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Ro-Bots Are Trying To Kill Me

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NFL Vows To Fix Bottomless Pit On Levi’s Stadium Field Before Super Bowl

SANTA CLARA, CA—Following persistent safety concerns regarding the playing surface throughout the regular season, the NFL made firm assurances Friday to both the Denver Broncos and Carolina Panthers that the bottomless pit in the middle of the field at Levi’s Stadium will be fully repaired before Super Bowl 50.

Area Man Would Hate Cam Newton Even If He Was Different Minority

MURRAY, KY—Adamantly stressing that his disdain for the 26-year-old quarterback is not based on any racial prejudice toward African Americans, local 49-year-old Michael Willet told reporters Friday that he would hate Cam Newton even if the Carolina Panthers star was a different minority.

Monocle-Wearing Oil Baron’s Cigarette Holder Splinters In Clenched Teeth After Hearing Bernie Sanders’ Environmental Platform

GREENWICH, CT—Leaving him visibly seething as he sat in his tufted leather wingback chair in his study, monocle-wearing oil baron Frederick Porter Harriman’s ivory-inlaid cigarette holder reportedly splintered between his clenched teeth upon him hearing presidential candidate Bernie Sanders outline his environmental platform during Thursday night’s Democratic debate.
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Ugh, This A Place Where Bartenders Wear Bow Tie

PITTSBURGH—Saying they should have known from the moment they walked in the unmarked speakeasy entrance and spotted the extensive wood paneling, customers confirmed Friday that, ugh, this is one of those places where the bartenders all wear bow ties.

Ro-Bots Are Trying To Kill Me

I'm often asked about the role of technology in our society, and whether it is ultimately beneficial or destructive. My reply: Technology is a scourge which must be abolished! I know this first-hand, for, as of this writing, a vast army of mechanical men surrounds my estate, ready to wipe me off the map!

I should have never let my middle son, U. Fairfax, talk me into the notion of owning a mechanical gentleman—or a ro-bot, as he calls it. When U. Fairfax presented me with Mr. Tin, I despised the artificial bastard at first sight. Its eyes glowed an unnatural yellow and its voice was like the unbearable sound of metal grinding against metal.

At first I gave it some rudimentary household chores, such as changing gramophone needles and darning stockings. U. Fairfax complained that I was criminally underusing this "wonder of the age," that it could do anything from playing a waltz on the concertina to ciphering the most difficult sums. So I commanded it to clear some brush in a remote corner of the estate.

Mr. Tin did as it was told, but before long it returned to the mansion to ask if there was anything else I desired. Vexed at the impudence of this metallic monstrosity, I screamed that the only thing I desired was for it to get lost. Upon hearing my words, Mr. Tin silently wept and lumbered off for parts unknown.

Good riddance, I thought. But I soon regretted my words. Shortly thereafter, stung by my rejection, Mr. Tin ran wild in the village, slaying a number of peasants and setting fire to the grist mill. The creature escaped into the mountains, where it began to construct others in its own hideous image. Before long, it had built a vast army, all for the sole purpose of wreaking revenge upon me!

Technology is strictly for the birds! I remember the days before ro-bots, when everything was calm and carefree, and everyone played the banjo. Now my servants are frantically boarding the windows and stuffing sandbags. I beg President Wilson to rescue me from a horrid fate! I'm sorry I called you "Old Porridge-Face," Woodrow! Help!

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