'Millions Watching Robots Battle to Death' Actually Boring

ulp magazines of the '50s as well as sci-fi literature and movies by the dozens accurately predicted the future of entertainment when they envisioned a day when millions of Americans would watch battles to the death between robot opponents. Few, though, imagined it would be so boring and lame.

Television shows like Comedy Central's Battle Bots and similar specials and series from around the world are proving to be the unlikely source for futuristic robot death battles. Though many differ on some points, all prove to be astoundingly dull in the destruction of technologically-advanced killing machines.

"As a boy, I anticipated with fear and wonder the day robots would be used to entertain the masses," said M.I.T. Professor of Robotics Larry Karmen, "but yeah, I didn't really see it like this. I don't even know where to start."

The robots on Battle Bots are typically remote-controlled, less than two feet tall, and are equipped with standard woodshop equipment like saws, drills, and occasionally a blowtorch of some sort. Robot operators range from dateless thirteen-year-old child prodigies to 50-year-old dateless unemployed construction workers.

"I guess the names are cool," said robot enthusiast and publisher of Future Age magazine Don Hogarth. "You have names like 'The Revolver' and 'Fireblast,' real awesome Transformer-like names. And then the robot comes out and it's like a little George Foreman grill on wheels. And you get real annoyed as it just spins around while another robot named 'Mass Destruction' hits it with a hammer on the end of a miniature crane."

"The problem is obviously related to budget," stated Professor Karmen. "Comedy Central and the British TV program its Battle Bots was based on had the right idea, but a lousy budget. Basic cable is not capable of building the 20-foot-tall fire-breathing self-running destruction machines we originally envisioned for this kind of mayhem. Most kids operating out of their garage are not going to have the kind of funding to build a competitive robot on that level, and neither are their mothers. Unless all these millionaires who are spending money to fly around the world in balloons get their stuff together and start building city-crushing robots, I don't see much improvement on the battling robot front for many years to come."

When told of the dissenting opinion of robot battle sports, Comedy Central Battle Bots star Slaughterhouse became infuriated and began to smash up its dressing room with a hammer on a tiny crane arm.

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In ancient times, the land area that is now Iraq was famous as the birthplace of the donut. A romantic land rich in donut-making resources, Iraq was the envy of pastry-loving empires both far and wide. All was well until neighboring Iran developed the bagel, a less enjoyable but more religiously sanctioned round breakfast food. The ensuing bad blood led to several wars and snide remarks between the nations that have persisted to this day.

Originally, the land of Iraq was called Sumeria, because they didn't know yet that it was Iraq. Actually, originally it was just some primordial goop deep underwater, filled with little one-celled nasties having sex and eating each other, but that timeline is beyond the scope of our column today. In recognizable human terms, the land was originally Sumeria. The Sumers were a decent folk, which is exactly why they were conquered and raped to death by the Akkordians in 2300 BC. A vile and heartless people fond of inventing annoying musical instruments, the Akkordians took thousands of years of Sumerian agricultural and cultural development and cocked them all up, and after a few decades they had nothing left but a handful of stale beans and polka music.

Eventually the Babylonians came and kicked their strange asses out of town. Peace and prosperity returned to the region and the people lived in happiness. Which, understandably, bored them to tears. The prosperous Babylonians grew cocky, especially king Hummerabi, who reveled in putting the neighboring Assyrians in their place. One day Hummerabi went too far when he enraged the king of Assyria by sending him a plaque on his birthday that featured two gold walnuts over the inscription "Nuts to You."

People lived to conquer back in those days, since your arid desert kingdom and nagging wenches never seemed as appealing as the other guy's. So the birthday prank was all the invitation that Assyria needed to attack Babylonia and conquer it. This was all fine and good, since the people had seen it all before and frankly were bored of being conquered, until the Assyrians passed a law saying no cursing on Sundays. Now, the Babylonians were some cursing motherfuckers, and they weren't about to let some bitch-assed Assyrians come in and tell them what the fuck they could say and what they couldn't. So the people rose up and put the smackdown on Assyria, wishing the Assyrians a pleasant fucking voyage as they rode them out of town on a rail.

Eventually a man named Nebuchadnezzar (Babylonian for "naked at noon") rose to lead Babylonia to great heights of power and wealth. Known for stunning the enemy by appearing in battle stark raving naked, Nebuchadnezzar (known from here on out as "Neb" to prevent carpal-tunnel damage) led the Babylonians in conquering all of Assyria and destroying all of the wonderful culture and science the Assyrians had developed over hundreds of years. While the Babylonians were celebrating their victory, Neb also conquered Judea and Jerusalem without telling anyone. Before long, Neb's conquering became a serious problem and his friends had to hold an intervention, which was less than successful since he stormed out in the middle and conquered the Cassites.

Thankfully for the rest of the free world, Neb got ahold of a bad egg while conquering the Mitanni and died of salmonella. The world rejoiced a second time when Neb's son Nebuchadnezzar II turned out to be gay, and instead of conquering everything in sight he built the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, which he kept saying were for his "wife" but nobody bought that worn-out old chestnut.

Babylonia rose to unprecedented power and distinction under Neb II, since all of their resources weren't going toward ridding the planet of the scourge of non-Babylonians. After the death of Neb II, the land was conquered in succession by Cyrus the Great, Alexander the Great and Ted the Good Father. The Persians won the land in a promotional sweepstakes, and though they moved in they never stopped complaining about the sand on their nice rugs. Eventually the Muslims came to town and blew the shit out of everybody, even though there were only about three of them, but they meant business.

Thanks to a progressive "Muslim or die!" philosophy on the part of the region's new landlords, the area remained Muslim until Genghis Khan showed up in 1219. In the mean time, Baghdad had become the center of world power and higher learning, which meant it was about time for some asshole with a club to come and kill everyone. Sure enough, that's what Genghis did, pausing only briefly when he himself died in 1227. To the surprise of few, Genghis' son popped out of his father's corpse like some kind of insane matrioshka doll and continued the continent-wide rampage that was his father's dream for humanity.

Eventually the Mongols died off, or more accurately, ate each other, and Iraq was without leadership. Several different gangs ruled Iraq at one time or another, including the Ding Dong Daddies and the Sand Badgers. Leather jacket motorcycle rumbles in the street were common, or at least their camel-based equivalents.

Eventually the Ottomans took over, ruling the land fairly and with exceptional foot comfort. Of course the Ottomans got greedy when they made a play for the whole couch in WWII and were ordered to go piss off and die. The British then ruled Iraq until the 1960's, when they were so into the Beatles they forgot about the Middle East entirely and Iraq snuck out after curfew and declared its independence.

The rest of the story has been pretty well covered by Tom Clancy and on Entertainment Tonight. It's the usual story: ineffectual leaders and kings are blown up left and right, and Saddam becomes president after shiving some dude in the shower. Iraq attacks Iran in 1980, still pissed about the bagel thing. Iraq attacks Kuwait in 1990 because they won't stop touching Iraq's border, and the US steps in to intervene, figuring it'll be good for a few bear claws and pink donuts with sprinkles. That brings us to the present day, as Iraqis wait out the US hamburger-bombing of their country, waiting out this latest conquering in hopes that they'll come out of the deal with a Hard Rock Café in the end.

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Rok Finger's shopping list is full to bursting this year, like my bladder. This time last year I was a different man, though both of us the same height and with the same hideous facial features, and I bought only a few gifts, for my wife, Arvelyn, my cat, Makeshift, and the handful of bastard children I have spread across America like Jenna Jameson.

This year is a different story, though the similarities to the plays of Neil Simon are strong enough to invoke copyright-infringement issues; this year I've had to fall back on my friends, both at my new apartment home and here at the commune offices, so it's safe to say I have a long Christmas list this year.

I've never been good at Christmas shopping. In fact, a dispute over whether or not I owed my first wife of 30 years, Wyfe, a Christmas gift was what ended that marriage. It's just hard to find the perfect gift sometimes, especially for under $5.50. At first I thought I'd buy all my friends one of those Segway Human Transport thingamajigs—well, you won't believe what the snakeoil salesmen are charging for those things. I'd have to put in a lot of overtime to get even one, and I could probably supply everyone with a lifetime supply of shoes that would work just as well.

As I said, I have a long Christmas list. It includes everyone here at the commune, like Red Bagel, Ramrod Hurley, Lil Duncan, Ivan What's-his-commie-name, Omar Bricks, Raoul Dunkin (though everyone's chipping in on a bag of dead rats for him, so that saves some money), Sampson Hartwig, Boner Cunningham, the tall black drag queen, the short mealy-mouthed loser in the overalls, that castrating-bitch ex-wife of Ivan's, the girl from that old TV show, the pixie in the cupboard, the movie review guy, Ramon Nootles (or as some like to call him, "big bag of S.T.D.s"), those three photographers, including the one who charges Bagel five different paychecks by using different names like "Snapper McGee," Ned Nedmiller and the insane chicken (though I can probably get them one combined gift), the dead baseball player reporter, and the scary bitch who tells children's stories. Oh, not to mention all the Rent and Poet people, the Book people, the guys who do the tiny type, the copywriters, the cleaning staff… what I mean to say is, forget this malarkey, Rok Finger is getting cards for the entire office staff. Uno cards.

Which leaves the few important people in my life to get real gifts for, mainly Camembert and Lee. They'll be hard to buy for—Camembert will likely want all kinds of handicapped-oriented gifts, like books or sweaters. Lee will probably want things musicians like, such as bass strings, tuning forks, and primo grass. I can't afford these sorts of things. And I haven't even bought anything yet for the former pro-wrestler stalking me.

Very possibly I'll just go back to the old plan, buying something for Arvelyn and Makeshift—at least they never complained. Sure, Makeshift would release an antagonistic "meow" and soil my couch, but I don't count that as a complaint unless I hear, "Fuck you, Finger." Which he's only said once, so I'm in good standing. And Arvelyn, well, maybe I'll just drop the counter-suit and give her the alimony she's asking for. It is only $5.50. Ah, Arvelyn—say what you will about her, she knows a man's limitations.

Hmph. Now I feel very sad and depressed… doggone suicidal rage, all attached to the season. Christmas is here at last!

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good gift—Rok Finger autographed press photos. They cost practically nothing since I clip them out of printed columns from work, and they say exactly how much everyone means to me.

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