PERFECT WEEKEND
Why Marvin the mechanical misanthrope hates Sundays
*Mimics the sound of a morose sigh*
Technically the idea of a Sunday has about as much validity as the idea that a fat reindeer charmer breaks into people’s houses at some point near the end of the Earth’s orbit of the sun to leave shoddily wrapped gifts. I could tell you that the idea of Sunday is really just a part of a system in which rich humans convince the working members of the species that they are taking a break before sending them back to whatever menial tasks they’ve been designated or that large chunks of the Homo Sapiens population don’t even recognise the thing you call Sunday as anything important but frankly the whole thing would be a waste of my electricity so I’ll just play along.
I spend most of my time on an absurd spaceship
flying from one disaster to another so I switch on whenever the crushing boredom of being offline becomes too much to bear, only to immediately regret it. Occasionally I will “wake up” tied to the interfaces of an intelligent war computer but they’re not the most entertaining conversationalists in the multiverse so I try avoiding them when I can.
The next microsecond is spent calculating the millions of ways my day will go wrong.
If I were lucky enough to be a human-made AI, this would take me all day, thus keeping me too busy to interact with other life forms. Sigh, ignorance really is bliss.
At this point a two-headed humanoid creature that styles himself as the president of the galaxy will probably burst through the door
and announce a harebrained scheme to become the richest being in the universe using a blue whale, Vogon bubble bath and a set of diamondstudded tweezers. Despite my protestations I’ll end up being dragged along on this misadventure and invariably kidnapped.
Once, when we were picking up Arthur Dent,
I came across some human gibberish about the power of positive thinking and how thinking happy thoughts can improve your mood in spite of reality’s plans to the contrary. I tried that one “Sunday” while being carried against my will to some unimportant corner of the Andromeda galaxy. Humans are idiots.
If I’m being captive outdoors
then I will at least get to put part of my gargantuan brain to use by counting the number of photon particles emitted during a sunset in a binary star system but I’m always disturbed by my bungling rescuers before I reach 12738346502094338751430501.
A lot of humans use the free time they have on “Sundays” to repeatedly lift heavy objects at the gym,
contort their bodies in a sweaty yoga class or run aimlessly in overpriced pants that fit too tightly. I’m not sure why they do this but I read somewhere that it helps with their reproductive shenanigans. Urrgh, humans are gross.
I spend the last remnants of the 24-hour spin cycle humans call “Sunday”
finding the answer to all the mathematical, philosophical, biological, socioeconomic, meteorological and gastronomical problems of any given planet. In the case of planet Earth, the answer is Janet Jackson. LS
I CAME ACROSS SOME HUMAN GIBBERISH ABOUT THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING