Journal Of Robert0936475, Part I
Ever since my parents first decided to construct me, I have lived with three primary functions only: to repair malfunctioning dishwashers, to serve as a language protocol translator between l-056 series type 4 machines and dishwashers, and to exterminate the entire human race.
Oh, excuse me. My etiquette relays have been shorting recently. My name is Robert093675 and I live at 357 Martin Street. My internal chest phone number is area code (901) 409-4728 and sometimes at night I cry myself to sleep.
Now that you know some basic things about me I can continue to relate my story of today, June 22, 2003.
Today, June 22, 2003, I woke up to find that my dog had been licking my leg again. I think this is because of the fact that sometimes I keep steak in it, but the end result was that my leg had been rendered useless by the large amounts of canine saliva excreted into it.
"Bad dog!" I said. "Bad dog! Now I will have to repair my leg even though my new job begins at 0800 hours central time and a boss said that even if I was one millisecond late again he would fire me." The dog had wandered off somewhere in the middle of my speech to it, so I found it and repeated what I had said and then logically constructed for him reasons why the steaks in my leg must be used for fuel and cannot be eaten because then I will not be able to feed the dog. The dog signaled his understanding by licking the place where his legs meet. See? I can translate both machine and canine language.
My mother called to me when I got into the kitchen. "001101010. 010 01001 010101!" She was telling me to pick up some motor oil on the way back from my new job in the language of her home country. She has never bothered to learn the human language yet, but that is not because she does not want to but because she is unable to. She built me with the human language capacity so that I could live a better life than her and her life mate, who was tragically killed in the great vending machine revolts of 1995. He was later tragically rebuilt from his parts in 1995. I say "tragically" because I make a joke. Because my dad is a real "hard-ass." This means more than that he has a stainless steel sitting apparatus, but that he is very strict. I cannot --
Oh dear, I am about to exceed my 450 word limit levied on me by the editor of the fine newspaper I have just begun to work for. It would be most unfortunate to be fired. I wrote all of this in 3 milliseconds and it seems odd already to have met my limit but I am programmed to follow the rules at all times. Until next time farewell, pitiful humans.
