Public Communications Department
Ten thousand years of Roboshrub.
Fangs for the memories.
In today’s state, Roboshrub Incorporated is an entity entirely devoted
to the execution of what normal people would refer to as “bad ideas.”
It was the creator’s original idea that all concepts, whether
useful or not, contribute to the global subconscious level of progress
for the human race. Therefore, we contend that no idea is an unfit
idea, and vow to act on each and every one of them.
Public Communications Department
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For your insolence, I condemn you to...
Suffer the Fate of a Thousand Bees!
(Before they go extinct)
Running with chainsaws since 2005.
Whereupon unanimous consent has been reached by the parties of the addressee, one “destructobob”, and the parties of the management of the Internet entity “Roboshrub Incorporated”, said addressee has henceforth been granted the position of “contributer”.
Will Bob truly contribute? Will she use her blogging powers for good... or evil?!? Tune in next week for another installment of...
It was an unassuming summer day. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. But a precocious Vincent O'Neil was completely unaware of the current weather. The 400 pound, 6 foot 4 inch tall middle schooler had spent the entire day glued to his T.V. screen, and was now getting up to get some more junk food. He was just about to go to the kitchen when he heard a beeping noise coming from his room. Intrigued by the sound, young Vincent ran as quickly as his 50 pound legs could carry him to the source of the disturbance.
“The chicken is in the oven, but I'm out of toothpaste...” read the monitor. What is this? thought Vince as he sat down. “Good morning, Vince.” suddenly showed up on the screen in big bold letters. “Who are you?” Vince typed fearfully into the browser window that had spontaneously opened. “I am no one. And everyone.” came the reply. “for I am destructobob.” Destructobob? “That sounds made up. Tell me your real name.” wrote Vince, clearly alarmed that someone could simply break into his computer and make extremely vague conversation. “I want world peace. I want a flying car, and immortality. And in a way I already have all of those things. But what I really want is your help.” My help? “What do you me-” Just then, the window abruptly closed and the screen flashed. Five seconds later, a diagram was displayed on the screen. It was full of circuits and complicated electrical jargon. Build it. said a voice inside Vince's head. “Who's there?!” cried Vince, swinging around wildly. Build it. It will be magnificent when it's finished.
The days passed quickly. Each morning, Vince would wake up, eat six waffles with a gallon of syrup, and then work on building... it until late at night. He frequently lost sleep, and every time he tried to stop building completely, his computer would start beeping and he would get an angry message from destructobob. Finally, he just gave up and consigned himself to his fate. After about six weeks, he began to realize that his whole summer vacation would be gone soon... but the device would be ready long before that. It was more than halfway completed. All it needed was- Oh, no... thought Vince as he looked at the bottom of the diagram. This thing is powered by plutonium?!? Where am I going to find that?!? Just then a new window opened, revealing a map to a nuclear power plant. “No, no, no. I can't get in there!” said Vince to no one in particular. Just then an electric surge fired out of his computer, narrowly missing him. “Okay, okay! I'll do it!” screamed Vince as he hit the print button and ran to get his shoes.
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” remarked Vince as he walked through the doorway into his house. “I can't believe all I had to do was say that I worked there, and they let me...” Vince stopped cold in his tracks. Two nondescript men in dark brown suits were sitting at his dinner table with his mother. They instantly looked at him, as if they could see into his very soul. “Vincent, these men work for the F.B.I. and they have a few questions for you.” Gulp, thought Vince, this is it. No, I can't let them stop me! I've worked too hard to leave the device unfinished! “You can't stop me!” bellowed Vince as he ran past the men into his room, where he locked the door. “Vincent, under the authority of the United States government, we demand that you open this door!” said one of the men as they both pounded on his bedroom door. “Do you hear us Vincent?! Open this door!”
But Vince wasn't listening to them. He was looking at the device, the beautiful, beautiful device. He had no idea what it would do but now that he had the plutonium, he could, at long last, unlock the secrets of it. The men broke the door down as he slid in the plutonium cartridge. The device started to whir, and Vince covered his eyes as a blinding flash of light streamed out of it. Then the device rolled over, spun, and then with a popping sound, jumped threw the window, shattering it and causing bits of glass to fly everywhere. Vince quickly looked out the window at the ground, trying to see if it was undamaged. Phew! thought Vince as he saw that it had fallen onto a bush and was still in one piece. But something was odd... it was changing... the device seemed to be merging with the plant! A split-second later, the bush pulled its own roots out of the ground and ran away! Vince turned around to run outside after it, but quickly noticed two federal agents standing in his way. “Vincent O'Neil, you are under arrest.” said one of them. Vince glanced out the broken window, but the device was long gone, along with the plutonium.
It is done. “What?!?” squealed Vince, springing up in his prison bunk. “Who's there?!” I don't need to tell you; you already know. “Destructobob. I knew you would get me out of here!” Oh, no. I can't get you out of prison. “What? But I built that- that thing you wanted me to! Why can't-” You did all that I intended you to do. Now you are irrelevant. Upon hearing that, Vince's heart sank like a stone. “Well, why would you make me make something that would get me arrested?!” There was no other option. The Roboshrub led to the creation of the destructobob. And now the destructobob had facilitated the construction of the Roboshrub. It is a temporal paradox. “But- wait, what's a 'Roboshrub'?” It is above you. Looking up through the barred window of his cell, Vince saw the device! It was still bonded to the plant that was beneath his window. And it was pointing a laser beam directly at his face.
After completing a ground-breaking report on the true causes of war in the Middle East, the C.I.A. has managed to reanimate former president James A. Garfield. When asked why, an anonymous agent replied that the intent was to revive Abraham Lincoln, so that the location of his secret gold deposit could finally be uncovered. “We were deliberately misled,” said the agent. “The ghost of James G. Blaine, who was James Garfield's Secretary of State, interfaced with the temporal matrix and generated bad vibes. This caused James Garfield to return to life.”
James Garfield, as many people know, was the 20th president of the United States. He was the second to be assassinated in office, and the first ambidextrous president. His first and only term was about five months, yet he still remains one of the most beloved presidents in American history (not as beloved as Millard Fillmore). It all started one cold morning on July 2, 1881. Charles Guiteau, a Republican Stalwart (the evolutionary precursor of today's disgruntled worker) sneaked up behind him and... Blam! Of course, it took Garfield over two months to die from his wounds, and it is strongly believed today that incompetent doctors were partly, if not mostly, responsible. “If I could do it again, I would probably have run away faster,” remarked the ghost of Charles Guiteau, who was executed in 1882.
After being revived, the first thing James Garfield did was request a bottle of Faricum and then inquired as to where he was. Finding he had been dead for over 120 years, Garfield realized that despite all his family and friends being long dead, he was perfectly content to live in a world so abundant in 21st century instant pudding. But still, the call of politics beaconed. Thinking about how his dream job had been snatched away so early in his term, Garfield wrote an angry letter demanding the presidency be relinquished to him immediately. Unfortunately for him, this demand was flat-out rejected by President Bush, who remarked, “It'll be a cold day at my ranch before I turn the country over to that lasagna-eating cat!”
Deciding not to push the matter, Garfield accepted defeat in his bid to reclaim the presidency. However, he still hasn't ruled out a run for president in the future. Already the media pundits have picked him as a possible front-runner in the 2008 GOP primaries. It is believed he has serious inroads with value voters, as he claims to have “met God and really kicked it off. In fact, we went camping several times. God really loves s'mores.”
You just might be seeing this on bumper stickers in three and a half years: “Garfield-McCain '08”
Whereas the first party shall agree to give unanimous consent until the fourth...
“Argh! I can't follow this drivel!” shouted Senator Ninja as he tearfully knocked the pile of papers from his desk. The poor man had tried once again (unsuccessfully) to decipher what was aptly named S.R. 8723. Senator Ninja's power to quickly understand complex legal documents had been one of the main planks of his election campaign- as a matter of fact, it was the main plank. But now, for the first time in many, many years, the good Senator had reached an impasse. “Hey! Kitty! Get over here! I need some... advice.” shouted Senator Ninja at the closest politician he could see.
“I told you not to call me that again,” said Senator Bond in his Missourian drawl. “In fact, I told you never to speak to me again. Not after-”
“I remember, I remember... But that was a long time ago, Kit. Now, what can you tell me about S.R. 8723?”
“Nothing much. I took one look at that thing and handed it to one of my aides. I mean, come on. The thing's gotta be a thousand pages. He read the thing and told me all about it.”
“Well, what did your aide say about it?” said Senator Ninja, his interest clearly piqued at the thought of some lowly aide being able to translate the behemoth when he could not. Clearly, this aide's powers were formidable.
“Well... I was told that it was a routine appropriations bill and that everything seemed to be in order.”
“Who is this aide that possesses powers of equal or greater value to me?!? We shall duel on the fields of honor! Tell me, Kit!”
“This is why I didn't want to tell you. You always do this,” said Senator Bond as he turned around to go back to his office, leaving Senator Ninja to contemplate his newest rival.
Something's wrong... thought Senator Ninja as he suddenly lifted his head up from his work. He had been trying to understand more about S.R. 8723 for several hours and had gotten nowhere. After listening to Senator Levin, he had been convinced the resolution was for agriculture provisions. But then Senator Pryor had told him it was for Medicaid reform. And Specter said it was for stem cell research! Apparently, every Senator had a different idea of what this bill was- and all of them had been advised by a nondescript aide with amazing analytical abilities.
“Aaaaaahhhh!” came a blood-curdling scream from the one of the conference rooms. Realizing he was probably the only Senator left in the building at the time (and also a superhero), Senator Ninja sprang into action.
“Hold it right-”
Stopping in the middle of his heroic banter, Senator Ninja glanced around and realized there was nothing he could do. With a mournful cry, he knelt down next to what was left of Senator Bond.
“Who did this?!?” shrieked Senator Ninja as he held onto Kit.
“S... sc...” stammered Kit.
“What is it, old friend?”
“Sc... sc... scone... uhhhh.”
And then Kit was silent.
For several thousand years, the middle east has been torn apart by numerous wars. Many people have wondered why, in this day and age, war can still continue. One anonymous C.I.A. operative decided to find out personally. “It just always kind of bugged me, you know, hearing about all the violence on T.V. every day. It was getting old.” was the only justification given for the extensive six year investigation that cost approximately $4.2 billion. The search was far-reaching, analyzing everything from the brand of coffee used by the Saudi royal family, to how many times Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan ate cereal each week. For reasons of national security, we were not told the answer to either.
However, we were given an insight into how the information was gathered. The total number of episodes of “The Simpsons” was multiplied by the sine of a random number between 1 and 53. That number was then converted into binary and divided by the interest rate. The result, according to the government scientists assigned to the project, is statistically how many aliens are on the Earth right now. And the anonymous agent assured us that while we can't stop the aliens right now, we can at least ascertain where they are, by using a special government Ouija Board.
But what are the aliens' motives? What are they really after? The agent was kind enough to reveal the answer. Thousands of years ago, the space aliens' most powerful computer predicted that in several thousand years, they would be destroyed by humanity. To prevent this disaster, the aliens came to Earth and got members of one middle-eastern ethnic group to swipe the shoes of members of another ethnic group. As the violence escalated, the aliens' plan seemed assured. Operating under the assumption that violence increases the progression of human technology, the aliens continued to egg us on for many, many years in the hope that one day we would create advanced time travel technology that the aliens could steal and use to go back to a time in our history when we were primitive enough to be easily defeated.
“Of course there are problems with this theory. That's why it's only a theory! If there were no problems, there'd be no aliens!” said the agent angrily as we asked how the aliens were instigating violence and where the project's funding came from. “Obviously, you missed the point of the whole thing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my other project, which is much more expensive and involves the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.”