I do, and my spiritual self-interest craves alignment in head, hip, ass, and foot with the rollicking free radicals who are shaking, rattling, and rolling the joint in rising consciousness until dawn, then I’d better make sure to continue to get it while I can. Out there here and now. Be free or bend over. That makes my job simple, pointed, direct. Pass AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act. It will be coming soon to California as Prop 64 at the edge of western civilization near you. Win freedom or lose. Defeat the robots at the polls in November.

Here’s the plan:

We defeat the menacing robots by flooding the voting booths of California with an unending supply of formally non-voters motivated by an opportunity to finally strike a telling blow for the innate freedom we possess as descendants of cosmic dust to smoke weed and ingest edibles as our forerunners did so bravely. Why do you think they were called peace pipes? Like, duh.

smoke in color 3

I might find it difficult to fathom the location in which I would be left disposed and bereft without incurring the debt I will never repay to pulsating free radicals far out there. Not here and now, I know that much. Isn’t it the least I can do to sling some cheap words into the void occupied by the mouth of Lt Guv Gav Newsom on the campaign trail in the teeming deserts and valleys, and defeat an unfeeling enemy trying to shoot me off into space without perk of either pork banh mi or gravity in the vicinity of Mars? Cheap words don’t even cost me much when I gather them wholesale. Another win-win for freedom.

I asked the tawny owl while attending the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, if he cared to possess a political opinion on any of the current short term human issues dubbed history by the myopic. The large number fifty million as in his lineage means a lot to me. I secretly hoped to be able to purloin some tidbits for public dissemination to aid my cause. Although it wasn’t much of a secret. I knew, he knew, we all knew.

I explained I was counting on the inability of robots to properly value the place of contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse, in the plus column of discordant behaviors. I felt as if that gave me an advantage. Ergo, win-win for weed, and continued banh mi and filthy lucre for me and mine. Solid an argument as a block of ice. But was it enough? Is it ever enough? Unintended consequences, either the third or fourth most basic block of the multiverse, depending, were out there running wild like naked stallions in the hills.

The tawny owl took the opportunity to engage in laughing his ass off but good during several stellar revolutions, with axial spin and froth and giblets, as he is known to do. I had seen examples a shit load of times, always a sight to behold.

He said, “If I had to be stuffed into those funny looking pants you keep on wearing, I might go along for the ride in that back seat with the robot that sparkles.”

I asked, “What pants? I’m not wearing pants right now.”

But, he never did stop laughing long enough to explain.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in AI, birds, fiction, humor, legalize marijuana, satire and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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