It's hard to keep up with technology. Sometimes you hold onto an outdated computer and optimistically think that it's still just as good as a seductive new iPad. Who doesn't love a good delusion (I, for one, say, blow me reality, playing pretend is much more fun)? I write this and I look over to the couch, regarding a robot model that I invested in years ago.
My Old Mandroid sprawls on the couch, far behind on upgrades, rusted and soldered together at the hinges. When he moves, the ancient metal makes the sound of slamming the hood on a beat-up car from the sixties. He's in recharge mode, consuming enough football to keep him operating for another week. Pulling his plug seems much too tempting sometimes. This Old Mandroid comes from the industrial era, where there is the expectation that everything is built to last. Who knew that he would last this long? When I got him I was told that he was a model inspired by Rosie from the Jetsons, but he ended up becoming rogue like the robot from Short Circuit. I mean, Johnny 5 had flavour, don't get me wrong, but I was looking for something that I could keep in line. Old Mandroid doesn't do anything I say. Maybe I should have just gotten a Segway.
Last Sunday, in recharge mode, Old Mandroid was in the same position on the couch. Slurping oil from a can and filling his system with the required sports to power him through until Monday Night Football... I should check the warranty, maybe it's not too late to exchange him. I went into the bedroom to avoid watching him fuel up on testosterone. Not my thing and never will be. Eventually, I hear Old Mandroid burst out with a tone of familiarity:
Gordon!
I assume he's found a tin can with a string, and chats away with another robot from the same assembly line. This is my chance to sneak in and change the channel for at least a few minutes. I can't have Old Mandroid at full power going into a new week. His was been recalled because they short out if they reach their battery capacity. I thought of sending him back when the recall was issued, but it's just so much work on my part. There are all those papers I need to fill out, and I threw out the box he came in. Hello, hassle. When I made it into the living room, Old Mandroid's lit up, by that I mean all of his light sources blink on and off, by an appearance of Gordon Lightfoot at the Grey Cup. Old things and old people that are familiar to him make my man robot happy. Old Mandroid starts doing the robot. Curious indeed. I hope he doesn't blow a circuit.
Following Gordon Lightfoot, a band comes on the screen: Mariana's Trench. Old Mandroid stops dancing and his light display ceases immediately.
Mariana's Trench? Does not compute. Who names a band Mariana's Trench?
After, Carly Rae Jepsen appears on the screen. Old Mandroid repeatedly wheels toward and away from the television as though at some point there will be a moment of recognition.
Girl with one song? Does not compute.
I don't need to tell you who performed next. The boy that sent hundreds of thousands of middle-aged Grey Cup fans into an outrage, Justin Bieber.
Does not compute. Justin Beaver. No results found. Does not compute. Doesnotcompute. Doesnotco...com...cooooom...pppuuuuuuuu...Beeeebeeeeebeeeee...verrrrrrverrrrrr
His mechanical voice gets warbley, changing from normal to unnaturally fast, briefly mutes, then comes back in random words that stretch out. Bolts from Old Mandroid's face fly, the pressure in his head shooting them like bullets. The whole robot contraption starts rattling, and electric blue flashes escape his outputs. Tiny light bulbs that glowed with joy moments ago, buzz when they light up, become increasingly brighter before they shatter in tiny explosions. A rusted hinge attaching his left leg to his tin-man torso gives way, and his newly-free limb clangs to the floor in a heap. His weight, unevenly distributed, causes the Old Mandroid to collapse on the ground. He grabs his leg and beats himself in his teapot-shaped head until black smoke filters out of his ears and his remaining lights go out, lulled into destruction with a hiss sound.
Should've gotten the upgrades. Youth culture destroyed him. And everyone said it would be the She-Hulk. Damn fools.
I do what any good woman would. I use my mallet, pound the remaining pieces as flat as I can and cover it up with a throw rug. I grab my iPad and settle on the couch. It's always good to have a replacement ready.
Time for tea,
K
