Ollie's Giant Robot Army

This miserable “era of peace” has nearly bankrupted my giant robot army before I’ve even had the chance to get any of them out the door. I’m sittin’ on 45 giant robots in a National City warehouse that are about as useless as a braille stop sign.

Oh, sure, everybody’s kissin’ Obama’s feet for stopping World War III. To be honest, I’m sick of hearing about it. I’ve seen that “reason can light the darkest corners in the hearts of men...collaboration instead of compromise blah blah blah...” speech about a billion times on the news. At first I thought that there might be hope to keep this thing going, that maybe the “Butcher of the Bloc” was only yankin’ Obama’s chain and I’d be riding a giant robot into Belgrade on New Year’s Eve instead of popping a cheap beer in front of my open refrigerator, scratchin’ my butt, and talking to myself about Captain Kangaroo and my empty checking account. Left me with 45 giant robot paperweights.

How’s that old joke go? What’s the easiest way to become a millionaire? Start out a billionaire and build a giant robot army. Oh, ha ha. That’s billionaire-giant-robot-army-commander humor. Let me tell you how many times I hear that joke in a day: everybody from the security guard outside my warehouse to the chubby little fart who makes my sandwiches pops that gem out whenever I walk up. Keep ’em comin’, Johnny Carson, or you’ll be makin’ sandwiches in the basement of a clown-shoe factory in Tijuana.

Now I got this silly dork in Monkey Farm, Minnesota (or wherever the hell), tellin’ me to fly ’em up for the Super Bowl. Oh, he’s going to put little hats on ’em and march ’em around strapped with billboards for igloo doors or whatever the hell they need up there. Okay, let me just figure out the fuel cost of flying these 45 giant robots to the frozen tundra and back. Well, each one uses 13 Vibranium bars to fly 1000 miles, so 45 robots from here to Minnesota and back = your mom.

This is a giant robot army of death and destruction like the world has never known! And you want to put them in little mittens to sell Muppet lunchboxes.

Ah, to hell with it. Might as well chop ’em up and turn ’em into televisions. Maybe I’ll get a bailout from the new “peaceful” government. SOBs.


Thursday, January 29
Gangs of New York (2002)
USA 10:00 a.m.

Leonardo DiCaprio’s hair always looks like he lost a bet or his mom cuts it in her kitchen and then makes him soup in the same bowl. Ew, that’s just unsanitary.

Daddy’s Girls
MTV 8:30 p.m.

You’ll never meet this person, and if you do, they’ll never admit it, but in some far corner of the earth, most likely in a shed of some kind, someone is interested in watching Russell Simmons’s daughters start a clothing company. There has to be, I’m sure of it. Just as I’m sure there exists, but there will never be proof of, a Mexican ninja. Oh, they’re out there, señor. They’re out there.

Friday, January 30
USA 9:00 p.m.

Monk on USA at 9 p.m. on a Friday night with a pint of ice cream and a pair of pleated pocketless jeans is about as big a slice of sad cake as anyone can dish themselves. Okay, fine. That was all in reference to me. But my doctor says I’ll go out and meet new friends when I feel like it. These things can’t be rushed.

Saturday, January 31
Animal Exploration with Jarod Miller: Body Language
KUSI 12:30 p.m.

Ugh. Gah. Ick. Who thought turning a camera on this spectacle was a good idea?

Sunday, February 1
Super Bowl’s Greatest Commercials 2009
CBS 9:00 p.m.

Anyone who watches this is a certifiable moron. This show should come with a home sterilization kit “brought to you by Pepsi! Everyone who’s cool drinks Pepsi and chemically prevents themselves from procreating!” We’d be one generation closer to a total end of NASCAR and pro wrestling. Bang-o! Two birds, baby!

Monday, February 2
My Husband’s Three Wives
TLC 8:00 p.m.

This always sounds like a good idea. In my mind there are three bikini models who can cook the hell out of a turkey and who also list “short chubby men, pungent odors, and mopping” as their major turn-ons. But the reality always looks like the moo-moo competition in the Miss Mustache America pageant.

Tuesday, February 3
FOX 9:00 p.m.

Here’s a letter to Fox: Dear Fox, I will do anything Kiefer does and for about one-third of the overall price. And nude. Except for a tiara. And the overpowering stench of Scotch and tears. You pay for the gun oil and pom-poms. You’re welcome.

Wednesday, February 4
Primetime: What Would You Do?
ABC 10:00 p.m.

Punch the producer in the face.

Thursday, February 5
Katie Couric’s All-Access Grammy Special
CBS 9:00 p.m.

All access? Can I smell her feet? Well, then, this show is a total sham. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. And by “lawyers” I mean the three-week-old burrito in my fridge. His name is “Lord Motorboat Burritoton III,” and he’s never lost a case. NEVER!

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