Remember that post I wrote a while back when I said that empty chip bags were robot vaginas? Remember that? And everybody who likes to comment commented until Blackbird bade us all stop? Sorry, Blackbird. Somebody reminded me of robot vaginas today (verbally, not by their presence or anything) and it's time for another installment on the subject.
Warning: The following lacks rigor. So did the preceeding.
The real problem with robot vaginas is that I can't think of the phrase without suddenly hearing Bitching Camaro in my head, and I'm forced to run through a verse or two before I can do anything else. Robotvagina robotvagina/ I ran over my neighbours/ Robotvagina robotvagina/ Now it's in all the papers.
Now I'll never get to hang out with J.G. Ballard. I'll come up to him and start talking and he'll give me a dry look, as if to say, "Your robot vagina motif is unsupported by an intellectual base, therefore it flakes easily". Then he'll say it, exactly as the dry look was as if to say. And I'll say, "Hey, way to force a metaphor, Ballard. For such a prolific writer, your prose doesn't exactly spring unbidden from your brain, does it?"
Then he'll put his cigarette out in my eye. And it'll serve me right.
Update #1: I don't know why, but somebody wants your empty chip bags. Sure, you'll get a free poster out of the deal, but how lightly will you sleep, knowing that you've contributed to the development of a vast robot army (all robot armies are vast, by the way)?
Update #2: A quick google search reveals that the robot army is no threat, since they seem to have succumbed to their version of internet porn:
Special late-breaking Saturday update: It turns out that robots are already making use of their special bits. It's like I was predicting the future. The very very near future.
I now predict that I'm going to go have a sandwich.