Fancy Robot

Real ID whut whut?!

Oh, hello babies. Yes, it's been quite long, and you have been beside yourselves wondering whatever has happened with the MONKEY's heart-attack, the MONKEY's recovery, and the MONKEY's flax-induced relapse. Yes, your concern was manifest, palpable, overwhelming. The MONKEY was moved by the outpouring of support, the clamoring of well-wishers, perhaps summed up most effectively by gardenface. Thank you, gardenface - the MONKEY's feeble, implanted baboon-heart is warmed by your sentiment.

But ah! And ho! And lo! The MONKEY is beside himself with glee today, for Washington state has given the finger to the Feds, and rejected implementing the federally mandated Real ID. Please give the MONKEY a moment to fling his tinfoil hat into the air, like a chimpanzee Mary Tyler Moore. Should more states continue to follow suit, the MONKEY may just fling so much clothing off that he'll be showing so much skin that you'll completely forget about Editor-In-Chief What's-Her-Face.

Supplements

Ah, remorseful babies, the MONKEY sees that you are feeling bad about inducing the MONKEY's heart attack, as you come bearing many strength building vitamins. While the MONKEY trusts the gentle yet firm care of his veternarians, he does appreciate all manner of pills, especially those imbued with vitaminiel (sic) fortitude, as opposed to those laced with arsenic. Not that you babies are bringing those, although the thought is crossing the MONKEY's mind.

Truly, you are amazed at the ease with which the MONKEY scarfs down these multi-vitamins, flax oil capsules, and omega-3 pills. The MONKEY is no stranger to swallowing pills, whether figuratively (i.e. Miss Editor-In-Chief's abandonment of Fancy Robot Dot Com Manor is no doubt a bitter pill for all of us.) or literally (i.e. Sometimes the MONKEY just really, really needs to have an open and honest conversation with a complete stranger after dancing for 7 hours and waving glowsticks.), and therefore is able to partake in these chalky tablets effortlessly. Granted, the MONKEY should view any ingestibles that you present to him with suspicion, since everything you've presented thus far has pained him (see: cruel valentines, amphetimine laced bananas), but he chooses to believe that you've mended your hostile mannerisms. The MONKEY can feel the healthful nutrients coursing through his veins, filling him with vim and/or vigor. The MONKEY feels peppier already. Peppy!

Oh, hello, what is this? None of that anti-oxident, flax-seed, omega-3 hooey is good for the MONKEY after all? According to this study, it may be detrimental to the MONKEY's health? It may bring the MONKEY's death sooner than later? Goodness, now the MONKEY's heart rate is up due to fear and/or anxiety, so even if the study is bunk, the MONKEY's new baboon heart is not prepared for the increased stress. This is - familiarly - damaging to the MONKEY, and it was caused - again, familiarly - by Fancy Robot readers. Most distressing.

Babies. How could you? Oh, babies.

Convalescence

Is that you, babies? The MONKEY is ever so weak, what with his heart attack last week. He has been slowly convalescing, recovering his strength bit-by-bit. Rest assured, gentle-yet-devious babies, the MONKEY is filled with vim and/or vigor, and will soon be bounding about with pep in his step.

How'd it turn out, you ask? You mean, the heart attack that you provoked, how'd THAT turn out? Well, simply splendid, as heart attacks go. Initially, veternarians were prowling about with all manner of sinister-looking syringes, going on about "euthenasia" and "animal suffering" and how "he'll never survive in the wild", but the MONKEY feebly batted them away, and soon skilled surgeons had scooped out his tired old ticker and plopped a baboon heart in its place.

In fact, concerned babies, it's all been awfully quiet around these parts. The cardio-ward is largely peaceful, save the constant heart-monitor beeps and the occasional overhead PA shrieks for defibrillators, stat. STAT!

The MONKEY has been whiling away his time with new hobbies; he's been reading a bit, but he's mostly taken up whittling. Yes, babies, you heard correctly. The MONKEY has been whittling.

Oh, babies, it is great fun, and fills the MONKEY with a sense of accomplishment. Look here, the MONKEY whittled an oak nameplate for you. You can place it on your desk at your stratospherically salaried corporate job. Perhaps interns will shake in their boots when they view your name in such stern, solid oak. The MONKEY also whittled this pine afghan for you. Yes, babies, it is surprisingly soft, for pine. You thought it would not be so soft, yet it is. The MONKEY is quite a craftsman.

Too bad the same cannot be said for the MONKEY's distant relatives, who've taken up woodworking as well. Yes, it appears chimpanzees, the trailer trash of the primate world, have been fashioning spears. The MONKEY held out hope that the chimps were ready to invest in Olympic javelin hopes, but instead they're simply skewering bush babies and getting primateologists overly excited. Perchance the MONKEY is a bit jealous, but he can't remember Jane Goodall and her crew getting all wet when the MONKEY fashioned the most aerodynamic paper airplane in 4th grade. All he got for his troubles was detention. (And, HELLOOOO, a MONKEY in 4th grade. Sure, he was a C- student, but have you seen a single bonobo make it out of kindgergarten? Thought not.) Perhaps most disappointing, above the missing accolades and/or commemorative plaques for Fancy Robot Dot Com's numero uno contributing author, is that the chimpanzees haven't even been poking at the right Bush.

Yes, it was a pun, and a cheap jab at the president. No, the MONKEY is not up to snuff today. Look, the MONKEY had a heart attack, aren't visiting hours over yet? He needs his rest.

Don't forget this cherrywood toothbrush the MONKEY whittled for you! No, it's not a spear, it's a toothbrush! The MONKEY knows it looks sharp and foreboding, but honestly, no hard feelings from last week! Go on, rub it around your mouth.

Snowjob

*huff puff*

Oh! Hello, babies. You've caught the MONKEY shoveling and winded, but festooned with a can-do, fix-'em-up attitude - yes, it's high time Fancy Robot Dot Com Manor was restored to glory, don't you agree? This snow is unsightly and sticky and damp, and we can't have mold infesting the place come spring, can we? Heavens, no, babies! That is why the MONKEY is getting a headstart on the spring cleaning, and at least getting all of this snow out of the foyer. He can't imagine what the living room carpet is going to look like. The lack of a roof presents a particularly perplexing problem. You don't have a spare roof about, do you? Would you mind searching Craigslist for the MONKEY? He's busy with the shoveling.

*huff puff*

Oh, yes, babies, you are observant and curious; the MONKEY is no longer caged. While you were suffering an idiot and/or commemorating our forefathers with new automobiles and Old Navy short-pants, the MONKEY fashioned an elaborate escape plan. The details would no doubt bore you, fickle and attention deficient babies, as they're involving MacGyver-esque ingenuity, 3 pages of complex mathematical equations, the alignment of particular celestial bodies at the exact moment and a wandering ninja-turned-bard named たけし. (Confidential to Takeshi: ありがと! You rock.)

Since Enduring his own personal Freedom, the MONKEY has been eating this sugared Monkeychow™ and these powder-covered bananas he found on the doorstep to nurse himself back to health. He's recovered remarkably quickly! In fact, he feels energized, has an enhanced sexual view of himself, and wants to party-all-the-time, party-all-the-time. Amazing what powdered bananas can do for famished MONKEYs!

*huff puff* Shovel, shovel, shovel! Lots of snow here to shovel, yes, babies?

Hmmm? Oh, you're concerned about the rueing and the revenge and the "you'll regret this!"-style utterances the MONKEY uttered last week? Oh, babies, that is water under the bridge, to use a metaphor from the vernacular, and the MONKEY urges you not to concern yourself with it.

Phew, the MONKEY is feeling awfully winded, though, what with the shoveling and the more shoveling. He's breaking a sweat, babies. Phew! *huff puff* He hasn't felt this worn out since, well, since you left him to starve to death in that cage. But even in the cage, his left arm didn't feel this numb...

Oh, babies, this is not funny, this is cardiac arrest! The MONKEY has induced a heart attack through overexertion, coupled with cocaine-laced bananas and Monkeychow™! And again, you chuckle, and the MONKEY is easily able to discern that you are again the responsible agent, with the amphetamine laced goodies on the doorstep! What the MONKEY thought was fortunate sustenance and a silly, throw-away detail of this blog entry was in actuality another pitfall, and now the MONKEY is a victim of your puzzling cruelty...again.

The MONKEY should be upset, but instead he's merely petrified and/or alarmed, as he's in the midst of a massive coranary. And, well, how could the MONKEY be mad, when he can fully appreciate the cleverness in which you've managed to break the MONKEY's heart a second time? You clever babies. Clever, clever babies.

Whoops! Losing consciousness. Well played!

Monkey traps!

Ah. Here you are yet again, tauntful babies, skulking about the roofless, deteriorating Fancy Robot Dot Com manor, wherein is contained the MONKEY's unwitting prison. There is no Editor-In-Chief to be found, no Miss Sure-Thing infusing the hearts of today's youth with radical passion, no darling Liliana to stoke the flames of progressive thought.

Yet, like vultures, you circle greedily, looking for any carrion the MONKEY might leave in his withering wake. "Where is the news?" you catcall. "Where are the whacky, liberally biased opinions, MONKEY?" you jeer.

The MONKEY realizes that he is in an adversarial position. You are on a power high, and the MONKEY knows that he will soon enough fall victim to Stockholm syndrome and totally fawn over you. So be it.

In the meantime, you get nothing but monkey-related news, about more trapped monkeys. Go on, read it. The MONKEY will wait. (It's not like the MONKEY can go anywhere or has anything else to do but wait while trapped in this cage.)

Now that you've read it, the MONKEY appeals to your sense of relative justice - has the MONKEY been a nuisance? Has he been tormenting tourists and/or clutching purses? Has he been a "monkey menace"? The MONKEY thinks not, and even if he has, he's a bit offput, nay, miffed that he hasn't been as lucky to be baited with "the choicest fruits" and doesn't appear to be on his way to any sanctuaries. Instead, he appears to be stuck here, batting his eyes at you dawdling, pitiless brutes, up to his monkey neck in snow. Do you unlock the cage? Do you toss the MONKEY a banana? Do you fix the roof? No.

Seriously, just call a contractor or something and get this roof fixed. It's chilly.

...

(Oh, babies, The MONKEY is not talking to you. Now scoot. Skidaddle, you're not wanted here.)

...

(Seriously. No way. After your cruel stunt yesterday, the MONKEY wants nothing to do with you. Get lost. Take a hike.)

...

(The MONKEY is SOOOO not going to talk to you. The MONKEY is sulking. Very angrily and aggresively. If something as passive as sulking could be all up in your business right now, then this would be sulking just all over you and in your ear and tickling you and pulling on your underarm hair most uncomfortably while pretty girls looked on and giggled at your misfortune. The MONKEY is that sulky right now. Seriously.

...

...

...

Day of Broken Hearts

*Ahem*, babies.

The MONKEY has finally (finally) finished pawing through your 476 cruel valentines, and while he vowed around number 245 to never, ever, ever speak to you again, ever, he does have the following question that he can't help but mull:

Where did you find the time to painstakingly handcraft four hundred and seventy six unique, delicate, venomous anti-valentines?

You son/daughter of a bitch. The MONKEY is so furious he could spit. But he's so dehydrated he would perish. What a dilemma.

Seriously, bring the Monkeychow™ already. The MONKEY's so hungry.

Day of Hearts

Happy Day of Hearts, my dearest babies, the MONKEY is saying very sarcastically to you. The MONKEY still demands that you rue (see: yesterday), and can't understand why, if you refuse to repair the roof, shovel the snow, unlock the cage, put the Monkeychow™ within prehensile tail reach, or search out our MIA Editor-In-Chief, our own Miss Sure Thing, our darling Liliana, you would bother to come visit the MONKEY. Day. After. Day.

Oh, you have brought in the mail! Surprising! Finally, you did something mildly thoughtful for the MONKEY! Okay, got the old reading spectacles on, now let the MONKEY sift through here..."The MONKEY may already be a winner"..."0% API"..."Vote for Mitt!" (that must be Liliana's)..."Past Due Notice - Final Warning, No Seriously This Time"...ooh! This is exciting, there are a multitude of valentines at the bottom of the stack!

"Dear MONKEY,
You are mangy. I will not kiss you, or stroke your mangy fur. Your breath smells like rotten bananas.
love, ..."

Well. Hmmm. The MONKEY is perplexed. What an odd anti-valentine. And with no signature. No name. Intruiging. And a bit cruel. But no matter, when you're as highly read yet controversial as the MONKEY, there are bound to be some detractors. The MONKEY will shrug it off, as it is said in the parlance. Moving on...

"Lovely MONKEY,
Just kidding about the "lovely". You're so ugly, my eyes actually hurt.
love, ..."

Okay. Okay. Another mean one. The MONKEY must admit, that one gave him some pause, tripped him up a bit. But the MONKEY breathes, and brushes it off and doesn't take it to seriously. There are so many valentines here, all wrapped up in red and pink envelopes, draped with silver ties and bows, the MONKEY is sure that one will be filled with love soon enough. Perchance this one, with the nice caligraphy!

"PHHHHAAAAKYUUUUUUUU jerk (i.e. the MONKEY)
love, ..."

Okay, wait, that one's not even clever! That's just a phonetic spelling out of a very rude, non-Valentine's Day approved insult! Look at these, they're ALL cruel valentines!

Squishy-tushie MONKEY,

--You fill me with rage
--Whenever you post
--I hope you starve in that cage
--I'll go make me some toast.

Mmmm, toast! Hate you, MONKEY!
love, ..."


"Pookie-MONKEY,
Okay, seriously, this whole 'Talking-in-the-3rd-person, in-a-Miss-Cleo-voice, under-a-picture-that's-not-even-a-monkey-but-actually-an-orangutan bit is really old. And tired. And you're dumb. This hate is for you. Hate Hate Hate Hate Hate.
love, ..."


"Hey turd,

DIE.

love, ..."

Who would do such a thing? There are dozens here, all wrapped with tender care, and they're all filled with bile! Rancor! Venom! What is the meaning of all this...?

...

Why are you snickering?

Oh, babies, it was you! You have crossed the MONKEY again! You have been insidious and treacherous and full of taunting, and now the MONKEY's feelings of perplexion have morphed into incredulous comprehension! You are behind this cruelty and you are chortling with glee! Such delicate care with each valentine, all filled with calculated hate!

Dude, you SO better be rueing, cause....cause...oh, you'll see. You'll see. This was low.

Sexy, sexy tours

Ah, there you are! Greetings, babies. Glad you returned. The MONKEY feared you might toddle off into the wintry wasteland, never to grace the MONKEY again. But you've reconaited, replete with help and warmth and sustenance, n'est-ce pas? Oui?

Oui?

Non. The MONKEY sees, much to his despair, that you've brought nothing. Nobody. No help, and no sustenance. At least, no sustenance for the MONKEY; instead, you enjoy a delicious Cliff Bar and offer none to him. Banana-nut, which is all the more infuriating, since, you know, the MONKEY is a monkey. Harrumph.

Oh, you wish to strike a deal? You wish to make, as the French say, un bargain? Whatever could the MONKEY offer to you? He is barren, abandoned, stuck in this cage. Our Editor-In-Chief, our own Miss Sure Thing, our darling Liliana, she is absent with nary a peep. No peeps!

Hold on, you may be onto something. Let the MONKEY get this correct - you want "News", you want "irreverent commentary", that's why you come to Fancy Robot Dot com. And with our Editor-In-Chief, our own Miss Sure Thing, our darling Liliana en absentia, there is nothing to stop Fancy Robot Dot Com from featuring prurient, salicious, titillating malarkey? So, the MONKEY posts something naughty and/or arousing for the riff-raff, and you'll finally lend him a helping hand?

Ah, it appears you have the MONKEY in a bind. He must sacrifice his journalistic integrity and unanimous standing as Moral Pillar of the Community so that he doesn't waste away in a rusty cage in the freezing, bereft, roofless Fancy Robot Dot Com manor.

So be it. Here is your sex, you voyeurs. In honor of Valentine's Day and all things romantic, wooful and passionate, you can take specialized zoo tours to watch the animals GET IT ON. While there's not a specific mention of the primates engaging in any manner of wooing, the MONKEY still finds the article particularly relevant to Fancy Robot Dot Com, as this quote: "whales have like 10-foot-long whatevers," could easily have been attributed to former animal-cock-obsessed Fancy Robot publisher Dave-man.

There. The MONKEY has provided you with sex. And a good idea for what to do with that whore strumpet you call your "significant other" tomorrow night. (She's been sleeping around.) And a reference to Fancy Robot days of yore. Now keep up your end of the deal.

Where are you going? Where are you GOING?! The MONKEY has a sexy, sexy zoo tour he needs to take! Oh, you will RUE the day you crossed the MONKEY! A MONKEY will teach you a lesson about being imprisoned, you just wait! You better start ruing! RUE, dammit! RUE! Start that rue!

*hack cough hack*

*achoo!* Salutations, babies, the weatherbeaten MONKEY is pleased you have finally - FINALLY - dropped by to see him. Yes, it has been many months, but the frostbitten MONKEY won't hold it against you. How is the shivering, frail MONKEY you ask? Oh, well, can't complain, the chattering MONKEY supposes. It's been peaceful around these parts, you are no doubt aware; primates usually hunker down for the long winter, snuggling up by the fire, taking shelter from the howling winds outside in favor of the company of valued companions.

Of course, being stuck in this monkey-cage has not made it easy to plug up those cracks in the walls which allow the winds to chap and bite at the MONKEY's tender skin. And there's no way he could install double-panes on the windows. And stoke up the potbellied stove from here? Difficult, nay, impossible, yes.

At least the chilled MONKEY has been able to enjoy the unsullied blanket of white that winter gifts to us. It's beautiful, cleansing, tranquil, to see our world safely wrapped in a chilled quilting of pure snow. Especially when the roof is torn off the Fancy Robot Dot Com manor in the middle of winter, and the snow is able to engulf the MONKEY's cage and surroundings. Unceasingly. Up to the MONKEY's neck. Night after night.

Well, enough about me, the MONKEY wants to know how you are. Yes, YOU! Did you get any swanky holiday gifts? Lots of soulwarming cards? Party hearty on New Year's Eve, perhaps stealing a kiss from a flirty minx? Oh, you sly boots, you. That all sounds...eventful. Like, as in, events happened, and you were a part of those events. The MONKEY understands how you probably couldn't find the time to drop him an email what with the gifts and the cards and the hearty partying. The faux-Siberian MONKEY was probably wrong to even hope for a drunk dial or even a text message, let alone a handcrafted letter that might offer even the slightest distraction from his solitary, frozen existence.

*ah-ah-ah-choo!*

Oh? You're leaving? You don't even have time to unlock the cage or kick that nutritious Monkeychow™ within the MONKEY's prehensile tail's reach? The forlorn, famished MONKEY understands. You must skidaddle, no time to leave that hacksaw by the cage. (Why did you bring a hacksaw, by the way, the MONKEY wonders?)

Fare thee well for now, intrepid traveler. The frosty MONKEY wishes you good fortune, and if you happen to see our darling Editor In Chief, our Miss Sure Thing, our own Liliana about, please let her know that all is well here. Yessiree, Fancy Robot Dot Com is in fine hands, complete with opposable thumbs, and the MONKEY wouldn't want her worrying about the State of Things, roofless and snowy or otherwise, and definitely not about any imprisoned, abandoned monkeys (or MONKEYs) who may have been depending on her for basic sustenance, tire swing repair, and/or fending off attacks from cougars. (Yes, cougars. Big ones.) Or correcting run on sentences. Take care, gentle babies! *achoo!*