'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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I suppose, like me, you have all noticed the vast proliferation of electric products surrounding us these days. Is this getting ridiculous or what? When did all of society become mechanized overnight? Now you can't even go to the bathroom without finding some sort of electric toilet waiting for you.

Before you get worked up in my diatribe, I should let you know that won't be what the column's about this week. It was going to be, I thought I'd give everyone a double-dose of old school Rok Finger, but that was before my wife started swearing like Slappy White. It's her who deprived you of that joyful raving against electricity, good people, so direct those complaints to her. She'll call you the F-word, surely, and then make some gang sign. But it is something I must address, for the world is not spinning on the right axis when Rok Finger, paragon of virtue and stodginess, has a foul-mouthed immigrant wife.

It all began when I kicked up my English-as-a-Second-Language program a notch. I decided it was way past time Felchyana learned to speak like an American, as I was getting so tired of the neighbors asking what was that god-awful screaming in a funny language they kept hearing while I was away at work. If she's going to make a racket, at least make it in English, as the saying I just said goes.

I figured we could share in the learning process together, and she would learn English the same way I learned everything growing up: television. I introduced her to basic cable, with its 60+ channels of day-filling programming. I'm not much on TV anymore myself, except for those delightful rerun channels like TV Land and Nick at Nite. If only life could be like that! A rerun. She took an immediate liking to The Jeffersons, and I was delighted to hear her assemble her first full English phrase: "Look, little man is like you." Her darling laugh is so infectious I let it slide, even though, of course, George Jefferson is far from like me; he's a diminutive black man who yells about everything. I am white.

How this led to the swearing I'm not entirely sure. They do allow a lot more saltiness on basic cable than I remember. Some of those channels even make references to birth control and anal leakage—in commercials! It's pandemonium. I think commercials were her downfall, particularly when I noticed she kept gesturing to this commercial for a CD called "The Best of Gangsta Rap, Vol. 13." With Stony Ass-Whippin', Killer D, MC Grabass, Master Cock, and all your other favorites. Of course, I knew she already had my credit card, but I didn't put two and two together until later.

In fact, all the relentless barrage of swear words didn't clue me in at all, and I thought the fact they rhymed was just delightful coincidence. None of it dawned on me until I noticed she was wearing work-out suits and gold chains, or bling-bling, as she referred to it. I confronted her about it, asked her if she was getting involved with a new culture and she insinuated I prefer the company of men.

I can't take her anywhere until I get this fixed. She came to work with me one day when I hoped Stigmata Spent could straighten her out, and she referred to new reporter Shabozz Wertham with a very negative word. I tried to tell him she meant it like he was her homey, but I think I only succeeded in making yet another lifelong enemy. When I make them myself, that's one thing, but I can't have her going around doing my work for me.

This will work itself out, mark my words. TV got me into this mess, TV will get me out. I'm hoping to wean her off onto other niche cultures. I'm convinced if I can get her to sit down for Seinfeld long enough she will lose this whole swearing problem. Or at least offend me in brand new ways. Anything would be an improvement at this point.

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The streets are more dangerous than ever. This is not only the basic premise for every movie Charles Bronson made in the 70s and 80s, it's an undeniable fact. And since I've been bored the past couple of months, I decided to see what I, Rok Finger, could do about it.

This is not simply about my bicycle being stolen right off my lawn. I don't even need the bicycle, since I have a car. I merely didn't want the neighbors kids to have it since they never took care of it—coming home, casually abandoning it right there on their lawn. They deserved to have it confiscated under neighborly authority. No, I'm going to clean up the streets for the kids, for they are the future of America. Not the neighbor kids. I want to make that clear—I'm only doing this for other kids.

One day, Ginger and I might have kids. She turns ghost white at the mention of it, and sobs uncontrollably, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. And I want these streets to be safe for them… little Rokina and Walter Payton II. If I can make the streets safer through a little violence and intimidation, all the better.

Of course, don't expect the government to work with me on this, especially not at a local level. My first attempt to make the streets safer was thwarted by the police and fire departments, who immediately came over and moved all the heavy furniture away from my neighbors' front and back doors. They wouldn't even leave the boards covering the windows—"fire hazard" this and "illegal confinement" that. Cut crime off at the source, I say. But if that option wasn't available to me, I had other ways to skin a cat. Oh, you can't skin cats by the way. Police are practically domestic terrorists organizations, if you ask me.

The first thing you really need to do if you're going to oppose crime, assuming you can't acquire cool animal-like super powers, is a good intimidating costume. My wife, Ginger, came to my rescue with a fantastic military man outfit just in my size. As you realize, since children are not allowed in the military in this country, I cannot always find camouflaged fatigues in my size. Actually, if children were allowed in the military, I probably wouldn't even have to be out there doing this. But as I said, Ginger made me this snappy Green Beret outfit, only the beret is actually red. She made it for the bedroom, but I say it's good enough to wear outside. And you can see the fear creep into the teenagers' faces when I stomp up and down the block looking like a smaller John Wayne.

Knowing the streets is the first step in protecting them. Actually, the costume thing is the first step. But knowing them is important as well. I patrol these streets three to four times a night, or five times, if the infomercials are too boring. It's worked wonders, since I now know all the neighbors' routines and which have very fast dogs that will chase you away from their houses, even if you're wearing very stylish camouflaged fatigues. It's required paying dues, since my house has been robbed three times this past week while I've been doing my patrols, but nothing is won without sacrifice. Except perhaps Powerball.

Come to think of it, I could reduce the likelihood of being burglarized and speed up my patrol times if I had a snazzy bike to do my patrols on. I could get it done in, like, three minutes flat. I'm that fast. And I have seen a fantastic bike just like my old one laying out on the neighbor's lawn next door. It might just be time for me to confiscate a bike in the name of justice again. Until next time, fight the good fight, people.

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