Steer the grappling truck with a vice-like grip. Have some guts. Uzi machine bomb, sticky buns. Drop the chair on the skull. “I am confession, and you are transgression,” we say through the bots. Then the machine answers, “I am complete evil; thou art my twin.” We are the horsepower that pulls the raft. None of our taped lectures is better than this.
The Death Star with dynamic bass-woofers brought its own park bench into the bleachers. “Ah, the bots are here,” it says, “with some form of excrement smeared on their faces.” The Death Star’s bass is louder than God. It is making language with its soundwaves, exclaiming: “I’m like my sin’s Madonna because I am pure: no man has touched me.” Now the grappling truck appears all spinning and swerving through the curtains of reality. It is filmed in 3-D, which makes its appendages feel like they’re vacuuming out at you.
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