Last name "Mattic," no doubt
   

For heaven’s sake, Mom, leave some worry in the tank for the next polio epidemic.

A few weeks later, Uncle Bill was fired by the board of directors for spending the entire capital expenditures budget on a machine that didn’t manufacture anything, could only sort cards by color, and turned out to be operated by undocumented aliens hiding behind the metal shells.

 
   

 

   

I am Collect-O, the Accounting Ro-bot! But he’s nothing compared to a giant question-answering brain on legs, which pukes out the same sort of advice you’d get from a guidance counselor with one year of junior college.

Note Uncle Bill’s far-away expression – he knows that Otto’s answer is a lie, and Otto has already taken over the plant, killed the workers, converted their bodies to horrible abominations that combine machine and flesh in ways that make the mind reel with madness. It follows him home on his metal legs to harangue him about his drinking, too.

If a machine could paint a picture, it would ask itself what the hell was in Bobby’s bed when he woke up, then fix the drawing. Illogical.