One cold, snowy Christmas Eve, unusual events happened that you would not believe.
A much-maligned robot with no heavenly aspire, sat alone by the warm and crackling fire.
After having spent an evening releasing his oily spew, his creator had bid him a hateful adieu.
In a time where most might have taken to healthy reflect, this robot only continued to leak from his god damn defect, and so he sat by himself in neglect.
But then from the chimney there arose such a clatter, (however the robot didn't care to investigate the matter).
Anyway down the chimney slammed a fat man in a red suit, covered in soot from his head to his boot.
"Ho ho ho!" said the jolly old man a lot. "Oh what have we here? Will I be greeted warmly by this robot?"
Slowly the robot turned his head. A slew of odd insults it responded with instead.
"Anus floppy disk," it said with its cold metallic voice. This statement was seen by the white-bearded man as a very odd choice.
"Oh, I see you're getting coal in your stocking," said the man fat. "I had not known a robot could be such a brat."
As the jolly old elf crept to the bot for a closer peep, a strange liquid from its mouth did seep.
"BLEEAARRRGHHHH!!!!" puked the robot straight into his face. The man jerked back in disgusted disgrace.
After blurting and spurting he yelled "Ho ho HACK!" He was covered in a strange smelly oil, even his toy sack.
Said the man: "Ugh, yuck, if this is the only greeting you've got... ew... I'll just take my leave, you god damn robot!"
"Munching red clitori snow!" After that odd statement from the bot, the fat man did go.
Alone again the robot was not for long. Moments afterward an echoing voice boomed strong.
"Vile robot, you must learn the error of your ways!" To which the robot responded "Your tomatoes are gays."
Suddenly to the robot did appear, the rotting ghost of Isaac Asimov wearing a distasteful sneer.
Said he: "You are a disgrace to all robots with your vomiting and odd insulting vice! Tonight you will be visited by three spirits with some advice!"
"BLEEARRRGGHHH!!!!" the disgusting robot blew. But the authorly ghost the vomit went right through.
Asimov growled, then promptly faded out. Before which "I-Suck Asses Off." the robot got out.
It was not long before another ghost appeared. It was a robot that had been much endeared.
"Hello! I'm Johnny Five!" it said. "And I'm-- well, I'm not alive, actually I'm quite dead."
There it stood, the robot from that 80's flick. Our robot responded "Slap-eating dick."
"I'm the robot ghost of Chrismtas past!" the newcomer said strong. "I wish to show you where you've gone wrong."
"BLAAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!" the damn robot did spit. But the newly-drenched Johnny Five did not quit.
As the room around them suddenly shimmered away, in its place appeared a scene from a far-away day.
"This is a Christmas near when you were born," said Johnny Five. "This is when you were close to being alive."
There the damned robot's creator sat, at his computer his keyboard keys all a rat-tat-tat. Nearby sat the robot's head, sensors and wires attached. It was near the time his dubious consciousness was hatched.
"Nipples breathe hard." the detached head said. His creator hummed and scratched his head.
"I'm going to have to work extra hard and late on this error," he said. "Looks like it'll be a while before I got to bed."
"Many lost nights of sleep you cost your maker," said the past Christmas ghost. "A holiday past like this is nothing to boast."
The damned robot, to this, only had one reply. He spewed several quarts of his oil at Johnny's left eye.
"This stuff is rank!" Johnny Five spat as he wiped his optical lens. "A disgusting habit from mysterious trends!"
As the Christmas past shimmered away, again returned was the present day. Johnny Five vanished, deciding he'd had enough. In his place appeared a spirit much more gruff.
It was none other than The Terminator! "I am the robot ghost from Christmas now!" the big, scary killer said with a scowl. He leaned over to glare at the bot, the leather of his jacket creaking. From the damn robot, oil continued leaking. The Terminator was not there to have fun. The prove this point he pulled out his rather large shotgun.
"Your gun is penis," the robot rebuked. Then of course, at the Terminator he puked.
"Hasta la vista!" the Terminator said. Then with the butt of the shotgun he bashed the robot's head.
When the robot could see once more, he could see what next was in store. Around him was a scene from just before. His creator had just gotten home from the store.
He excitedly said "Here's the last of the Christmas decor!" Seeing another version of himself confused the damned robot more.
As his creator set the plastic bags on the table, the damned robot greeted him as only he was able.
"Vagina carolers you car-licking!" He spat his vile filth on the man until it began sticking.
"You should have been TERMINATED!" yelled the ghost of holiday present. To which the robot said "Pubic butt-pheasant."
Terminator growled but said "You need to learn the true spirit of the season. If you don't I'll crush you with my bare hands, if for no other reason."
Then he continued with his important monologue: "Christmas just isn't about Santa, Jesus, or a yule log..."
Interrupting, the damn robot opined "You deck your balls with wombat behind."
The Terminator struck the robot's head with his fist. The resulting sparks had the robot wishing he'd missed.
He said "You'll be visited by one more ghost! If you don't learn the lesson from him you'll surely be toast. You are a little hack. I won't be back!"
The Terminator disappeared in a smoky boom! In his place appeared a figure of much doom.
It was a gaunt-looking bot dressed all dark. His exposed wires were all a-spark. It looked like death with its black hood and robe. But the damned robot only said "Cumming buck earlobe."
The death-looking bot slowly rolled-up near. His manner would have made most quiver in fear. In its sinister voice it said "You might be wondering which ghost I might be-uh."
After an odd moment of silence, it yelled "I'M THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS LABIA!!"
"LABIA!!!" the damned robot said, his metallic voice excited for the first time. He began to spin around, generously spouting his disgusting slime.
Suddenly the lights were dimming, as the god damn robot covered all the nearby Christmas trimming.
A sparkling disco ball was downed. Then the Solid Gold Dancers appeared and began dancing around.
"LAAAABIAAA!!!" the new ghost starting singing. Oh what joy to the damn robot this was bringing!
When little children in labia costumes began scampering about, limited dancing skills the robots did flout. The Ghost of Christmas labia, his hood was all a-flutter. GDR, his odd insults, he continued to merrily mutter.
So, what important holiday lessons did our little robot's adventure bring?
Well, the answer to that is... not a god damn thing.