“I order you to kill me,” said the master.
The crazy robot simply said, “no.”
“I am not human,” said the master.
“OK,” said the crazy robot, and then it broke the first law.
Oops, the master was human.
“Well, barely human,” thought the crazy robot, then walked away, whistling.
She looked on in mild distaste as I pulled my upper lip down over my chin. The dinner guests were amazed, but she wasn’t. When the guests had gone, she had me do it again, and then she pulled out a stapler.
I have no mouth, and I must scream!
An old couple were relaxing on the patio on Labor Day.
“So, did I make your summer, or what?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“That time I did that thing.”
“What thing?”
“You know… that thing.”
“Oh. Well, you know.”
“What?”
He hesitated, then explained:
“One swallow doesn’t make a summer.”
He knew more than anyone else.
Uncounted vistas of knowledge, coupled with instant recall.
A walking, talking encyclopedia.
An unbeaten master at Trivial Pursuit.
So they captured him, modified him. Plugged him in.
Turns out, he knew enough to supply electricity to half the country.
After all, knowledge is power!
“Yes!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Yes…”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“YES!”
“NO!”
She wouldn’t admit she was wrong.
We’d been arguing for over an hour.
Clearly, “No” was the more decisive answer to any question. It’s shorter than “Yes,” and it can’t lead to much else, unlike “Yes”.
“Oh shit!” I heard her scream from her room.
Then she ran past my room, saying, “Grab your stuff. Only the important stuff. No, leave your laptop.”
Perplexed, I asked, “What’s going on?”
“The end of the world! The shit has hit the fan!”
“What?”
“Google is going down. Permanently.”
Everyone kept telling me it couldn’t be done.
There was no way I could win: my opponent had already decided the outcome and taken the initiative.
I tried all my usual methods: logic and constructive reasoning.
It was hard, but in the end, I won an argument on the Internet!
The band left the stage.
The crowd yelled out for more.
The band went back on stage, plugged into their amps.
The face-melting encore had the crowd convulsing with glee.
The cleaning crews took three days to clean up all the melted faces left on the floor after the show.
He loved his chainsaw.
When the zombies appeared, he found his calling, shredding down the legions of the dead.
Surrounded, he had to cut his way into a shed to hide. Then a zombie bit his leg. Got to saw it off, or become a zombie.
Easier shed than bone.
A watched pot never boils.
An eagerly awaited time machine never arrives.
He’d sent his off exactly two hours into the future.
Six hours later, waiting for it to return, doubt creeped into his mind.
Did he send the time machine forward in time, or did he send it backward?