MiniMac in the shadow of Marvin

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This morning started as it always does: gritting my iPod-white teeth, I fingered the open trephine hole of my auxiliary port, smelled my fingers to detect any spillage and then — untangling the knots of the buycrime detecting umbilical that slithers out to my desk from Big Boinger's central hub — inserted the massive Cat-5 into my Thalamus.

But nothing happened. Something should have happened. My brain should have been awash in the matrix of morning deals; the Morning Reverie should have blared into my brain; electro-chemical orgasms should have been induced, again and again, as I had the bodies of the latest product revisions raped into my brain, leaving me as spent and without free will as a man who has just ejaculated his entire limbic system onto the floor. At the very least? The curious sensation of smelling overloaded synapse ozone from within the vacuum of my own skull. But there was nothing. Big Boinger just wasn't there anymore.

I looked over at my two colleagues. Minister Wang simply rocks back and forth muttering regulations, folded in on himself like some sort of spindly, fetal praying mantis. Minister Touchpreaux's reaction is more interesting: what once was a golem of listless oatmeal has now transformed into a manic marionette of enthusiasm, playing with strange blob-like creatures gelatinously inhabiting his iPhone and whistling to himself, only pausing to scatter off a burst of prose so discordantly uncouched from the Fifth Edition of Infomercia's NuPR Lexicon and plosively mouth "Yes. Yes!" to himself.

Of course, there is a procedure to follow in situations like these. Hardware fails... it's supposed to. I took out the emergency PR pack from under my desk, its cover stenciled with the Checkbook font, and broke the seal; from within, I removed the Portable Big Boing Mainframe, and turned it on.

>HELLO. NOW SPELL ANYTHING.

"EMERGENCY PROTOCOL," I queried.

> INCORRECT. NOW SPELL PROBLEM.

"Marvin."

>CORRECT. NOW SPELL MAKE.

"Make."

>CORRECT. NOW SPELL CRAPGADGET.

I thrilled. This is a forbidden word. "Crapgadget," I typed.

>CORRECT. NOW SPELL MEATBOMB.

My indoctrination continues. Big Boinger isn't here anymore. Marvin has stepped right into the machine. I'm plugging him in now.

Virtual Big Boinger Field Kit [Official Site via Red Ferret]

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