Oh. Fucking. Yes.
You look at the calendar on the wall. Digitised breasts flash at you, and then the nipples rearrange to spell out the numbers '2008'. You look closely at the various spots and moles on the breasts, expecting them to tell you the exact date, but they remain motionless on the nippleless breasts.
Meanwhile, the home help has got it's arm caught in the sofa. It trips face first into the leather, emits a bleep followed by what suspiciously sounds like a small 'Yarr', before turning the TV on. You wonder what could have made the help 'Yarr' as it is only programmed to beep. However my attention is rugby tackled by the TV and forced to watch it's equivalent to a haku.
The newsreaders are blabbering excitedly about some TV show that was cancelled years before, way back in 2003. Half a decade has passed since then, and you're sure that the TV executives are bringing it back because the studios many thinktanks are filled with mindless cretins who can't think of an original idea. The show is bound to be shit, I mean it happened before anyone had created robot help, or jetpacks, or suicide booths.
You reminisce for a couple of seconds before an artists impression of the robot flashes up on screen. However it is no ordinary robot, you know him, although he has never set foot in your house. Then you realise, this is what they were talking about, this is the robot making a comeback. You smile to yourself, remembering his shiny metal butt...

That's right folks, in 2008, futurama is making a comeback...!
Wooo!
2 Comments:
Sweet, toss in a whole butt load of pirates, with bikini girls x 2 and I will be in Nirvana. Actually IN Nirvana, as I a a bit of a necropheliac and I know where Cobain is buried.
All every man needs is a bunch of pirates, a bunch of bikini girls, and a dead rock star.
Oh, and a horse.
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