Electro Robot and Sparko His Dog

Paranoia

Part 17 of 30

I’m letting Electro stand not just for Electro and his faithful dog but the whole computerized world, which as we know has taken over and has us marching in lockstep to do its terrible bidding. We have developed a horrible dependence on all this stuff, which is so bad that I’ve already given in to temptation three or four times in the last 10 minutes to check my Facebook. Someone may have “liked” my latest post about upgrading to a better Electro; Model 3.2 is out in case you hadn’t heard!

There would be a definite improvement in my life -- as I perceive it -- to tell my dog her services are no longer necessary and replace her with Sparko. I could argue that Electro has a hole in his heart when Sparko’s not around. And with an actual dog, nature has given them a wacky software, meaning they need to poop and pee more often than my own software wants to handle. In that way Sparko would be an real improvement. But just to keep myself in the good graces of pet fans -- if there are any -- I'm not taking immediate action, as I continue (reluctantly) to take my old-school dog out, so far still under 50 times a day. I even bag most of my own groceries just so I'll have enough poop bags and so far the store hasn't imposed a limit on the bags I can use.

But Sparko and Electro so far are just a dream not come true for me. Plus, I’m actually reluctant because, Do I really need something else to consume my time? And none of my neighbors have one either, so there’s no pressure to keep up with them. Really, the world has settled down quite a bit from the excitement of getting computers, hard drives, etc. I was looking at some of my blogging from the mid-to-late ‘90s, and my graphics were about the size of a stamp. They had to be small enough to fit on a floppy disk. We're never quite there... So it probably pays to wait.

Now all my floppy disks are gone, I don’t know what happened to them. Must’ve been when they quit putting the drives on computers we just thought, “What’s the use? Just move on.” The key thing to note here is that whatever you have now, it’s crap compared to what is to come. The old Electros will be sitting in the dump, configuring themselves with satellites above to wreak vengeance on us, and we’ll deserve it.

This is where the sad side of Sparko enters the picture. Small enough and well-programmed enough to do Electro’s bidding, he’s also on important missions for outer space masters to destroy our infrastructure. One mechanical dog against the world! But they’re faithful, if not objectively good, so what Electro wants, Electro gets.

If this doesn’t make your head swell with paranoia, I guess that’s OK. Once they take you out, as in terminating you as their so-called master, that'll be that much more space for me to stretch my legs and relax, to the extent relaxation’s even possible these days.

An Act or Two Short of The Final Act

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #12

All the stuff I had to do in this Supreme Battle -- it was like fighting World War II single-handedly -- was so unbelievably hard, even I, The Golden Child, am not sure how it was physically done. Except to say, You get organized, you make a checklist, and you check it off as you go, step by step, till everything's done.

This isn't the final denouement to this sad (yet ultimately happy) situation with Myra Kula Electra, but it's darned close. The tide turned when the Tractor Promenade performed on the square, such beautiful stuff, a beautiful, intricate act. Tractors square-dancing tugs at your heart, letting you know that mankind truly has it goin' on.

The courthouse was lit and beautiful. I had a front row seat from my place in the alley across the street by the theater, in the upper chamber of the Robby the Red-Nosed Robot suit. Myra was torn between good and evil, with the tugging of her heartstrings drawing her toward "good," due to the charms of the square-dancing tractors. (As an aside, a few years ago I too felt the lure to a life as a professional criminal, but having seen the Tractor Promenade, I renewed my vows as a law-abiding citizen.)

Meanwhile, in the country, at my aunt's old place, Cousin Roto had loaded the old coal mound with enough explosives -- purchased on the black market from a guy who should know better -- to blow every demon there skyward, and propel them several counties away, depending on the breeze. As it was, he arranged the explosives at a slant, to give them more of a town-ward direction once they hit the prevailing winds. Roto followed my cue made by shining Robby's red nose directly toward his position.

As for Myra, she was atop the old hotel, just north of me, in a spiritual tug 'o war. When as the Promenade hit their climax -- the bearded "women" on their tractors facing the "men" on theirs, then flipping their tractors around as if to yield their backsides -- Myra made her choice. I don't know if it was her deeper romantic nature, or a sudden charge of hormones immediately stimulated, but she made a 65-yard leap from the hotel to the dome of the courthouse! (A decent enough jump, but I still gave it only a 7.5, because with that many demons flying in and serving as an undergirding cushion as well as offering lift, my grandma could have equaled or excelled it.

That left Robby to go marching across from the alley toward the courthouse. My aim was one of life or death. If Myra submitted, then life. If she did not, Robby's eyes were outfitted with nukes. Guaranteed to kill everyone in a 30-mile radius, and probably ruin some very nice tractors. To nudge her more certainly toward life, I had another surprise. The four prisoners Myra and I shared in common -- her more than I -- Tipsy White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, and Cannibal -- emerged from Robby's feet, which flip up from the toes like garages. (The remote at first triggered the groin area, where oil drains for oil changes, but with quick thinking, I stopped that and restarted it to trigger the feet.)

As the demons swirled, the fevered commandments of exorcists, multi-tracked earlier in the day (and adding 528 Hz Third Eye Opening music) to be an overwhelming force for good against them, cast them out. The sky opened, many were sucked up. The ground opened, many were sucked down. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth, enough for everyone remaining to take seconds.

My own teeth chattered, because I've got just enough evil in me, exorcists also give me the heebie-jeebies. Were it not for my countervailing good, my hands would've slipped from the joystick and Robby would've taken out the war memorial near the courthouse, a fatal faux pas in this day of superficial cliche patriotism, roused against those football players who refuse to stand, another subject for another day; our society being rife with stupidity, it's hard to cover everything in one swell foop.

NBA Justice - Live In Peace or Face Obliteration

I like NBA justice, very swift and certain. The replays don't lie. A muscle-headed jock says something, he can't unsay it. It's a quick suspension or thousands of dollars in fines, just like that!

I really haven't followed basketball at all till just recently. And even now I'm not diehard to the point that I know very many people, their careers, their records, etc. But now that I've dipped at least my toe into the clear waters of major league competition, over the last year or so, I'm starting to hear the news. Had you heard Michael Jordan retired? Me either!

Now, if a guy like Roy Hibbert, who I hadn't even heard of before a couple weeks ago, says something stupid and immediately gets a $75,000 fine, actually before I even heard of the fact that he made the remark(!), that's registering with me. Or if Chris "The Birdman" Andersen pushes a guy to the floor and proceeds as if nothing happened, then gets a suspension, I'm noticing. I've been listening to some of the commentary on the games, although I've usually got the sound down and my iPod on, and the guys are weighing whether the fines and suspensions are adequate to the various offenses. Only to a certain extent are they questioning whether the NBA should be able to go back and look at replays, then come up with charges beyond what the refs called. Essentially, they're OK with the system.

And I'm OK with it, too. That's the way it was when we were kids. If we had a pact and someone ratted out on us, it wasn't even a formalized process, you'd be immediately suspended from club activities. I'm happy to say, I was a pretty faithful club member. My clubs were The Bee Club and The Spy Club. I'm a little ashamed of the bee club, but I guess it had scientific value. We'd get a few bees in a jar, keep them till they were very worn out, then let them crawl on us. The fact that they never stung us was amazing to people. As for the Spy Club, we investigated things and thought we had an enemy club, although there were never any actual confrontations. We did a lot of sneaking around. In both clubs, as I've mentioned before, I was the baton twirler.

Clubs and teams -- sports leagues -- have it better than the normal justice system. Like the justice system in Kafka's "The Trial" has it better than the normal justice system. They're able to make their own rules, and no matter how inscrutable they are, you either abide by them or pay the price. With sports leagues, maybe they're somewhat scrutable; I'm only speaking in ignorance of their rules; it's hard to believe they're entirely arbitrary. If Roy Hibbert says something that is currently socially-unacceptable, though, it's different than if he would've said it several years ago. So there's a varying standard, no doubt. Whereas flagrantly pushing a guy to the floor would've always been frowned on.

It must be a big responsibility for those in charge. Because how do you decide precisely what the penalty's going to be? $75,000 is probably nothing to someone with tens of millions of dollars. But it's immediate cash flow, rather than something tied up, and maybe he needed it for daily expenses, dinners out. Suspending someone from a game where he might make a difference in the series, that's a pretty big penalty. But it had to be something like that. It'd be sad if basketball went full hockey.

I like the old movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still." We used to see it all the time as kids and it terrified me. Klaatu came to Earth and made it stand still to give us a message from the other planets. It seems they all formed a big league, the major league of planets, the National Planet Association, and put their own created robots in charge of the law. And now we have to adhere to the same law ... or else! Klaatu says, "It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: Join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you." So far we've done OK, having not found life. But I'm sure if we ever do find life out there, we'll ruin it.

Obliteration! Couldn't they just suspend the Earth's rotation around the Sun a few years? That way we'd behave ourselves and never grow old.