My dad spit a wad of dark brown leathery tobacco nowhere near the receptacle, as he yelled at the television, “That damn fagget assed andro-Gordon shouldn’t be allowed on a Microsoft cup track.”
I retorted, “Dad he is in last placed, and I think he is a non sexual automaton, so he can’t be a fag-g homosexual.”
He flew into my personal space faster than a Nascar at the Tokyo speedway and said through clenched teeth, “Boy don’t you sass me I ain’t send you to MIT to be no robo-lover.”
He turned to the other twenty or so farmers and business people watching Samuel Jackson the fifth’s latest Nascar victory, televised live from the Madagascar racecourse.
“I didn’t invite you all here to show you how a great American can outrun robots, I brought you here to show you how we will destroy them.”
He Yanked an old sheet off a huge titanium structure in the the old barn.
The room was filled with OOo’s and awwe’s as they saw my greatest creation.
“This is the atomic bomb we will drop on Gore Industries”
Oh Juliet