therobotmonster
The Robot Monster
The writings and art of a Robot Monster just livin' his best life.
Also a toy designer, writer, and artist.
My Major Projects Include:
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Michael sent me a batch more toons, so have another Foghorn Leghorn crossing over into anime meme: @artildawn made the image, and @jonjmurakami captioned it 😃
#foghornleghorn #cartoon #looneytunes #anime #mashup #meme #deliciousindungeon #dungeonmeishi #chickenfordinner
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I love these.
this may be the greatest thing in history, or at least this month
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FUCK THE AVENGERS!
FUCK THE FANTASTIC FOUR!
THEY AIN'T SHIT, THEY'VE NEVER BEEN SHIT AND THEY'LL NEVER BE SHIT!
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Pop-Pop-Bagok! the Albumen Sisters, 1943
With accompaniment by the Kleinheart Soap Hour Band, lyrics by S. T. Troop.
(Pictured: Marlona, Abby and Ruth Albumen)
One of the most successful jingles of all time, cementing its product's place in 1/3rd of every home in America.
Lyrics:
Malona: Looks like the people need to know what we've got cooking, Ruth.
Abby: Let's give 'em the pepper, Marlona!
Ruth: Correct and very natural of you to say, Abraxandria! Let's do it!
Ohhhhhhh-
and they say nothing's new under the sun
BUT! pop-pop-BA-GOK! that's the Chicken Gun
Abby: Chicken Gun, new from Kleinheart Industries. Ask for it by name.
The end of all things might as well be fun,
Yeah! pop-pop-BA-GOK! goes the Chicken Gun
OH! the bargain you stuck won't be undone
Thus! pop-pop-BA-GOK! spake the Chicken Gun
Malrona: Product not available in the states of Oklahoma, Utah, Bafflment, and East Virginia. This jingle constitutes a binding contract.
As to explanation there won't be one,
Still! Pop-pop-BAGOK! Goes the Chicken Gun!
Ruth: Kleinheart Industries, we've solved the hephastus enigma.
Chicken Gun was made with Suno.ai and edited afterward.
Multiple prompts, largely consisting of lyrics and song structure instructions.
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What do you say to the one who killed Ceasar?
Corruption? Infighting? Communications breakdowns?
That aint' how it happened and that ain't how it is.
Pass me a sarsaparilla and I'll tell you how it happened and how it is.
After stamping westward like the vicious cattle they carried as their symbol, Caesar's Legion found New Vegas their downfall. Their martial prowess and seemingly endless numbers found in that place their nemesis, in the classical sense.
They found the Courier.
They didn't know what they found at first. The initial wound was shocking but not unthinkable. Vulpes Inculta went out to make an example of a local settlement called Nipton and never came back. The scouts that went looking for him found a their staging camp slaughtered. Landmines had been put in their sleeping bags. Their watchman was found in pieces.
Every scrap of clothing and equipment was gone. So it was chalked up to raiders. Patrols increased and the Legion moved on.
The loss of Vulpes Inculta's forces was a tiny cut, but a tiny cut can kill if infection sets in. The slaves at Cottonwood cove escaped, though no one could explain how. The Great Khans turned on Ceasar's Legion, somehow seeing through the Legion's plan for them. The prison break that kept the NCR off-balance just... stopped.
Weeks later, the forces at Cottonwood Cove sickened. By the time they found out their camp was contaminated with nuclear waste they were already dead. Their abhorrence of technology meant they had neither the Geiger counters nor the radaway to save themselves.
Prepared caravaners found Aurelius of Phoenix's wasted corpse, bald, covered in radiation burns, withered to a radioactive husk. He was staring up at one of the locals he'd ordered crucified. On his desk was a note saying "I did this. Signed, the Courier. XXXOOO" right next to a pile of human waste with Aurelius's helmet on it.
Enraged, Edward Sallow, the man calling himself Caesar, sent his assassins after the Courier. A squad of four, his second finest men. Then his finest four men. Then his third finest, and his forth. He'd sent his fifth squad before the one of them, the second batch, was found. They were stripped naked, their sun-baked corpses posed humiliatingly in acts of mock-coitus.
The scouts reported dutifully that the squad leader was found sitting atop his own head. The scouts didn't think their commanders needed to know how far down he was sitting.
Sallow watched the reports come in as this phantom cut through his men not with ruthless efficiency, but what appeared to be intentional ruthless inefficiency. The Courier wandered lazily from Legion outpost to Legion outpost without regard to strategy. The NCR would fight with a plan that could be anticipated. They wanted territory, they wanted resources.
As far as Sallow could tell, the Courier just wanted him to suffer.
Nelson's occupation ended in a hail of molotov cocktails and sniper fire. The plot to destroy the monorail ended on the knuckles of a Brotherhood scribe's power fist. As to Dry Wells, and the massive Legion Reinforcements there?
The mushroom cloud rendered a scouts' report moot.
No one really believed that Sallow was stupid enough to invite the courier to his camp. According to the legend, however, that's what he did, thinking he could sway the Courier to his own side with promises of power and wealth.
The legend goes on that the Courier and a vengeful NCR ranger walked in through the gates as welcome guests, only to murder the forces there to the last man. Sallow died, they say, begging. The Courier butchered him with his honor guard's machete, just like the livestock he chose as his symbol.
Sallow, it seems, had been right about what the Courier wanted.
That's pure myth-making, of course. The idea that an itinerant hero hopped up on chems and a vengeful NCR sniper could kill their way through an entire, alerted camp on their own is absurd, power armor or not. It was an obvious coup by Legate Lannius that he blamed on the Courier. It did him little good, as he ruled the Legion for mere weeks before the second battle of Hoover Dam.
Barely literate raiders in football pads and machetes do not fare well against against Vertibirds and Securitrons, it turns out.
They say that it ended there. With the heads chopped off the proverbial brahmin, the Legion crumbled from a collapse of leadership and operational control, with rival raiders, the NCR, and slave uprisings killing their 'empire' via a thousand cuts. That's the official story.
That's a bigger pile of crap than the one on the Aurelius's desk. The cut that killed the Legion was Nipton and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The few survivors of the Legion's Hoover Dam forces thought the Courier would stay in their neon kingdom.
They did not.
They marched East, the Courier and their warriors: Arcade Ganon the Doctor of the Apocalypse, Lily the Nightkin who they call Shadow of Death, the Ghoul Gunslinger Raul who never misses, the Sniper Boone who never forgives, Veronica the fallen scribe, and Rose Cassidy? She's just plain ornery. They marched with a squad of twenty Securitrons at their back and an army of silent, deadly ghosts.
They marched through Arizona, severing Pheonix from settlement after settlement, starving the great bull before descending upon it. When Pheonix fell, they didn't stop. I know because that's how I'm free today. I know how Ceasar's Legion died. I saw one of its deaths with my own eyes in my own village.
When each Legion settlement falls, as the red-bull banners burn atop the naked corpses of those legionaries who make the same mistake Vulpes Inculta made so long ago and far away, the captured slavers that call themselves an empire are gathered in a line leading to the Courier's tent.
Each one is brought, in turn, to the Courier. They stand, a growling half-robot dog at their left hand, a laser-wielding eyebot at their right, as the ex-legionary is commanded to kneel. They obey, as the command comes from behind them. There stands Boone, a gun once belonging to Joshua Graham in his right hand.
There's a moment of silence. Just as the first beads of sweat begin to roll down the prisoner's face, the courier pulls up not a machete, nor a gun, but a simple wooden sign.
"Say it." The courier says-
-and listens for the wrong answer.
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today is international dinosaur day. hello, i am a dinosaur. here are some dinosaurs i’ve painted.
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Johannes Factotum, Professor of (Practically) Everything, issue 18: “Can’t Keep Johnny Down”
-Battered, exhausted and separated from the Grads, Professor Factotum finds himself in Dicke, a great place to live… provided you never leave. Never one for a gilded cage, the Prof is determined to crack the town’s secrets and win his freedom, even if he has to punch his way out. Class is in session, Introduction to Street Fighting and Pain Management, and the Professor doesn’t grade on a curve.
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Johannes Factotum: Professor of (Practically) Everything, Issue 36 “No One Lives Forever”
All roads lead here. The Professor has finally run out of tricks and gambits. The Grads have moved on. Even his enemies have abandoned him. What can the Prof do when there is nothing to be done? And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward New Necropolis to be born?
Guest starring Tilly Tepestein, Grandniece of Dracula.
Support Art Like and Unlike this, Through my Patreon:
www.patreon.com/trenttroop
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Random Headcanon: That Federation vessels in Star Trek seem to experience bizarre malfunctions with such overwhelming frequency isn’t just an artefact of the television serial format. Rather, it’s because the Federation as a culture are a bunch of deranged hyper-neophiles, tooling around in ships packed full of beyond-cutting-edge tech they don’t really understand. Endlessly frustrating if you have to fight them, because they can pull an effectively unlimited number of bullshit space-magic countermeasures out of their arses - but they’re as likely as not to give themselves a lethal five-dimensional wedgie in the process. All those rampant holograms and warp core malfunctions and accidentally-traveling-back-in-time incidents? That doesn’t actually happen to anyone else; it’s literally just Federation vessels that go off the rails like that. And they do so on a fairly regular basis.
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Here’s one more Foghorn Leghorn crossing over into anime memes: @artildawn made the image, and @jonjmurakami added the caption 😀
#foghornleghorn #anime #mashup #meme #fullmetalalchemist #fma #edwardelric #edelric #aleleric #cartoon #looneytunes
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I need everyone to know that the ship Götheborg, the world's largest ocean-going wooden sailing ship, answered a distress call the other day.
Imagine waiting for the coast guard or whatever to show up and instead a replica of 18th century merchant ship pulls up and tows you to the coast.
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It's been a rough month in the head. Freelance hasn't flowed as well as I would like, and money is extra tight with the IRS barking after me.
Any help you can provide is appreciated.
It has been a week.
I was in the path of the 100 MPH windstorm that blew the midwest down last week. Just got power back yesterday, just got internet back today.
I have lost a week''s worth of work, all the food in the house, and power outages do not trim down that newly extra-expensive rent. I'm putting Rachel and Harls up right now, so if you can help, that's a big thank you from all three of us.
My Ongoing Gofundme
My paypal.me
My DrivehtruRPG shore. (d20 and royalty-free fantasy and sci-fi stock art)
Thank you. I am sorry to ask.
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Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman (1975), "Wonder Woman Meets Baroness Von Gunther"
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You don’t understand...
No one built the Agency. No single hand carved it or planned it or designed it. It started off as a single piece of advice.
“This works.”
“We do it this way.”
More advice piled on, from the experienced to the new blood, and advice became habit. Habit became procedure. Procedure became policy.
Policy needed to be enforced. Procedure needed to be followed. Staff had to be hired to handle the things everyone knew they were supposed to be doing. And advice was given on how to best follow policy. Habits formed around supporting the procedure.
Bureaucratic fungus and the algae of practicality bound to each other symbiotically to survive and evolve into the lichen that was the Agency.
Like any form of life, that lichen grew everywhere it could.
Like anything that grows, the Agency evolved.
The Agency is not changed from without. It changes from within. It adapts. It grows. It builds. Even attempts to reform it, to destroy it, are merely new strains seeking their chance to survive. To be the best-fitting. Every new memo a mutation in the Agency’s memetic code.
Now that you understand the nature of the system, the unmade bureaucracy that girds society, the Agency, within whose strange limbs you flow like a platelet, there is something you must always remember.
Do not lose your ID badge.
They take forever to replace.
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