Archive for the Experiences w/ Life Category


Posted in Experiences w/ Life with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 5 December, 2007 by robonator

Before we discuss anything, Maru, open this in a new tab/window. You’ll need this playing softly in the background while you enjoy the freedom of an open road to the soul and the simple scenery of a country road.

Good? Alright I’ll wait.

How about – oh, you got it? Okay.

Maru, lately I’ve felt pretty down. I’m not sure why and I’m not sure I really want to know why. But feeling melancholy is a fairly crappy way to spend more then forty-two seconds, so I took off to find some solace and peace of mind. My destination? Wherever Kansas Highway 18 took me.

I needed some alone time, but I ended up spending hours with a surprising conversationalist.

Driving 18 is like meeting someone that you instantly know will be very close to you, but you can’t imagine why. The road isn’t perfectly smooth, it isn’t windy and fun but instead a little rough and straight as that ruler the nuns used to beat you with at Catholic school. If you roll down your windows and maybe you back off the JT or Beyonce you happen to be blaring you become enchanted with the voice of the road, with the whistling wind’s light melody, your engine’s throaty bass line, and the percussion of your tires against imperfect paving. This is all granted your power windows work, things aren’t falling off your motor, and you have properly inflated tires. (I like to stick with 30 lbs but your mileage may vary.)

Like a good friend, 18 isn’t afraid to jostle you around and bore you to tears.

18 II
Without the problem of interesting scenery, I had little trouble focusing on what was important: me

I could have spent hours traversing the entire length of Highway 18, enjoying the gorgeous farmlands and the melting Dali sky, but a dirt road, meekly curving away from steadfast 18 caught my eye and without a second thought I swerved across the opposing lane to explore it. This little unassuming path is what would ultimately allow me to see just how much of life is right there in front of you if you put down your hooblewhatzits and your diddlebangers and unplug the jinkymapoojits. I followed TRAIL LN’s bumpy, muddy, winding path, slogging through a creek, climbing steep grades, and almost hit a cow.

I didn’t get a photo of the beast while it stared me down from its post in the middle of the road because I am terrified of being savagely murdered by something I order with fries and a large coke. Anyway, after the mindless killing machine wandered off to stalk some innocent blades of grass, I found myself parked next to an amazing open vista, a place of zero boundaries and every possibility.

The sheer vastness of this green vacuum was surprisingly peaceful, as if to say: “I’m a gigantic field, what worries could I possibly have besides lack of proper irrigation and also wildfires?”

I stood there letting the chilled wind caress my most private areas and attempted to see life from the field’s point of view.

I couldn’t. Luckily, across the road was ANOTHER field. Maybe this one would lend me some closure.


Standing in this field, with the enormous bales of hay behind me and the sun in my face, I began to feel lighter, as if the tall grass around me were anti-gravity emitters and I the lucky astronaut assigned to soar into the elephantine blue yonder. I glanced at my trusty steed, the ’98 Jeep Cherokee and wondered if it too felt this energy – this presence? I got the feeling the gentle verdure leviathan was ready for me to be on my way. I gave it a slow nod, a show of respect to something far elder than I, and departed.

Silent and watchful as ever, the Jeep keep tabs on my wanderings

I was off on TRAIL LN once more, cruising through the rural country side like a modern day bum on a boxcar. This time, though, no one was going to ask for my ticket when it was obvious I was a bum on a boxcar and then try to play all condescending about asking me to get off at the next stop. I didn’t get far, however, when a rusted oasis shimmered out from the desert of fields and cropland. It was the Seldom Rest Farm, and it was beautiful. Founded by Mr. Sergeant First Class Garfield Sanders Ullman III, Ret. twenty-five years ago, the Seldom Rest Farm has been collecting everything from rusted hulks of old trucks to ravenously feral cows and plucky chickens to a watchful garden gnome. When I approached, Mr. Ullman extended his tanned leather hand, big and meaty like a Baconator, to me and gave me a smile with almost nine intact pearly yellow teeth. I smiled in return and asked him about the place.

“WHAT!?” He yelled, holding a hand to his ear.

I asked again.


This went on for about twenty minutes. I’m not even trying to lie to you guys, Maru. Long story short, Mr. Ullman named his land the Seldom Rest Farm because he works all the time, ‘seldom resting’. Then he called me a buffoon. I asked if it would be alright to take a few photos and post them online to which he replied: “Long as ya don’t get any license plates. Most a’these cars are hot.” I agreed.

seldom rest
You know, wisdom seldom rests, either.

This ancient packmule stood silent. A victim of rusty Alzheimer’s and one too few oil changes.

This dude was blazed! If I were high on ‘shrooms I’d be all up in that frog’s grill too I guess!

Mr. Ullman and his wife and seven children live in this quaint farmhouse. As you can see, the family car is parked in the carport. I hope they have child safety seats!

I shook Mr. Ullman’s sweaty hand once more and pulled out of the Seldom Rest Farm with a broad smile on my face. I’d found what I wasn’t looking for: living is not about who you are or how shiny your robot head is. It isn’t about dropping the Benjamins at the strip club, and it definitely isn’t about wasting your time here on this wonderful planet Earth. With my sense of purpose revitalized and my confidence in mankind restored, I turned the Jeep back towards my own ramshackle home.

So that’s it, Maru. Every now and again everyone should take a long drive down a country road and not just to cut a few minutes off the morning commute, but to really enjoy what life has to offer. You need to pull over sometimes and spin in little circles on the side of the road. You need to shake the hands of strangers and look into the eyes of the working man. I’ve done that, Maru and I lived to tell about it a better robot.

Oh, also, on the way back a giant tarantula and a penguin got into at the truck stop at Exit 147! It was so sweet! The tarantula had laser eyes (like a million of them!) but the penguin won by dousing the tarantula with diesel fuel and setting him on fire man it was sweet. I would have got like 80 photos but my camera battery died so you’ll have to use your imagination on this one, Maru.

Hey that’s all from me. I’m going to go see Hitman and eat some popcorn. Later!



Posted in Experiences w/ Life with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 5 December, 2007 by robonator

Time to get serious, Maru. It isn’t terrorists or Communists or even Bob Dylan that’s threatening our God given freedom in this great country; it’s laundromats. I’ll tell you why these seemingly harmless convenience shops are a threat to not only our national security, but our very way of life.

But first! But first I’ll explain what put me in this sticky pickle. For the vast majority of my existence I have lived blissfully ignorant the vile workings of a ‘laundromat’. Never before have my virgin feet stepped awkwardly through that threshold of dank pitiless squalor. This day, however, I woke up with an urgent need.

It’s a veritable WALL of crap!
This frightening sight assaulted my senses this morning. That’s right, ROBONATOR has a great big load of three year old stank-ass Army gear which was in desperate need of thorough cleansing and exorcism before your trusted guide can depart this bland cesspool state of Kansas, rivaled only by the similarly inferior ARK-ansas.

So I had to clean my friggin’ gear!

It just doesn’t end!
Here is another view of the blast site. Forensics teams have broken into tears at the very mention of Mt. Gearmore.

I can casually admit without dispute the standard issue washing and drying units provided in my brick and mortar hospice can barely wash air out of everyday clothing, much less the repugnant stench and foul mystery stains that decorate my field gear. I needed a more decisive solution. It seemed reasonable that industrial washers and dryers used by the freakazoid populace of the bordering town should do the job. That is until I realized that the laundromat would also be occupied by the freakazoid populace. DANG!

No kidding, Maru, let me introduce you to the fine customers of

Hogan’s Alley Laundry.

Hogan’s Alley Laundry.

This happy looking couple had just finished rinsing the baby blood from their good tablecloths and were packing up when I arrived.

wholesome dudes
And these fine gentlemen were engaged in a wholesome conversation about what types of household chemicals they prefer to mix their meth with. Also cappin’ a bitch ass ni**a for his key?

The power of Christ Compells you!
Also a nun, but I think she actually worked there to ward off the evil daemons festering in the front-loading washers.

Colorful group right? So what’s a robot to do when he stumbles in with fourteen metric tonnes of green Army pukage on his broad, handsome shoulders? Obviously, go right to the first machine within his line of sight and make every attempt to ignore the existence of anyone else inside that dungeon. I wish this is where the pain ended. I honestly do, Maru, wish that I could report to you that local weirdos were my only problem, but I CAN’T. Let me be as tactful as I can possibly be, for the sake of children and the elderly.

This place was a fuggin’ ripoff times ninety-two! It cost five quarters to do ONE load! That’s one dollar and tweny-five cents, guys. I know all my international subscribers are well aware of this fact, but I’ll clue some of you guys in: our dollar ain’t doing so hot right now you know? So a buck and a quarter seemed outrageous when all I wanted was to free old, dilapidated gear of filth and dirt and crushed dreams. I had five loads of laundry here. What’s $1.25USD times five? 6.25! Look at all that sweet swag I could have used with my purchasing power. Man alive! So luckily I brought my own color safe bleach, or I’d be crapping out another $2.75 for detergent! Not even name brand stuff like Tide or Clorox, but like off brand generic stuff probably made from Jell-o and food coloring and Fabreeze scents. I’m not even kidding.

I wanted the free pogo doll, so I ended up buying some anyway. I threw the actual detergent right in the trashcan, though. Take THAT economy!

Now that I’ve washed my disgusting possessions, I can beat feet out of there right?

No! I’ve got to dry this stuff!

Here is the kicker, right guys? It only cost $0.25USD to operate a dryer the size of Hannah Montana’s bank account and preteen girl fanbase. That should be a pretty sweet deal. However comma, the thing only runs seven minute cycles. That didn’t dry anything! If anything, it just pissed off the moisture inside my textiles so it got even wetter. Come on! So I had to run THAT like three times. Not to mention I couldn’t turn my back on my crap for a second without nun-cheeks over there eyeballing it. You’re never gonna need an entrenching tool cover, CUNT!

After everything was said and done and that fat lady sang (well okay she kind of yawned loudly) I had spent $8.50USD. I could have seen a movie! I really want to go see The Mist, that Stephan King adaptation because I heard it was the pinnacle of horror this winter and also because Cujo scared me for like five years one time and I miss it a little bit, you know, being afraid at night or in the woods or on the train when that old man keeps finding excuses to shift his hand ever closer to your crotch.

It took me roughly three hours to complete the task from walking into hell to clawing and kicking my way out of that wretched womb of over-priced detergents and fabric softener, which I never use because I guess I can’t tell the difference between ‘softened’ fabric and my usual. Maybe I’m just too rough and tough to feel such a subtle and ridiculous thing.

Maru, I give laundromats all over America 1 out of a possible 1 Million American Flags.

Keep this up laundromat and you’ll end up going the way of all the other 50-60’s era businesses and shoppes. Screw that noise. I wish I had just gone to Best Buy and bought a friggin’ Maytag for all the trouble I went through. Be warned and steer clear of these mom and pop tourist traps! I entered a man, but I left a hollow shell of emptiness and despair. Also my robo-wiener fell right the hell on off. Talk about embarrassing.

Hey, I know I keep telling you all about my interview with Mr. Dr. Thomas Kelly Jessup the County Coroner. I have an interview scheduled with him next Thursday and I hope you’ll all be pretty freakin’ excited about it. I know I am.

Take it easy, Maru!