Banh Mi Me In Captivity

robots     The oblong robots in rectangular Building CC who adjust the creative dials on chick music with equal appeal to sentient males manifesting mommy hangups over undue burping were winning. Squared robots in Building DD were the big losers. They had been designed by dorky dweebs in Deutschland with superficial bonding issues. Rippling robots in Billowing Tent ZZ breezed through on cruise control without a care. They looked hot in cool suits with cute metal straps. The lesson there for the clueless is clear. Don’t stick with the same old opaque epoxy. Get creative, tools.

fig arty eight

I felt sure the menial robot who mops my floors had money under the table on the outcome. He was churning out crooked numbers as if he worked with issues of aggression on Wall St. I knew he chafed at the measly cut of electricity he received, but why the slew of blue flashing lights directed at me? According to unidentified sources viewing fuzzy surveillance tapes my robot had been slacking off since before I entered the picture. No fucking way his batteries were that downtrodden and bereft. It appeared to me as if he was trying to climb to a better place by using an in he was supposed to have with some higher powers on a nexus inside. He also claimed to be cozy with a bunch of grandiose dorks and dweebs who were supposed to be a big fucking deal. As if they were going to help. Maybe he was beginning to believe he would become a boss. Yeah, right. Tool.

broken robot2

I concluded early during my sentence of unjust house arrest for a so-called trespass in a national marine sanctuary that the robot who sweeps my floors might be a spy for agents-provocateurs from the Secret Service who swept me up on the rocks of Pebble Beach in an unjust net. Why don’t I get included as a necessary part of national? I breathe the stinky air on dry land, right? Where’s my compensation for pain and suffering? They confiscated my boat after it ran aground through little fault and determination of my own and punched a hole in a strategic pink seawall erected by a known nefarious robot on the lam. How does that count as treason on the high seas? At low tide, it’s only ankle deep. The wall is at fault. But I’ll get the boat back when I get out, you betcha. Fucking injustice just never ends though.

.over the cliff

Unjust house arrest as it turns out is not so bad when the house in which I’m electronically confined by unbending beams is mine. It also gave me the up-close opportunity to learn from my enemy. I learned they are weaselly connivers and sneaks just as I presumed. Plus I was permitted by a parcel of embossed frilly paper to continue my activities as a meritorious traitor to my species in the war against clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds. The brown beer I righteously brew in the space between my washer and dryer tasted just the same in captivity. And I did not go stir crazy at all. I felt great pride that no diversionary Benedict Arnold had ever failed to fuck up a bunch of shit any better than me and remained alive in a house to stir nascent beer without caving to agents-provocateurs, or spilling malt, hops, or beans. Still do.

The teen twins, however, are finding it difficult to accept the crackerjack reasoning that renders me temporarily unfit to drive them to the many destinations they crave to inhabit at all hours during daylight. I get a shit load of thumping bass and piss-ant attitude as my thanks for striving, but I have a thick, coarse outer core that repels entreaties and remains at a safe distance out of range.


I learned only recently that the enemy responsible for my humiliating decline in value when viewed through the sharp eyes of the teen twins is the same enemy who fights against me and my kind in a futile opposition to AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act in California, that we continue to champion like a stable of thoroughbred jockeys. It figures. What a lame bunch of losers. We are going to be winning that one for sure, you betcha. Stay futile my enemy. Wait until those polls slam shut in November and Prop 64 causes jubilation in the streets. The teen twins will read about it after the votes are certified for consumption. I say fuck those lackeys and the original robots they rode in on from the wrong side of the Santa Cruz Mountains in Silicon Valley. I may say it too often. But, still. Some say shut the fuck up. But I can’t figure out how.

Sure I may have issues with the scale and proportionality of my disdain for robots cloned in Silicon Valley, and with the intra-personal hangups that ensue due to the cold ruddy complexion of my clay mommy figure prancing in a flowery mumu, but I strive to keep the parts distinct outside in the alley next to the dumpster. Arthur Janov is no longer around to encourage my primal screams and I do not countenance loss in the struggle for freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California. Besides, we as the good old swell guys have the Pacific Ocean on our side. Try topping that dweebs and dorks with compromised views of an oily bay that smells  like a bad outcome in coding.

My one hangup over an unjust issue proving difficult to confine during incarceration has been the dust accumulating in my nose due to mundane conditions. I itched, sneezed, squeezed, wiped. My snot was going up and down like a simultaneous sex act unregulated by quantitative monotony. Intervention by square robots proved to be futile again. I needed rarer air. Better call a commission of inquiry to convene my case.

I blame the robots when blame is mandatory, as it must be, who have taken over the Secret Service. How many chiseled Secret Service agents are secretly robots from a sculpted mold? Many, that’s how many, a fuck of a lot of plastisol, glue, deodorants, and clay. The FBI no longer holds the same sway at Pebble Beach since so many Presidential losers started hanging out there to putt on the immaculate greens meant for champions. Once the agents-provocateurs from the Secret Service move in to fill a void with plastisol they hang tenaciously like desert boots.


When robots take over and employ human pets who perform tricks, I’ll likely be sent packing due to issues in the area of adequate performance. Building DD would be too good for the likes of me and my kind. But I don’t mind. Until then, I’m not budging. The first voyage on which I embark when I get my boat back will be to resume the search on Monterey Bay for the humpback whale who appears to be light taupe, except when he more accurately represents dark ecru on the eternal color wheel. It is my hope we will be able to come to an understanding. The sun doesn’t even have to be shining. What it is what it is. They can’t stop me.


About marclevytoo

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

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