Pat Robertson Asks Viewers to Pray for 50-Foot Robot

riday night's broadcast of The 700 Club brought a fresh new prayer request from host Pat Robertson, following Wednesday's request viewers pray for "three liberal justices" on the Supreme Court to retire. Friday's prayer request: A 50-foot combat-ready robot.

Robertson's initial calls to prayer began on the CBN website as part of his so-called "Operation Supreme Court Freedom," taking a cue from Christian Coalition hand-puppets in the White House. The rallies against the Supreme Court were sparked by recent decisions to strike down state sodomy laws and the declaration two weeks ago in a majority decision the institution of marriage is "really gay."

The television evangelist felt it necessary to clarify his remarks Thursday after some accused him of singling out justices for derision from his Christian audience, stating he did not have a preference which three of six alleged liberal justices retire, as long as the three conservatives stay on. Robertson also asked God if God could see his way fit to stock the Supreme Court with non-judges like Robertson or his son, or any televangelist who could "really shake things up," it would be "icing on the cake."

Apparently, however, the Supreme Court prayers were only the beginning for the former Republican presidential nominee and noted God jockey. On a broadcast Friday night on ABC Family's The 700 Club, Robertson asked viewers to plead Jesus deliver him more pro-Christian goodies, the more remarkable being a 50-foot remote-controlled robot.

"Lord, we ask you," stated Robertson in the broadcast, eyes closed and hand up in his perfunctory God-begging pose, "the righteous need your action at this time. As the morals of America are tested and evil is all snaked up in the cracks of even our judicial institutions, deliver unto your faithful what is required to carry on the good fight. If you cannot sway the hearts of evil men, Dear Lord, I only ask you to give me the tools to do it. I ask you, Lord, for a large robot, to bring us that robot, Lord, and make him of a stature 50-feet so that all those who would doubt you can see him coming."

Robertson carried out his prayer further, with specifics on the design and armaments of the requested robot. Any three of the suggested artillery were acceptable by Robertson's standards, including a chest-mounted cannon, thigh-seated machine guns, a flame thrower, eye-beam lasers, a fist that can be fired like a weapon like the old Shogun Warrior robots had, and shoulders decorated with heat-seeking missiles. The televangelist specified the robot would be agreeable if it came with a remote control that could be operated from long distances, but the best-case scenario robot would be a robot with an internal cockpit in the head to allow Robertson to commandeer it.

Not limiting himself to the robot request, Robertson also asked his flock to make back-up prayers for a talking burning bush to command Congress to amend the separation of church and state; the holy imprinting of all non-believers with a "Jesus fish" tattoo on their foreheads; and all city of New York and state of California residents voluntarily giving up their right to vote.

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I'm officially announcing my retirement.

No joke, you didn't read wrong. I'm giving up on acting once and for all. I'm done with it. Kaput. Out. If you can't see me, I'm making the signal of "safe at home" like an umpire does, because it also looks like the "I'm done" signal I have in my head. Because I'm done with acting.

This is not anything out of the blue for me, really, although some of you fans may think it is. I've just been beat down too damn long to get up and do it again. You've taught me my lesson, cold hard world, and this time I'm taking it to heart. Me and the stage are done. Same with me and the TV and film camera.

I got fired from Ho's! for one. The comic book convention came up the same week as I was shooting some new footage for the summer replacement episodes, which will be replacing the episodes they decided we couldn't show because they're not at all suitable for public viewing. But anyway, I made a promise to all my faithful nerd fans at the convention that I would be there, and I already spent all the personal appearance money. That was a good sundae, though. Nuts and all the fucking trimmings. Yum. But to sum it up, I cut and run and left them to fill in all the A.D.R. or whatever themselves. So they just cut my character, I guess that saved them money or something, and shot around me. They also told me, in the phone message, that I was the least funny ho on the show, but I think that was just to kick while I'm down. I'm at least funnier than the old ho.

I don't need that kind of humiliation, you know. It finally occurred to me, while I was slipping into my counterfeit Metallichick outfit to go out and sign some old comic books at the convention: I'm bigger than that. I'll let you in on a little secret: Ho's! was a crappy show. Nothing against David Faustino—genius in a bottle, you ask me. But the show itself is garbage, and all of us could do better. Not much better, but still better. So I say it's luck disguised as broke-ass misfortune that I got canned from the show. And I'm giving up acting, once and for all, because I'm tired of taking degrading jobs just for the money and slightly improved Q-rating I get from it.

There's lots I can do. My time at the commune has proved that. I can writer a column, sometimes more than one a month. I can write a screenplay, no matter what my screenwriting teacher says to her mom on the phone when she thinks I'm not listening. And I can model—it doesn't even take any acting talent to do that. All you have to do is stand real still, holding a broadsword. And you don't even have to stand all that still with these modern cameras. The point is, I need acting like I need a hole in the head. And not the breathing holes. I mean bad holes.

This isn't like when I retired at 16, either, or retired again at 17. And I'll be the first to admit that retirement at 19 was completely misconceived—I still had shitloads to say. But retirement at 26 is the right decision. I've done it all, been everywhere and everything, and I've exhausted every original thought I ever had. And that was a short list to begin with.

Don't worry, though. I may be broken-down and defeated as an actress, but that doesn't mean I haven't got loads of people who still need bitching out. The actress may be dead, but the columnist strives on and on. Against injustice, and for a reasonable weekly check.

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Hey commune folk. Stu here.

Thanks to a little bird who gave me the word I'm now officially up to speed on the whole situation. The Cubans, the whole acid rain deal, and the clandestine adventures of your friend and mine, Senior Swashbuckle. Some pretty wild shit if I do say so myself, and in case anyone's taking notes: I do. Now that I've got it all under control I feel comfortable sending you this. Yes! A human pancreas! Gross! No, but seriously, that was a joke, and if I really scared you then I think it's time to admit that you have absolutely no idea what a human pancreas really looks like. I think they have informational pamphlets down at the DMV that can help you with that. In actual actuality, I have sent you this column, at least in some loosey-goosey futuristic sense of the word "sent," you beamed it down or whatever from the intergalactic informational alcove where I had seen to it being stored. You know the score.

This is it, folks, the Stu Umbrage Show. What you see is what you get, and that includes more topless birds than the Tropicana and Charlie Sheen's house combined. So if you don't like it you can blame me, and also kiss my black ass while you're at it. On a side note, I was trying to get Diana Ross to be my column sidekick here, but it didn't work out because she had no idea who I was and also I use phrases like "kiss my black ass" far too often.

Sure, the idea of a sidekick for a humor column is a fairly revolutionary one, but I think it's solid. After all, I don't hear any of you laughing. Which may be some kind of technical issue we haven't resolved yet, but in the meantime I could use somebody to sit over here and laugh like I just pulled the tonsils out of the lead guy from Weezer when I type the punchlines. Carson made it work on the Tonight Show, which revealed the show's roots: him and McMahon sitting in Johnny's basement, smashed on Absolut and babbling incoherently about current events and Ed's supernaturally large goiter. But damnit, it worked. They didn't make an afterschool special about it, but it worked.

This has been a crazy year already, and I'm not even talking about those cannibals they found living in the walls at the White House. Those guys got a bad rap, you know what I'm talking about? It reminded me of the last few Public Enemy albums.

Anybody else out there realize that salsa is a food as well as a dance style? I've never been so embarrassed in my life; I always thought you had to be a bum to get kicked out of a Mexican restaurant. This country's going to hell and nobody's stopping for bathroom breaks, be advised.

I've often wondered what our medical profession would be like if cancer gave you really big breasts instead of just rotting out your organs and whatnot. Dollars to dodos says they'd be force-feeding skinny blonde broads asbestos in day spas all over L.A., and the doctors would all turn their attentions to curing whatever the hell is wrong with Pauly Shore. Mark my words, on the off chance something truly freaky happens and that situation actually comes up.

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