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Written by a safely sound skeleton sitting in his safe space. (Schz)


My Life as Teenage Robot. Sometimes, I like to go to Subway, and make an extremely complex order that involves all of the toppings except two or three, and then various sauces, and then when it comes time to pay I simply leave, and let the sandwich artist deal with the catastrophe that is my would-be sack lunch. What does this have to do with My Life as a Teenage Robot? Why do ducks piss in the woods? Why did the government cause nine elk fucks? All will be explained in due time…

Now I must warn you, the following tale will shock the ascot off of your neck and make you drop your powdered bouffant cap. Friend, there is a show about a robot, a teenage robot, who cannot eat sandwiches. I was looking out my window one day at the mailman, and he leered at me. The orange haired man leered a sinister leer, his mail cap tilted, and there was something sinister about him. He didn’t even seem to be delivering mail… he was just shoving his empty hand in and out of the box, pretending. Faking…lying. And then he got into his mail car, which played “la cucaracha” on a comedic horn, speeding off, with a VHS tape laying on the lawn in front of me.

It was the lost episode of “My Life as a Teenage Robot!” My favorite show. This was lost mail though, addressed to the neighbor. It’s unethical but I decided to steal it. No ifs, ands or Robuts about it, I was going to watch this tape, alone, crying, shivering, while eating funky monkey ice cream in a mightgown (a male nightgown.) 

I dusted off the VHS tape player, one that I hadn’t used in 20 years. And in fact VHS tape players predate this show, yet here I was, with the VHS tape in my hand. The cold plastic beckoned me, “don’t watch me!” a child’s voice mumbled. It was a grown man’s voice, imitating a child. A disheveled voice. It may have even been the voice of a mailman. The mailman, in fact, the mail man who mailed this tape, man. 

I put the tape in and pressed play. 

Someone was in my home. I took a deep breath, and continued watching. The teenage robot was playing by the pool. “Happy to see you, dipthgthfffff-ACK!” She screamed, it, it’s a robot, the robot, it screamed, and got electrocuted, the robot starts to cry, her circuits fry up. Sizzling like hot bacon in a skillet, not like my hopes and dreams. Oh, like Icarus reaching for the pancake batter, a came too close, my wings melted, and I sizzled like yak butter in the hot skillet that was my own mind.

I screamed, yelped, and dropped my subway cold cut combo with extra pickles, horseradish and hambubger all over the linoleum floor. Someone had killed the robot! And the culprit, was water. One part hydrogen, two parts oxygen, all parts death. Water is very fatal to robots, as you may or may not know. The animation still just stayed there, with the dead robot in the pool. She had also killed a person, as the electricity conducted through the water and murdered several people who were having a fourth of july barbecue. Oh they were barbecued, in fact, and I’m not talking about Barbie reciting the alphabet. I’m talking about dead humans. Drawings of Dead Humans. What sick fuck at Nickelodean had planned this?!

I squealed, and my pork pie hat fell into the salad dressing.

 Someone had set up what looked like a roadside apple cart outside my home. A cart to serve roadside apples, my favorite fruit. Wait, it was a table. A table with submarine sandwiches.

What happened next sent a shiver up my spine. The man at the table…it was disgraced tv commercial personality Jared Fogle! The subway spokesman! What in god’s name. He smiled something sinister and waved his hand across the fold-out table, which contained various submarine sandwiches of differing girths and meat content.

“Try the tuna tetrazinni. The hot mustard muck rake with Monterey jack. The hobo chili surprise.” He leered, licking his lips. He was a pedophile. I asked him if he was supposed to be in jail, and what he said next shocked me. “You can’t bogle the fogle.” That didn’t make any sense. That was when I saw the cop car down the road. Jared started running, and I noticed an orange jumpsuit underneath his usual sandwich eating attire, and there was even a ball and chain attached to his leg. “Only $4.99 at your local- ACK!” He started running while crying, tripped and fell into a puddle of his own tears. 

What did this have to do with my life as a teenage robot. Then I saw him. The mailman, the mailman who gave me that disturbing, godforsaken tape. He was hiding behind a tree, and smiling.

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It was George Jetson. I know you don’t believe me, but the futuristic space character from the popular Hannah Barbara cartoon was a real man, and he was a mail carrier. “Special delivery.” He smiled. He had a package he was clearly holding over his genital area. It was wrapped with a bow, and he encouraged me to open it. 

Someone threw a soggy spicy Italian at my face. I heard squealing, as Jared Fogle was being tazed. He fell over crying, hot meatballs falling from his pedophile pockets. What the hell was going on. Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you. And then George Jetson confessed that he was the one who mailed me the VHS tape, to show me how Rosie the maid robot would grow up to be a prostitute. 

 I was getting really I annoyed now. Jared started wheezing and crying about footlong subs as the cops slammed the door on his head. George picked up his raygun and pointed it at me. It wasn’t a real gun, it was just a shitty plastic toy. He had beard stubble and he looked disappointed.  

“All these years you’ve been watching, and watching, and watching these tapes, and you never thought about the fact that YOU might be a teenage robot.” What the hell was he talking about. That was when I saw an animatronic robot on my lawn, but it was just a garbage can he had glued googley eyes onto. “That’s not a robot.” I said angrily, shaking my fist. George revealed fangs, and he held a pitchfork, a cheap, garden variety pitchfork you would purchase as part of a costume set at Party City. But this was no party, nor a city. 

“I’m satan incarnate.” He smiled. “All the ills and the evils of the world are within me!” He smiled a sinister smile, a sinister George Jetson smile. “I have to confess something.” He said. “I never killed my family. It was the robot. The robot maid, Rosie, killed daughter Judy, and Jane, my wife.” This was disturbing, shocking, horrifying. “I came back from the future and started scattering VHS tapes around to cover up the crime retroactively, in the hopes that no one would ever find out the truth.” The cops had shot Jared fogle in the kneecap for resisting dressing. They were trying to give him dressing and he resisted, refused to consume the dressing. 

“What truth?!” I said angrily, stammering, screaming, shaking the My Life as a Robot VHS, mumbling, murmuring like a schizophrenic, concerned, worried, paranoid. A white van drove up behind me and two men in clown suits were leering inappropriately.

And then George put a pinwheel hat on my head, and spun it. He spun, and spun the pinwheel hat, and informed me of the horrible truth. “You’re his- my, his boy, Elroy. Son.” George hugged me, a plastic skeleton falling out of his pants. I’m Elroy? How can I be Elroy? 

The Flintstones vitamin that was in my ear, those were the cyanize pills. Except they weren’t cyanize. They were nutricious vitamins.

That’s can’t be… no…

“Come son…the spaceship is waiting….we’re going home!” He led me toward the mail truck, as I saw a cop in the corner of my eye…the cop… the cop shot at George!” No!!! I jumped toward him, but it was too late. The officer… officer Doohickey of the fifth division of the state of Minnesota, had shot George in the balls. “You shot him in the balls!” It was Jared Fogle, who had broken ribs and was bleeding in the face. 

George Jetson had gone into the past to make the robot believe that I was already dead, so she wouldn’t kill me in the future. My life as a teenage robot was the detailed autobiography of Rosie from The Jetsons retold from the perspective of her as a teenage girl and her inevitable downfall after a freak pool accident involving water that made the robot start to cry as her circuits fried up. And I was sent back here to retroactively see my father die because he died saving me. It all made sense now. George wasn’t the monster in this creepy story… he was the hero. He died saving me, little Elroy, attendant of Little Dipper School, and my father, that orange haired jewel eyed miscreant, George Jetson, he… he made himself out to be the villain so that I may live. He is… a Christ figure. I understand now. I went and got my photo album where I keep pictures of Jesus. But these images were from over 2,000 years ago! Jesus…looked disturbingly like George Jetson.

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