All the king’s robots and all the King’s pens
We might be the subject of another community effort to rid the neighborhood of ne’er do wells. I object to being termed in such a way, as I sometimes do well.
Search Results for: Marvin (my personal robot assistant)
Marvin’s Picks.
Your friends in Big Green are frittering away our time in this abandoned hammer mill, dreaming of the days when we had things to eat other than fritters.
Lawn robots.
Even an electronic brain can go crazy. Just ask the robot on Lost in Space.
The robot, it was a chicken. Oh god.
Yes, we’re planning a little day trip. Nothing to get too excited about.
Twelfth Month.
We have considered converting Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into some kind of record-cutting machine. (For the record, he’s not keen on the idea.)
Time off.
Once our manager told us to wear matching orange Chuck Taylor high tops. God, those things looked stupid … especially on Marvin (my personal robot assistant).
Inside July (2019).
We sent Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to read our upstairs neighbors the riot act, and he got his ass handed to him. I mean literally – they removed his ass and handed it to him, then kicked him down the stairs.
Mailbag redux.
Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was tasked some years back with screening our fan mail. I’m not sure he fully understood the parameters of that assignment.
Inside February (again)
Well, it appears that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has learned where his last name came from. Red letter day for him.
Stage fright.
We’re a little older than we were forty years ago, and Matt and I are kind of settled in our ways. The mansized tuber has put down roots, and Marvin (my personal robot assistant) doesn’t move as fast as he used to, owing in large measure to rust and loose contacts. (Yes, that’s right, lady robots – he wears contacts.)