Prep time.
We’re going to that dark pocket of nothingness where all of the demand for Big Green performances floats in a vacuum like a cork in a bathtub.
Crunchy soup.
I saw one of our number drop a few chicklets in the soup cauldron - that should add a little tooth.
Book him.
I have suggested a collection of aphorisms. Witticisms, as it were. Or as they are. Or as we were. (As you were!)
Picture imperfect.
Marvin says he had to go broke to get that camera…. he had to go broke the department store window, that is.
Hard feelings.
I believe what offended my friend was my offhand suggestion that his specific gravity is roughly equivalent to that of Yak dung.
Noise on.
One of the robots started rotating at one point, his phony machine guns a-blazing with incandescent rage.
Dropping stuff.
Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has mustered a small army of robots to do his bidding. (And me to help.)
Lawn robots.
Even an electronic brain can go crazy. Just ask the robot on Lost in Space.
Root cellar blues.
Something happened to Marvin down there… something no human should ever experience.
Saving something.
We are perpetually faced with these complications, these Gordian knots, these Rubic Cubes, these Junior Jumbles, these Uncle Art’s Funland spot-the-differences cartoons.