Stories are hard to write when you're bored and sick, but here's one anyway!
Mortimer's best friend was a robot named Caesar. They both live in the year 2091, and they thoroughly enjoy television.
Television, by the way, has been completely obsolete for the last 60 years.
Anyway, Caesar has been infected with the Ghettospeak 2000 virus for a few weeks, it makes him lapse into spasms of
screaming lame catchphrases from around the year 2000 every once in awhile, during which time he has no idea what he's
doing. Mortimer was a blonde-headed youth around the age of 19, he had already retired, since he won the lottery 6 times in a row
(by computer error, but nobody really cared or checked these things anyway). People still wear t-shirts in 2091. Does that
suprise you?
The following is a transcript of what happened one summer evening, which is fitting because they were watching old sitcoms
at the time
Mortimer: Heh heh! Drew Carey is a laugh riot! Too bad they drafted him into the cyborg army back in '51.
Caesar: Yeah, drafted is the nice way to put it.
Mortimer: Really is more like an abduction.
Caesar: What was he doing last week? Invading Poland?
Mortimer: Yeah, but he got cut down by incoming fire and sources say he temporarily regained free will until he died from brain
hemmorage, in which time he made some fat jokes and preformed a song and dance number.
Caesar: Anyway, maybe we should go get some more orange juice tomorrow.
Mortimer: Why? You can't drink or taste.
Caesar: Well, I'd like to think I can.
Mortimer: Damnit! Last time you drank something, you were in the robot hospital for 2 months! Don't you remember?
Caesar: Well, no.
Mortimer: Of course not, idiot!
Caesar: Well, you wanna go down to the arcade and play something?
Mortimer: Yeah, that'd be cool.
Caesar: Neato.
(suddenly, a big-ass size thirteen robot kicks down their door.)
Size 13: YOU'RE ALL UNDER ARREST!!
Mortimer: What? Why?
Size 13: Isn't this Burntleg McGee's house?
Caesar: No. Are you gonna pay for that door?
Size 13: No. Bye!
(Size 13 runs out the door, and across the street)
Caesar: Well. That was strange.
Mortimer: Extremely.
Caesar: ...
Mortimer: I'm gonna go make some coffee.
Caesar: I'll sit on my ass and watch TV.
Mortimer: Rock on.
10 minutes later...
Mortimer: Coffee, yeah!
Caesar: WORD UP, DAWG!! WAZZUP!?
Mortimer: God damnit. Not again.
Caesar: YOU BEST NOT BE FRONTIN', OR I'M GONNA BUST YA IN YO GRILL FOO!!
Mortimer: ...
Caesar: YO!!!
Mortimer: ...
Caesar: WHAT'CHU DOIN, FOO?!?
(Mortimer throws his coffee on Caesar)
Caesar: AAIAIAIAIAIIIIGHHHHHGH!!!
(Caesar falls to the floor)
Mortimer: Good thing I had those nano-bot cleaners put in him. He'll be alright in a few minutes.
I sincerely apologize if you actually read that. I'm sooooo sorry.
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