This way lies madness.

Hmmm. I think we need to circle back that way. You see that church over there? We should hang a left right there. Right, I said left. Right, you heard me. Left. RIGHT, LEFT!!

I need a freaking chauffeur, and that's a fact, friends. Damn this poverty! Damn our puny residuals checks! Damn you, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), you've missed that turn again! Kick the thing in reverse and get us back to where we were a minute ago - we're going to start again. Jeeeezuz! All I want is a couple of beers... is that so much to ask? Day after day in that drafty abandoned hammer mill, little to distract us besides the gnawing of termites and the steady drip-drip-drip from the rafters when it rains. (Even when it doesn't rain, in fact. That may be a plumbing issue... What do you think, man-sized tuber?) Just needed to break out of that joint, get some fresh air. So what the hell - we borrowed the neighbor's car and started searching for a convenient night spot wherein to imbibe some stimulating libations. And maybe have a drink, what the hell.

We put Marvin behind the wheel. Our first mistake. Though, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say our first mistake was asking Marvin to accompany us at all. Not that he's bad company, you understand (in addition to being a bad driver), but he always insists on bringing Big Zamboola along. And if Zamboola goes, well then tubey has to go, too. Then the Lincolns get all interested. Anyway, pretty soon you've got a whole carload of freaks and you won't be allowed in anywhere (or, at least, anywhere you would want to be allowed into). So you drive from place to place, turned away at the door again and again, and pretty soon anti-Lincoln starts getting fussy, then the man-sized tuber wants a glass of water, and so on. Hoo-boy.

I'll tell you, friends... prejudice is a terrible thing. To think that in this day and age a robot or an overgrown root vegetable or a shrunken planetoid could be refused entry to a public place. It's disgusting, I tell you. It's also bloody inconvenient. I mean, we're out here in the sticks on a cold, cold night, looking for someplace to stop, when we might have had a friendly beer just a block away from our squathouse, had it not been for these persistent freaks we've surrounded ourselves with over the past few years. (Matt says they're accumulating like barnacles on a rusting ship, but I wouldn't go quite that far.) Still, you go to the pub with the entourage you've got, not the one you.... Hey... there's a place up ahead. Marvin, pull over, man! Hmmmmm. The Straw Horse. Sounds like a nice place. And what luck - there's a scarecrow in the front yard! Marvin - go get 'im!

Sure, that straw hat is likely to hang down over Marvin's eyes, but that's okay. One of us will lead him to the door. Hey tubey - give Marvin a hand, will ya?