Robot House

In the Futurama episode “Mars University” Bender, the alcoholic, kleptomaniac robot, joins up with a branch of his fraternity, Epsilon Rho Rho, at a their headquarters: Robot House. Much of the episode is dedicated to Animal House paradies. A number of my friends have recently rented, conquered, infected or are squatting in (the distinction was never really explained to me and I shudder to ask) a house that we've officially dubbed, in honor of that cartoon, “Robot House.” Considering the amount of quasi-legal substances, activities, and sexual exploits that go on between those walls, it’s somehow only fitting that the name, too, was illegally used and obtained.

Robot House has anywhere between 6 and 15 residents. It’s really anyone’s guess. It’s the kind of place where one never knows who one will discover sleeping amidst the wreckage of last night’s carnage.

I was asked if I’d like to rent a room there, once. I politely declined. See, while I love my friends, I’m simply not ready for the level of psychological warfare that existing at Robot House entails. Allow me to explain.

Let’s say that you’re a resident of Robot House and you notice that you’re out of soap. Do you:

A) Go down to the store and buy a new bar.
B) Call your parents and ask them to mail you soap.
C) Put off bathing altogether, guessing that someone else will crack to the overpowering stench of countless unwashed men living in close proximity.

If you said "C," welcome to Flavor Country!

Simply existing in Robot House is a practice in Darwinism. Did you notice that your roommate has come down with the Hanta Virus due to the pestilent surroundings? This is the perfect time to skip out on the Gas Bill! Because you know damn well that when it comes to living in subzero temperatures, his weakened immune system makes him a far more likely candidate to crack and pay your share.

This is what it’s like with everything in the house: dishes, garbage, groceries, cleaning, maintenance, utilities, EVERYTHING. The cable bill usually gets paid on time. After that, it becomes a game of eyeing your housemates like jackals, waiting for someone to show a sign of weakness.

"Give me your gas-can fire!"
"Fuck you! Pay the gas bill, mother fucker!"
"If you won't share the fire, we have no choice but to take it by force!"
"You don't have the grapes."
"I smell fear on you!"

It’s sort of like Lord of the Flies. Only with more porn.

Frankly I don’t have the energy for it on a 24-7 level. But I do enjoy visiting. In fact, I have officially been given a title:

Robot House President of Public Relations

I think that it’s mostly due to this blog. That should probably make the public at large very nervous. Why? Given that it’s my job to portray Robot House in a generous light, take another look at this page and imagine if I HADN’T been spinning my coverage. Decent townsfolk, bolt your windows, lock your doors, and cower in your cellars. For no one is safe from the carnage that is

ROBOT HOOOOOOOOOOOOUSE