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Lost in a Pixel Blizzard: making robot love to ‘Black Betty’
By Tyler Gaskill
They don’t have a problem letting them see people killed, maimed, tortured or eat horse rectum for money. So why take issue with a sweaty body slapping against a chrome frame making fleshy clap sounds?”
This is Episode IV from Assistant A&E Editor Tyler Gaskill’s ongoing allegorical sage depicting network television in America.
I’m slowly beginning to realize I’m the only sane person left in the world. After NBC’s network research analyst, Brittany, shot down every casting request I made, I knew they feared my genius.
My speculation was reaffirmed as fact with two incidents.
The first occurred last week when Brittany attempted to brainwash me with her book of network witchcraft. Incident No. 2 transpired last night. Security tranquilized me during a meeting with Brittany and Tom, the executive of network operations.
They acted like they had never seen someone suffer a fit of rage that concluded with the patented “axe thrown through a window” and foaming at the mouth while shrieking over and over, “Robots can love, too!”
My reaction was caused by my slight disappointment in their inability to see my sitcom, “Can Our Robot Watch the Game?” in an artistic light. I revealed to Tom and Brittany that the show’s lovable robot character, Fifteen, will also be the primary love interest of every female character on the show.
I could see cracks of confusion on their faces. I tried to salvage the situation by explaining episode three’s eight crude sex scenes between Fifteen and neighborhood streetwalker, Candy, would be choreographed to the song “Black Betty,” by Ram Jam.
After Tom secured his toupee back atop his shiny dome, he began screaming about ethics, lost advertisements, family expectations and “my god, what about the children!?”
I defended myself, saying, “Can you explain this country’s fear of their children witnessing two naked bodies gyrating on one another like two rare-cooked steaks trapped in a hypnotic moment of lovemaking?”
I continued after Brittany dry-heaved for a moment: “What do parents think will happen to their children? They don’t have a problem letting them see people killed, maimed, tortured or eat horse rectum for money. So why take issue with a sweaty body slapping against a chrome frame making fleshy clap sounds?”
I recall Tom leaping out of his armchair, pointing his finger to the heavens and crying out: “It’s unnatural! Man and machine are not to mingle. I’m sure it’s somewhere in the Bible. It has to be!”
Brittany backed Tom, saying: “Multiple focus group surveys state most adults from ages 25 to 41 find human-on-machine sex to be unnatural.”
I cracked: “I’ll tell you what’s unnatural — listening to your girlfriend moan the brand name of her vibrator at night while you sleep on the couch! So is watching ‘Laguna Beach’ and seeing a guy like Jason — a kid with the brain power of a dust mite — woo all the women into his pants with his idiocy. They must be attracted to his uncanny ability to drift through life without picking up an iota of intelligence. ‘Laguna Beach’ is a reality show. He’s supposed to be a real life sex god. You tell me the difference between a guy whose only contribution to the human race is throwing a baseball fast and a robot who can cook cupcakes well. There isn’t; hence, they can both be ladies men.”
With a narcissistic malaise, I said: “My creation shall not be denied. I bent when I let you cast Dennis Franz as Roy. I will not break, and let you taint my show further.”
“Your show?” Tom asked. “This show belongs to NBC. We will do what we see is fit for the profit of this company!”
I signaled my servant, Taco Wallace, from the corner. The chains jingled on his Michael Jackson Thriller getup. Strolling out of the room, Taco knew all too well what I required.
Tom’s tirade ended with a long glare. Like in the old West, our lives hung in the balance of this staring contest. My face started twitching, chin quivering and right eye involuntarily bugging out.
A bead of sweat dripped off Tom’s oversized nose. Brittany tried to stop Tom’s foolishness.
She grabbed his arm: “Tom, stop. Don’t peer into the heart of the beast. I’ve heard stories about Tyler — teens left soulless in dark allies behind Burger Kings. He eats souls, Tom.”
My steady diet of Spaghetti O’s paid off. Tom went slack jawed and collapsed into his chair — victory. He now knew not to mess with the Maestro.
I remember the tears in Brittany’s eyes when Taco returned with my axe. “As you can see, Tom,” I said patting my axe with one hand, “I am the one in control.” I looked over to Taco, “Hit me.” Taco rushed over and spurted me twice with the soothing odor of Brute.
As I approached Tom — and the throne of NBC — Brittany commenced a staring competition of her own. I felt something — pure evil. After four seconds I blacked out.
When I came to, my axe had been thrown through a window, foam encrusted my mouth, and I heard someone screaming in the distance, “Robots can love too!” Then I realized that someone was me.
The corporate machine defeated the artist that day — but that was just round one. Sooner or later the human spirit will conquer its self-made oppression. I plan on bringing cookie dough ice cream to the meeting tomorrow to bury the hatchet.
Will Tyler’s girlfriend end her affair with her vibrator? Can Tyler even compete with the sexual stylings of plastic and electricity? Find out in next week’s episode of ‘Lost in a Pixel Blizzard.’
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