This is a weird one. The original image is from this NYT article that Mo sent to me this morning. Then, while hanging out on the couch with Alex and lookin' at the internet, the browser tab with the aforementioned article appeared, and we got into a fake argument about whether or not the robot was evil. Literally five minutes later I had rested my case (this is what lawyers do). My case follows:
They could read the electrical signals in our brains. They could metabolize flesh and hair and bone into new parts and energy. They did it out of pure cruelty even though it gummed their circuitry with rotting flesh. Many rumors went around. I found myself thinking about all of them when I was caught. But I couldn't bring myself to care about any particular one.
I had a lot of fun making this, and I think it turned out nicely. If you'd like a closer look at the comic our friend is reading, you can click here, but keep in mind that it was designed to be shrunk down and ignored, meaning that I didn't work very hard on it. Maybe we'll see more of HEROBOT later, though.
UGH, look at this asshole. Despite being a highly advanced medic robot it was not given a vocal processing unit, so it can only communicate through a terrible high pitched whine that it tries to form into words. Programmed to "fix problems," it usually only succeeds in making everyone hate it because it sucks so much. For my money, if you need a robot to do a surgery on you, call 2-1B. Lost airs tonight at 9p.m. EST, maybe Jack will die on tonight's episode (fingers crossed). Other LOSTbots here.
If this looks familiar it's because it's based on one of the robots from the Guest Week Announcement that you should have already read. Have you begun working on your Guest Robot yet?
Hello sentient readers (biological and mechanical), I need your help. In a little less than a month from now I will be going on what I expect and hope to be a super fun vacation. For an entire week I will be away from items that make my half of this website possible: my scanner, my desk, and my hours of free time. On a related note, I've always wanted to do a Guest Week here, the way webcomic with zillions of readers always do (I realize that this website is neither a webcomic nor a place with zillions of readers). Now, I could spend a week in March doing sporadic, terrible updates, or I could even work really hard and do a week's worth of robots in advance and simply have them auto-post, but guess what: those ideas suck compared to having a Guest Week. Here's your invitation:
So, the deal is...
I am serious about this. If you think I'm not, just hold your invitation under a black-light and see how serious I am.
Anyone reading these words is welcome to contribute.
I think You should definitely contribute, even if you disagree.
Any robot submitted will likely be used (exceptions that could disqualify a robot: If it is making a joke about my haircut, or if it is too good to the point that it calls into question who is really the most qualified to be running this operation).
You have until Wednesday, March 10th to send submissions.
I am not going to shut up about this for the next 3 weeks unless I receive entries, and I will get increasingly obnoxious about it.
Send your submissions to miles [at] thedailyrobot.com, you can send as many as you want, you can go credited or uncredited, you can write an Encyclopedia Robotica entry for your work if you like (if you'd like to just guest-write one of those let me know and I will run it by Mo before matching you up with a piece of artwork to write about). Seriously, this a fun idea.
I'm not about to pretend that this doesn't look like something that hangs in the den of a terribly tacky person's house, a house that doesn't have a well thought-out color scheme or any walls that aren't smoke damaged. I am sorry.
Clearly I did not make this. I did not even find it on my own, which is a real shame. Fortunately it was brought to my attention by a Friend of the Library. This is an illustration from a late-70's book for children entitled Your Name? Robot. Naturally, it's from the U.S.S.R. More images from the book can be seen here.
I apologize if this seems hurried, but it's late, and this idea just occurred to me as I was walking home half an hour ago. Also please re-visit yesterday's robot - I realized this morning that I uploaded an unfinished draft originally, though maybe you won't notice the difference as much as I do, since you did not spend hours staring at it to begin with. Anyway, behold: Botsferatu.
Remember how I used to do this all the time? No? Here's how it worked: I would - usually as a result of laziness - just take a picture of any old robot I had lying around. Well, it's been awhile since I've showcased robots from my humble collection, and I spent a good 4 hours of today working on a piece that will appear tomorrow (and I'm extremely proud of it, so come back), so here we are. This wheeled friend came from a gift shop in Germany, courtesy of this worldly woman. It makes an incredible racket when wound up and set loose, like an alarm clock from some hellish mechanical future.
It's Tuesday, which means it's time for another Lostbot. This week's installment is HurleyTron2342. Also, I guess by turning his hair into a solid form on his head I may have accidentally crowned him a pharaoh. Oh well, right duuudes??
"This is horse shit." Lieutenant Batista let the profanity roll over him. "While I appreciate your color commentary, Detective, the family does insist." "But a robot psychologist?" and Joanne Dicoult hated the note of pleading in her voice. Mark Kefauver, her normally silent partner, shrugged at her and said, "You gotta admit Jo, we haven't had much luck doing things straight."
Joanne rolled her eyes. It would be just like Mark to be interested in this, he was a fucking tech perv anyways, always reading the latest catalogs and magazine articles about advances in the service droids that a cop could never afford. He was the one who'd called dibs on this dumb-ass homicide-suicide when he found out the only "witness" was the newest Xantium Robotics model. Joanne redoubled her efforts, but kept her tone professional, "But Lieutenant, this case is closed. We've got a record of mental illness, we've got how Robinson bought the unlicensed weapon, we've got the XR's video of the shootings. Can't you just explain to the family that it just happens? Even rich people go nuts." The Lieutenant looked sympathetic, but resolute. "It's just a fifteen minute interview, Detective. The Robinson-Arches have ties to the mayor and the rest of the city council, and more importantly, they need a little human closure on this one. So they think we can squeeze something out of the robot with this quack. The department's not footing the bill, except for your overtime on the paperwork, so stop complaining, do the interview, and close this thing. Please? So I can give good cops like you a real case?" Joanne sighed. Mark stifled a grin.
Later, after introductions had been made -Mark babbling away like a puppy at "Dr." Calvin Susans - they entered the room. Even this pissed Joanne off. It was a household appliance, not a human witness, it should be in the evidence room. But Susans had insisted that it be conducted like a normal interview. Interview! The thing beeped and whistled, they'd gotten what they needed from its internal dvr burnings. But then she thought about the gory crime scene, three children and their parents dead. She thought about the grave faces of the Robinson-Arches, powerless to stop the death of their son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren for all their wealth. And she thought about something she went most days without thinking about; the bloody bed sheets, that first pregnancy. She'd cried and screamed, and hurt. She hadn't left bed for days. But the sun had come out again, she and Jeff had tried again, and now they had Doris and Carl. She shrugged, entering the room. Sometimes, you'd just do anything to move on. This is what the Robinson-Arches needed. She tried to focus on the conversation that was going on. "And did the Robinsons treat you well?" One beep for yes. "Did your duties in anyway deviate from the normal routines of your model?" One beep for yes. "Was this deviation monitoring Mr. Robinson's medications" One beep for yes. "Are there any errors or disturbances in recent memory about the distribution of Mr. Robinson's medication." Two beeps for no. Mark shot an apologetic glance at Joanne, who shrugged, resigned to the boring, pointless interview. "Well we're almost done here. One last question: Did any of the Robinsons' utter the phrase Dreamland Fantasia?" One beep . . . then two. Then a string of whistles and stirring and urgent beepings. Mark turned to Susans. "The hell?" Susans seemed in mild shock. "It was recently released that it's an override code that can create unusual behaviors. Shouldn't affect more than 2% of models. Still, I don't see what it could have done to the Robinsons, it doesn't seem to lead to violent behavior." But Joanne wasn't listening. She was flooded, with the remembered pain in her gut and simultaneously the bitter emptiness. The crime scene kept flashing before her eyes, but their weren't three children, there were two, her children, doll-eyed and bleeded out, pocked with bullets. She was filled with pain, and anger, and grief. Briefly, through the haze, she remembered a book on the shelf in the Robinson living room, a dvd case. Little Nemo in Dreamland. Fantasia. She wondered distantly what the odds were of those two being in the same place. But it didn't matter now. She pulled her firearm and lazily fired into Mark Kefauver and Calvin Susans. The robot was still stringing its beeps and buzzes together but what was meaningless before had taken on poetry, had combined all these images in her head, had gently placed the gun in her hand. "It's singing." Joanne muttered, raising the gun to her own temple. "It's singing."
