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October 19, 2003

Robots. Their legs are made of clothespegs.

I may obsess about malfunctioning legs. Call it getting into practice. Last time it was milkfloats. Even checked the interweb for fansites and second-hand prices, just to be sure. You never know when you might need to make a slow, yet stealthy getaway. After all, who'd suspect the milkfloat pilot had just knocked over an offy? Potentially someone who'd noticed that the load bay was stacked high with crates of fine Czech lager, rather than cow-juice, but then there was a firm who used to deliver beer to your door. The used to advertise in the ATV region, but hell if I can recall their name. So the carefully fleeing beerfloat could be one of their delivery-chaps, hopelessly lost in time and TV region, yet still valiantly struggling to deliver two crates of mild ale to a Mr. Tonks of 34 Bratislava Gardens. It was probably the peaked cap and green apron. That sort of a uniform gave a chap a sense of purpose. A duty to his fellow ale enthusiasts. Where the oik with the t-shirt and white van would give up and slope away for a pie and a fag, the be-aproned ale-deliverer would soldier on - stout in heart and resolute of purpose - until Mr. Tonks and his mild ale were joyfully and bibulously united.

(Did you know that people have used the awesome and terrible pr0n-delivery powers of the internet to have machines check this site ceaselessly for new material? It surprised the hell out of me, too...)

Posted by Hirez at October 19, 2003 01:25 AM

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