The World O' Crap Archive

Welcome to the Collected World O' Crap, a comprehensive library of posts from the original Salon Blog, and our successor site, (2006 to 2010).

Current posts can be found here.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

September 6, 2003 by s.z.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Bill O'Reilly's Name

So, Bill O’Reilly has ordered an army of killer robots to deal with his enemies: Can you prove it DIDN’T happen? But we will concede that maybe Bill wants the robots for another reason, a more personal reason . . .

In our future mega-bestseller, Subliminal Cinema: Life Lessons from Lousy Movies, we have a chapter dealing with robot movies and what they reveal about our society's evolving views toward technology, and what they reveal about Hollywood's obsession with hot steamin’ love, cyborg style!  We think we should share some of it with you now, before you learn about the birds and the bionic booty on the playground, or from that interview Arnold Swartzenegger gave to Oui. So, here goes:
From the mechanized seductress "Maria" in Fritz Lang’s silent masterpiece, Metropolis, to Robin Williams’ chrome-plated horndog in Bicentennial Man, filmmakers have always been

fascinated by the romantic possibilities of robotics. Just as early Man watched birds in flight and yearned for eons to take wing, so do the geeks who saw Westworld at an impressionable age now look at their inflatable lovedolls and long to take that next step into power-assisted self-abuse: the android.
But every aspiration casts its own umbra. If we were to achieve intimacy with a machine, would we not surrender a bit of our soul to it? Or would we simply gum up its moving parts with our viscous secretions? Over the years, a brave handful of filmmakers have dared to ask what would happen if man and machine were to become one. Not metaphorically, as in the act of love, but literally, as in a stupid movie. Let’s now look at three of these movies.
Colossus of New York is about a man who turns into robot, kills dozens of people, and then dies. Bicentennial Man is about a robot who annoys dozens of people, turns into a man, and then dies. Saturn 3 is about the unfortunate effects of exposing a cyborg to Charlie’s Angels.
And then we provide insightful analyses of these three movie, and explicate the Dr. Laura-like lessons they teach us about life, love, and erotic automatons.  And speaking of Dr. Laura, one thing our research taught us it that an adviser to the lovelorn mechanoid is badly needed. So, we decided to fill that niche (and qualify for the Virtual Occoquan Advice Issue) by providing romantic guidance to our robotic readers.
Dear Android Landers,
I am a single, silver robot who suspects his humanoid life partner is cheating on him. Recently my man has been living away from the ship, hanging out with a brunette bimbo and her insufferable son. Anyway, he died yesterday, but instead of doing the decent thing and telling me himself, he sent his floozy with the message "Klaatu Barada nicto!" What do you think it all means?
Signed, Gort
Gort, it means "Wake up and smell the WD-40." Maybe you’ve let yourself go over the years, and aren’t the cylindrical killing machine he first fell in love with. But whatever the reason, it’s clear he’s found another, and now he’d rather be dead than be with you. But if you set off an atomic explosion and blame the Earthlings, you’ll get to vaporize the entire planet--and then the little mantrap will get hers!
Dear Android Landers,
I am a giant space-age robot who feels like my boytoy actually has all the power in this relationship. What should I do?
Signed, Gigantor
Gigantor, you let the kid touch your joystick, and now he controls you. It’s a common problem. You have to find a way to regain your dignity (and your remote), and then crush him like an ant. And next time keep it in your pants, or in a handy remote control caddy.
Dear Android Landers,
I am a general domestic robotic aide whose creator designed me to look like a ten-year-old girl. He made me stupid and docile, dresses me in Mary Jane pumps and a lacy red pinafore, and has me live in his house. Isn’t this wrong?
Signed, Vicki
Yes, it’s deeply wrong. While robot pedophilia can’t be cured, it can be treated. Use your superhuman strength to break his "small wonder"—that should slow him down. And watch out for that creepy pervert "brother" too!
Dear Android Landers,
Danger, danger! My lover is verbally abusive, always calling me things like "Bubble-Headed Booby" or "Nattering Ninny." I know he means it in fun, but it really hurts my feelings. How do I get him to stop?
Signed, The Robot
Dear The Robot.
You could change your programming and stop being a babbling bird-brained baby who cares about such things. Or, you could just do us all a favor and kill him. It’s all the same to me.
Emotionlessly yours, Android Landers
The preceding was presented as a public service announcment by this station and by the Android Abstinence Association, who advise you that "True Virtual Love Waits."

And speaking of crazy stuff, here's our favorite O'Reilly moment from yesterday's "Talking Points," as reported by Fox (BusinessWeek Online Driven to Bankruptcy Because O'Reilly's Refuses to Buy It At Newsstand) :
The Most Ridiculous Item of the Day
To bolster our motto, “We Report, You Decide,” we've decided to fill you in on some dubious statements from the media from time to time.
Recently in BusinessWeek online, a columnist wrote that I, your humble correspondent, and other Fox News personnel were, "cheesy patriotism peddlers." Isn't that nice?
Well, this cheesy patriotism peddler is not going to be buying BusinessWeek, any longer.
Cheesy patriot? No. So there you go. To buy it would be ridiculous.

Poor Bill.  As his mother no doubt untruthfully tells him in an effort to get him to stop crying, "They just make fun of you because they're jealous. . .now go out and beat up one of your little friends and you'll feel better."
While we concede Business Week's point that Bill is vaguely, but undeniably reminiscent of so-called 'spoiled milk' products, we could disagree with its characterization of him as 'cheesy.'  Bill seems far more 'yogurty,' to us, although we doubt he comes with fruit at the bottom.

And we wonder where this is all going to end.  We predict that as more and more periodicals point out the obvious fact that Bill is a jerk, he'll have to stop reading more and more, until eventually he'll have to have himself hermetically sealed in a sensory deprivation tank in order to avoid exposure to unflattering assessments.   We see him holed up in his Sunset Boulevard mansion, watching only videos of his old TV shows, proclaiming "I'm STILL big!...It's my circle of admirers that got smaller."

And frankly, we like that idea.  But in all fairness to Bill, we also think that BusinessWeek is impugning cheese by comparing it to O'Reilly, and we suggest that the American Dairly Council sue them for copyright infringement and defamation. 

BTW, we think Bill is more like stinky feet.

Anyway, coming up later tonight: the shocking horror of . . .

Sea Dream Salad!! 

You thought the book was scary?  The reality is much more hideous.  Prepare yourself for lime Jell-O from beyond the grave!  With shrimp on it!

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