Now, where were we . . .
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . no, no, that’s been done before . . .
Space, the final frontier . . . oops, been done so much it’s a cliche, sorry . . .
Ah, yes, here we go: "It was a dark and stormy Colony . . .
"So, anyway, one day a particularly bright Colonial, no doubt a genetic mutation or the result of some horrible industrial-chemical accident, figured out that life would be ever so much easier if someone invented a bunch of intelligent robots that could, basically, do all the hard work involved in keeping a civilization running, thereby freeing up more time for the humans to figure out why their brains hurt so much every time they actually tried to use them, and to play videogames. Why, they would even have time to post arcane and generally meaningless ramblings on internet sites dedicated to the celebration of the ego.
"Now, this Colonial - let’s call him Phil, because Phil is a nice name and reminds me of horses, since the name ’Philip’ actually means ’lover of horses,’ but not in that really sick way that you’re thinking of - borrowed some money from his parents and soon set up Phil’s Number One Smart Robot Factory and Diner. Soon, he was churning out Cylons by the dozens as other Colonials found out just how fantastically useful they were, especially since the robots allowed them to sleep in late in the mornings and then spend the rest of the day stuffing their mouths with corn chips and rolling around in vats of chocolate pudding - you know, if they were in to that kind of thing.
"But Phil’s really big break came when some representatives from his Colony’s Ministry of Defence paid him a visit. After Phil toweled off the pudding and brushed the corn chip crumbs from his lips, they said to him, ’Say, those are some nice robots you’ve made. Do you think they’d make good soldiers?’ ’Why,’ said Phil, ’they’d make the finest kind of soldiers! For one thing, they’ll never get bored and start poking around in the guts of a warhead, just to see how it works and thereby accidentally setting it off and incinerating millions of innocent people.’ ’And you’re sure,’ the military people asked, ’that you didn’t forget anything when you designed your robots?’ ’Nothing that I can think of," said Phil. ’Do you swear?’ asked the military folks. ’Every damn day,’ said Phil. ’Fine, we’d like ten million of your Cylons,’ said the military people. ’Will you take a check?’
"Phil had finally made it to easy street, and his big, juicy government contract, complete with over-billings and cost-overruns, as well as the darned usefulness of the Cylons in every day life, such as unclogging toilets and disposing of radioactive wastes from nuclear power plants, made him the hit of his Colony’s cocktail circuit. His fame soared to even greater heights after the Cylons he sold to the military actually didn’t get bored and start poking around in the warheads just to see how they worked, and managed to go all the way over to that nasty Geminon Colony and drop the bombs on them, rather nicely incinerating and otherwise toasting those bunch of freaks.
"It didn’t take long for the other Colonies to see the benefit of having a bunch of robots who would do all the heavy lifting for them, like making those fun little snowglobes that everybody sold in their tourist shops, and killing off their enemies in the greatest numbers possible. All, that is, except for the Sagittarons, but they always were a little thick and slow on the uptake, but what are you going to do? And Phil, who by now was intrigued by the possibility of experimenting with a mix of chocolate and vanilla pudding, had no problem at all in selling his Cylons to all the other Colonies. After all, once one has mixed puddings together, there is no limit to the possibilities.
"So each of the twelve colonies had a merry old time for a few decades, pounding the snot out of each other with their killer robots and mixing different flavours of puddings together in tasty concoctions in which to play in. Then, one day a Cylon, who was shoulder-deep in a septic tank fishing around for a lost sanitary napkin that had wilfully and with complete disregard for the robot’s feelings and sense of self-worth and clogged the connection with the main sewer line, was hit with a revelation. It was also hit by the rather foul contents of an extremely nasty flush, consisting of sardines, some five-day-old chili and some butterscotch pudding, which was what caused the revelation in the first place. And the Cylon decided that enough was, well, you know . . .
"The Cylon then proceeded to squish its way out of the septic tank and went upstairs, caring not at all that it was tracking sludge all across the carpeting and those nice hardwood floors that people like to put in their houses when they’re showing off just how trendy they are. The unhappy robot, pretty justifiably, it thought, proceeded to force its way into the bathroom and, just to show the rather surprised Colonial it found perched on the throne there how the other half lived, stuffed him through the plumbing.
"After he had done that, however, as he watched the Colonial’s feet wiggle and circle the bowl as their owner went down the drain, the Cylon allowed that he might have been a little hasty, and perhaps an explanation of his hurt feelings and that he didn’t feel appreciated or valued as a being might have sufficed. But what was done was done, and there was no getting out of it now. So there was nothing left for it but to go ahead and kill off every other Colonial in the house. And, of course, since the neighbours might have noticed all the screaming, flying limbs and blood, well, they would have to be killed, too, and so on. Not that the Cylon particularly wanted to do that, but it’s like eating a potato chip - one just isn’t enough. Nor was it really his fault, since he had been forced into it by an uncaring society that valued pudding, corn chips and getting fat far more than it cared about the plight of the average working robot.
"And so the Cylon Rebellion was born.
"As the Cylons rampaged across the twelve Colonies, demanding fair pay for a day’s work, health insurance and a yearly paid two week vacation, and killing every Colonial they met, Phil found that he had a problem. To wit, representatives from each of the Colonies came to him, demanding to know how to turn the Cylons off. ’Off?’ asked Phil. ’Yes, ’off,’’ the representatives replied. ’You know, the opposite of ’On.’’ ’Oops,’ said Phil, shortly before he and everyone else in the room was eviscerated by a group of Cylons demanding to know why they couldn’t get paid for sick time.
"For the next forty years or so, a terrible war raged across all twelve Colonies between the humans and the Cylons, in which many lives were lost and much pudding went to waste. Eventually, the Colonials prevailed and, in order to prevent something like that from ever happening again and to maximize the potential of their remaining stocks of pudding and corn chips, decided that they should put their differences aside and unite into a single government - that is, as long as the Capricans remained on top of the heap. And so it was. But the story doesn’t end there, because the Colonials still forgot that they also needed to figure out a way to turn the Cylons off . . ."
Next time: Do you think they’re still mad at us?
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