Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

Oh scientists, will you never learn? What good could ever come of a monkey/bull/cyborg hybrid? Would possible use could a robot that craps bullpoo and then flings it wildly about ever be to anyone? What bizarre set of circumstances could ever occur that would make the ability to fling your own faeces for miles in a variety of directions ever be useful?

What’s that ? a bullsh*t detecting scud missle? But look? why does it look confused? hah! it’s following that far flung faeces into a death spiral and has now exploded harmlessly miles away from me. Scientists? I take it all back.

You are absolutely correct, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and sometimes a cigar is a bullshit seeking robot housed within a scud missile. Analyze this, a**hole

*Not to be used anytime a wife is getting dressed for a party. “Do I look fat in this?” KABOOM!

Deep within the deepest hole on Uranus, the collected works of the greatest thinkers of Earth’s history are digitally manipulated in order to create knowledge systems - intelligent software - that can be installed and run on the latest, state of the art hardware. The Analyser bot is one such robot. Running Freud 3.11 - the Analyser will get to the root of your deepest desires and free you from the cage of your own making.

The Analyser has no fear of acid spitting boobs, in fact it has no fear of any weird Freudian slip Jim may make.

In 1941, American scientists at a top secret military base, under direct orders from president Roosevelt, constructed an acid spurting robot and hid it within an exact, rubber, replica of the busty, fun sacks of one Frieda von Tittensore, a popular German entertainer at the time. The Frisky Fräulein was infamous for her hands-on approach to performing as she would often leave the stage, wander through the audience, sit on the laps of german officers and pull their astounded faces into her perfumed, sin-cushions.

The plan, simply, was to substitute the leaky udders of the gothic wench for the deadly mounds from Uncle Sam, wait for the call from Berlin to sing for the Führer on his annual Birthday command performance and give the dictator a mush full of acid during the high notes. Take that Adolph!

However, the plan came to nothing as the robot mysteriously vanished during transportation from an airfield in England.

Leap forward, mighty Titmush, as the obvious enemy of all babies you will prevail. Let the infuriating infant lock its lips onto your soggy boulders. Stand strong as he dissolves into nothing from a snoot full of sulfurous slosh.

Why all the Roboto-hatred Jimbo? BabyBot’s just want to be loved. And to suck lollipops. To suck them until they’re nothing but a gooey, sticky mess. 

Your move, sucker.