Send As SMS


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.

Roboshrub Inc.
Public Communications Department

Changes may not fully take effect until you reload the page.

For your insolence, I condemn you to...

Suffer the Fate of a Thousand Bees!
(Before they go extinct)

Print Logo


Escape of the Minotaur

He’d been trained in Calcutta
For this dangerous deed.
With a roaring “Huzzah!”
He needed no steed.

With a flick of the wrist,
And a fleer of the snout,
The minotaur trembled;
But nature won out.

“I’ve seen the sunset over Munich,”
The jailer guffawed.
“I’ve fought the snowmen of Belgium,
With nary a pause.”

He handed the monster
A bag of glass jars.
“Have them filled up by sunrise,”
He yelled through the bars.


The minotaur sighed, raspy sighs of defeat,
And turned mournfully to the penny machine.
Cranking out pennies, day and night by the pound;
This was his life on the Long Island Sound.

Brought back from the Aegean, locked in a cage,
Given candy and trinkets to suppress primal rage.
“I’m tired of minting this zinc-infused jumble,”
The minotaur muttered, his abdomen rumbled.

“I sincerely regret not eating the fool
Who told me to come here to graduate school,”
He cried, slumping backwards on a shaky fake stool.

See, to cut the high costs of minimum wages,
The U.S. Mint had riffled through pages
And pages and pages of obsolete tax laws,
’Til deciding to implement the unspoken 9th clause:
“Mythical beasts can handle the workload,
So gather them up; scour the whole globe!”

At once the Mint planned out the plan in four stages-
Minotaurs were brought second, right after the mages.

Grinding his teeth and gritting his grin,
The minotaur pictured himself within
A palace of silver, surrounded by guards;
Back in his labyrinth, a virtual star.

Back to the waters of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Back to the mortar of his walled up soul.

Back to brisket for breakfast,
And bacon for dinner;
Daily streams on his podcast
To call him a winner.

But dreams are for fools,
He thought to himself.
You’ll more likely end up
On a yellow ice shelf.

The machine bust a groan, and it suddenly died.
Sheets of pre-cut zinc goodness brought a tear to his eye.
Wheezy breeze from the door made the minotaur turn,
Perplexed and surprised at what he would learn.

A figure in crimson kicked in the brass door,
Giant hair to the ceiling, and beard to the floor!
Clothes so out of date they were downright obscure,
Evoking familiarity from our minotaur.

“By the light of Apollo!”
Flew out of his gullet;
Before him was Theseus,
Alive, and with mullet!

Robot with Ape

“The mullet becomes you,
My former arch-foe,”
The minotaur roared
As he laughed, head to toe.

“I’m not here for small talk,
you half-bull, half-pig!”
Theseus chided
With a half-hearted jig.

Crunching the bars with his mythical strength,
The sole son of Aegeus unleashed a small length
Of Athenian Power, and shattered the cell;
Unfortunately, guards heard it and sounded the bell.

“I knew I would find you surrounded by copper,”
Theseus bragged as they ran for the chopper.
“It wasn’t my choice, dear arch-foe/arch-friend,”
The minotaur voiced as the hall reached its end.

“And if you must know, the pennies are zinc,”
He added, quite smugly, with a bull-headed wink.
“And I thought Daedalus was mad about metal,”
the Athenian cried, “You’re as black as the kettle!”

“Alas, zinc shavings are murder on fur,”
King Minos’ bull kvetched as he picked at the burs.
“But now that I’m free, what say you of the others?
The still-captive banshees, the dwarves, and the truckers?”

“But truckers are real!” great Theseus protested.
“Not if they’re plastic!” the cheeky bull jested.
Besmirched and confused, and always surprised,
Prince Theseus and the minotaur shot up through the sky.

I work alone!

Stop all your belly-aching; it was all planned.
See, Theseus booked a giant condor from East Pakistan.
The Condor, it flew them, for hours on end,
All through the rib-tingling jibes of old friends.

With angels they landed, half-god and half-bull,
The Condor’s blades settled, they’d reached the North Pole
To seek Saint Nick’s help in freeing the creatures—
They found him at Reindeer Games, in the packed bleachers.

“Four points!” cried Kris Kringle as he shoveled down chips,
Oblivious to Theseus, who with a Vulcan death grip
Felled the fat cobbler and dragged him away
By the soles of his feet, to the shores of Bombay.

Once Claus regained consciousness, he looked at the pair
First in pity, then anger, then scratched at his hair.
“What’s up, what’s the dillio?” Jolly Nick queried.
“What’s up with your mullet, and what’s with the hurry?”

“Dearest Santa,” the minotaur promptly professed,
“We’ve got a big job, and heard you were the best.”
“It must involve pennies,” Saint Nicolas guessed.
“Why else would you wear that zinc-coated vest?”

“Enough!” thundered Theseus, “How much will it take?”
Santa scratched his chin. “How many can you bake?”
“You’re paying him in... cookies?” the minotaur spilt.
“To take on the Mint? Eight gross cookies- plus milk.”

Monkey rocket!

“Your rates are outrageous! But still, I will pay.”
But as he reached for his wallet, Theseus sprayed
Santa Claus with a vial of some unknown bile.
“Ha! Sit in that for a... a really long while!”

“Oh, what is this now?” Kris Kringle implored.
“Is this really poison, or are you just getting bored?”
“Perhaps it’s a mixture of column A and B,”
Theseus laughed as he slapped at his knee.

“But really, do help us,” the minotaur begged.
“I’d love to. But not here... the place might be bugged.”
“We’re out on a beach! Do you see any walls?!”
“Just because you can’t see them’s no reason to call
Me a liar,” Santa grimaced, his face all askew;
“Just feed me the info. And go get a clue.”

Security had been heightened since last they’d been by;
The walls had been raised, and the soil was dry.
The sight of his prison made Minos’s son cry...
Return to his copper cell? He’s much rather die.


“There there,” chief elf Agatea consoled him,
“Ol’ Nicky’s Crust-Buster will really North Pole ’em.”
So Santa revved up his ingenious machine,
Designed to smack down the oppressive regime.

With a crank and a clunk and a spank and a plunk,
The Long Island Sound, it was beaten and sunk!
As saltwater flooded the fortress of copper
It turned a lime green and crumbled like paper.

The cyclopes, the mages, the furies and doodahs,
The scarabs, the Baurs, the stinkers and hookclaws
Went back to their homes in the old Aztec ruins
To rebuild their lives knitting synthetic woolens.

“It took long enough,”
The minotaur growled,
Surveying the piles
Of zinc on the Sound.

“We saw and we conquered,”
Prince Theseus agreed.
He steadied his hand
For the final brave deed.


“From the past, through today, to the shores of tomorrow,”
Santa Claus blustered as he raised up a fist,
“No creature’ll be part of the Mint’s cheap sideshow!”
The trio cheered slowly as he pulled out his list.

“Now let’s see... one prison, knocked over with glee...
Plus all the overtime... divided by three...”
St. Nick worked the numbers like a card shark, a pro.
He knew how to tally, ledger always in tow.

“You can add up the numbers, you can try to collect,”
Theseus smirked as he simmered, “But in deep retrospect,
You should have been wary. You should have been wise.
We don’t intend to pay you, you doughboy. We lied!”

“What a horrible twist!” Santa’s frame shook with rage.
It was as eerie a sight as a mortal could gauge,
Santa bordering on the brink of a saccharine rampage.

“You remember this moment,” Nick yelled at their backs,
“Go back the your castles, go flip your flapjacks!
Just hold in your hearts that Santa is miffed.
He knows where you live, and you won’t be missed.”

They wrote off his words.
They waved him away.
But if they had heeded,
They’d be here today.

See, Theseus was found
In the gut of a gator.
And the minotaur downed
A mere two days later.

The cops never pegged Santa;
He’s free as a dove.
But folks ’round the North Pole
Say there’s blood on his gloves.

Santa the Barbarian


Processing 25×100 Robo-Comments:

Blogger Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator gesticulated...

That Mallah/ Master thing was so wrong on so many, many levels. That last panel is a grpahic similie of their woopie making, right?

9/28/2006 10:24 AM  
Blogger Bathroom Hippo gesticulated...

Though site statistics and Ralph Nader may say otherwise: I read the whole damn thing.

Yes...Santa has blood on his beard.

9/28/2006 4:17 PM  
Blogger L>T gesticulated...

I read the whole saga in one sitting too. :) now I'm going to go see what
mages are.

9/28/2006 5:30 PM  
Anonymous Rich gesticulated...

So Santa revved up his ingenious machine,
Designed to smack down the oppressive regime

Best line ever included in a mystery rocket ride to Mars.

9/28/2006 7:05 PM  
Blogger Professor Xavier gesticulated...

Beware the man with the mullet. You can never trust those guys.

9/28/2006 8:09 PM  
Blogger Fred gesticulated...

The Day It Rained Superboys? That sounds like something you wrote. Are you a comic book writer by night?

9/28/2006 8:13 PM  
Blogger Gyrobo gesticulated...

What the...? I thought I commented earlier. Oh, well. Time to exercise the multi-commentator comment!

@Jon: It's a metaphor for a better tomorrow.

@Hippo: I'm glad you're in camp robot.

@L>T: Mages are similar to magicians and wizards.

@Rich: Santa's workshop is filled with miraculous machinery we've yet to develop countermeasures for.

@Professor X: That's why the CIA had wiretaps on MacGyver's houseboat for ten years.

@Fred: Comic bookery requires a level of insanity I've yet to reach.

9/28/2006 8:36 PM  
Blogger Roboshrub Incorporated gesticulated...

Unless you count AND THEN THIS HAPPENED, one of the first posts on this blog back in the summer 2005. It's forty-some-odd pages of underdeveloped, underproduced nonsense. Nevertheless, our brilliant wit shines through in the disturbingly true biography of Gyrobo's development.

9/28/2006 9:26 PM  
Blogger The Taker of Gist gesticulated...

It's times like these I wish I was real, and not just the figment of FDR's imagination.

9/28/2006 9:58 PM  
Anonymous Rich gesticulated...

I'm not sure what's better in that comic, Gyrobo's strange visiage or the Generic Canadian character.

Will humanity endure? No.


9/28/2006 10:44 PM  
Blogger Gyrobo gesticulated...

That was a different Gyrobo. Gyrobo is a very common name.

9/29/2006 11:04 AM  
Anonymous Rch gesticulated...


I've heard your hyper-non-reality backwards configuration invertor chip was salvaged from the wreckage of that Gyrobo. Is that true? Because it would explain the hat.

9/30/2006 3:31 AM  
Blogger 13 gesticulated...

*uncontrollable laughter*

your blog has a mission statement?...i think you'll be the leaders of the blog world pretty soon, then tommorow-world domination!

9/30/2006 6:39 AM  
Blogger L>T gesticulated...

magi <--yeah i understand that church term.

9/30/2006 6:45 AM  
Blogger Bathroom Hippo gesticulated...

Wish I had a fancy mission statement.


Oh wait...that's taken by Bob Dole.

9/30/2006 8:35 AM  
Blogger Bob Dole gesticulated...

You're damn right it is.

And that's the bottom Dole!

9/30/2006 9:13 AM  
Blogger Gyrobo gesticulated...

@Rich: I may not have technically known that other Gyrobo, but I did squat in his dome a week after he was destroyed.

@syandiedtoday: Our mission statement is a sham! If you only knew the real agenda, it would shock you 6.022×10^23 more than what you've already seen.

@L>T: The magi ain't got nothin' on me.

@Hippo: Mission statements are for people with way too much free time on their hands.

@Bob Dole: Let me break this down into terms you can understand. Bob Dole! Bob Dole Bob Dole. Bob Dole, Bob Dole Bob Dole? Bob Dole!

9/30/2006 9:48 AM  
Blogger Bob Dole gesticulated...

Bob Dole understands.

9/30/2006 10:02 AM  
Blogger L>T gesticulated...

The Magi bore gifts. What do you bore?

9/30/2006 10:50 PM  
Blogger Gyrobo gesticulated...

I bore a hole through the ground, to mine for gold under Mt. Everest. Don't let them tell you there's nothing there- I've seen the silver.

10/01/2006 12:02 AM  
Blogger Bathroom Hippo gesticulated...


The smooth sounds of boring holes =)

Brings a tear to this ol' eye.

10/02/2006 10:03 PM  
Blogger ticharu gesticulated...

Santa is wrong...

10/03/2006 8:34 AM  
Blogger 13 gesticulated...

Santa doesn't exist....some of us missed the memo.


10/03/2006 2:01 PM  
Blogger Gyrobo gesticulated...

Santa has my sand-blower. I lent it to him in the '70s.

10/03/2006 9:13 PM  
Blogger flatlander gesticulated...

Gads! How did I miss this one?

Actually, I think I read it days ago, then promptly forgot due to the shock to my system created by the baseless insinuations against Santa.

And now, I'm about to forget it again, even though it was the best poem I've read since Kubla Kahn.

Say what?

10/04/2006 12:35 AM