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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Uproar has swept over me, good people. You want to know why? You want to know WHY? I can't hear you! That's better.

This morning, my good wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, suggested maybe it's time we possibly consider getting a dog if that's okay with me. Why, I was truncheoned! How dare she bring a new family member into our little fold without consulting me!

Sure, we've had discussions like this before: parakeets, goldfish, rats that don't live in the walls. There was one time Arvelyn was pretty adamant about getting a cock, and I never thought I'd wear her down. But eventually logic prevailed and with the price of a chicken coop and feed continually skyrocketing, she realized it was just a fantasy.

And now this dog thing rears its ugly cold-nosed head. From the sheer force of her words—"I think I'd like a dog, Rokwell,"—I don't think she'll be swayed. It may even be pointless trying. But even if we end up getting the dog, I don't like the way she's carried out this campaign of propaganda and brute force.

In the past we've sat down at the family table for these sort of discussions—I in my great big chair, Arvelyn in her slightly smaller chair, Makeshift, our cat, in his tiny chair that's just right. And we've talked about this like adults, at least Arvelyn and I have, Makeshift sometimes just licks his butt in quiet dissention. But these rough and tumble guerrilla tactics don't sit very well on the head of Rokwell T. Finger.

I dread the thought of it now: playing fetch, drinking out of the toilet, dropping feces left and right—all of that will have to stop once I assume the responsibility of dog ownership. Not to mention the miniature birthday parties with the dog wearing a tiny tux and I have to eat whatever kind of cake he chooses, even if it's chocolate swirl or marble—I will not have it, good people. Again—I. Will. Not. Have. It.

I think in the meantime I will put an ad in the paper, to stall Arvelyn's dog search. She will be convinced I'm all for it, but the ad will have such high expectations that no dog could possibly live up to it. A sample would read:

"WANTED: Empowered, professional-minded canine with own dish. Must be able to fetch, cartwheel, drive large-engine truck, shake, converse at length on the works of Victor Hugo, proficient in MS Word, Excel, Lotus, Quark X-Press. Starting salary of belly-scratchin' and Kibbles 'N' Bits 'N' Bits 'N' Bits. Must read ad and respond in person. No Schitzus."

Ha! I'd like to see the dog who could fit that bill.

And if one does give us a call… God help us all.

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"In the glory days of childhood I could sit for hours and stare up at the sky, provided it was dark. I would count the stars, lose count, start over from scratch, lose count again, swear very loudly, give up, and just look at the moon.

An acquaintance of mine, Arch Hofstetter, would laugh rudely when I said one day we'll colonize the moon. He told me we'd never step foot on the moon, which I argued with. I had imagination and optimism, hope for the future. I told Arch surely one day science would be advanced enough to take a man to the moon. Again, he assured me:

'We'll never walk on the moon. I bet you a million ka-billion dollars.'

Later, Arch and I were stationed together in the final days of World War II. Just lying on our backs in some cold German minefield, afraid to move for getting shot, and we'd lay still and lazily talk about the moon and the stars. I talked about rocket propulsion and nuclear weapons, telling Arch someday mankind would get to the small gray orb floating over our heads.

'Trust me, we'll never walk on the moon. I bet you a million ka-billion dollars.'

Well, next time I saw ol' Arch Hofstetter was 1969, roughly September. He was getting out of a taxi and I was getting in, one of those strange coincidences perfect for anectdotal stories.

'I suppose you saw the T.V.? Read the newspapers?' I asked him with smug confidence. 'We put a man on the moon, Arch. I knew we could do it.'

Naturally I didn't expect Arch to get out a check and scribble in 'a million ka-billion dollars' or anything, but I didn't appreciate his reaction at all when he said: 'All I said was that we'd never get to the moon, Sampson, you and me together. I never said nothin' about other guys.'

I hate when people do that!

Arch Hofstetter died about a year later. Doctors say it was a bad heart and unhealthy lifestyle, but I think he realized we still had a good number of years left in which I could've found a way to get to the moon and dragged him, even involuntarily, and there ain't no way he could afford a million ka-billion dollars for a lousy bet."

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