Acneboy
2002-04-29 1:40 p.m.
robot angst	Previous | Next | Archive
Note to self: tell everyone on the intenet that a robotic car called you a girl. When I was 9 I went to Universal Studios Hollywood with the YMCA. They had Kitt, the car from Knight Rider as an attraction. David Hasselhoff may have been payed 3 billion dollars to sit in that car and dish out mass quantities of pretend justice, but now people were paying $20 at the gate for the privilege to sit in that car and have it tell them what a great person they were. Whether it was just a small British man living in the dashboard doing the talking, or an actual robotic sentience biding its time before putting its plans for the enslavement of the human race into motion is not certain. What is certain is that when the 80's told us we needed talking cars and we decided to go for fuel efficiency instead, we deserved to be enslaved by a vengeful army of pontiac firebirds. Anyway, a girl and I got in the car and instead of making out like we should have we told the car our names and it said "Hi, girls." If the girl I got into the car with was already confused about my gender, having a robot call me a girl probably didn't help. I corrected Kitt and I think he apologized but he may have done so sarcastically, i.e.: "Sorry, fag." Since that event my relationship with British robots has been spotty at best. Just last night my C-3PO doll slapped me and called me poof in a voice that sounded more like me doing a British accent and less like Anthony Daniels. Image courtesy of some frech fruit. Image bezel courtesy of same fruit. Dialogue courtesy of me.
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