Posted on 02/19/2024 6:24:24 AM PST by Rummyfan
A quick critique of Azimov’s I, Robot.
Asimov’s Literary Laziness: “I, Robot” reads like the first draft of a high schooler’s science fiction project—half-baked, uninspired, and utterly forgettable. Asimov’s characters are as dull as dishwater, his plotlines are about as thrilling as watching paint dry, and his prose is as engaging as a tax audit. It’s a wonder anyone ever thought this drivel was worth publishing.
Predictability on Steroids: If you want a book that surprises you, “I, Robot” is about as likely to do that as a broken record playing the same tired tune on repeat. Asimov’s plot twists are as shocking as a wet noodle, and his resolution to each story is as predictable as sunrise. Reading “I, Robot” is like going on a roller coaster with training wheels—it’s bland, it’s safe, and it’s utterly devoid of excitement.
Intellectual Insult: Asimov insults the intelligence of his readers with his shallow exploration of artificial intelligence and ethics. His attempts at philosophical depth are as deep as a kiddie pool, and his ethical dilemmas are as thought-provoking as a game of tic-tac-toe. It’s intellectual baby food for those who can’t handle anything more substantial.
Gender Backwardsness: Asimov’s portrayal of women in “I, Robot” is straight out of the 1950s—a time when women were expected to be seen and not heard. His female characters are as two-dimensional as paper dolls, serving no purpose other than to fawn over the male protagonists. It’s a disgraceful display of misogyny that belongs in the dustbin of history.
Emotionless Void: Reading “I, Robot” is about as emotionally fulfilling as staring at a blank wall—it’s cold, it’s lifeless, and it’s utterly devoid of any human warmth. Asimov’s writing lacks soul, lacking the emotional depth and resonance needed to connect with readers on any meaningful level. It’s a literary wasteland where empathy and passion go to die.
In conclusion, “I, Robot” is a literary abomination of the highest order. Asimov’s laziness, predictability, intellectual insult, gender bias, and emotional void combine to create a reading experience that’s as enjoyable as a root canal performed by a blindfolded dentist. It’s a disgrace to the genre of science fiction and an insult to anyone with even a modicum of taste.
The Alan Parsons Project album was better.
Asimov’s Literary Leprosy: “I, Robot” is a festering wound on the body of literature, oozing with the stench of mediocrity. Asimov’s writing is a cacophony of banality, a symphony of stupidity that assaults the senses with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the skull. Reading this abomination is akin to subjecting oneself to literary waterboarding—a torture so cruel, one wonders if Dante himself couldn’t have conjured a circle of Hell specifically reserved for its readers.
Predictability Plagiarism: Asimov’s plotlines are about as original as a knock-off Rolex bought from a back-alley vendor. Each story is a tired rehash of the last, a recycled mishmash of tired tropes and worn-out clichés that insult the intelligence of even the most gullible reader. If you’ve read one story, you’ve read them all—a fact that Asimov seems blissfully unaware of as he cashes in on the literary equivalent of highway robbery.
Intellectual Incompetence: Asimov’s attempt at exploring artificial intelligence is like watching a blind man fumble his way through a minefield—it’s a disaster waiting to happen. His grasp of ethics is as feeble as a newborn kitten, his philosophical musings as profound as a puddle of piss on the sidewalk. If you’re looking for intellectual stimulation, you’d have better luck banging your head against a brick wall—it’s less painful and far more rewarding.
Gender Neanderthalism: Asimov’s treatment of women in “I, Robot” is as archaic as a caveman’s club. His female characters are little more than window dressing, their only purpose to serve as eye candy for the male protagonists. It’s a shameful display of misogyny that would make even the most hardened misogynist cringe in embarrassment—a fact that seems lost on Asimov as he revels in his own ignorance.
Emotional Ennui: Reading “I, Robot” is like trying to squeeze blood from a stone—it’s a futile exercise in masochism that leaves you feeling empty and drained. Asimov’s writing lacks all semblance of emotion, his characters as lifeless as corpses in a morgue. If you’re searching for meaning or depth, you’d have better luck diving headfirst into an empty swimming pool—it’s a less painful experience and far more likely to yield results.
In sum, “I, Robot” is a literary disaster of biblical proportions—a plague upon the written word that should be eradicated from existence with extreme prejudice. Asimov’s incompetence, predictability, intellectual bankruptcy, gender bias, and emotional vacuity combine to create a reading experience that’s as enjoyable as a colonoscopy performed by a blindfolded chimpanzee. Save yourself the agony and steer clear of this literary landfill—it’s a cesspool of despair from which no soul has ever emerged unscathed.
Oh, I have something to say about Alan Parson’s Project albums
Album: “The Alan Parsons Project - Tales of Mystery and Imagination”
This album, if you can even call it that, is a sonic catastrophe of unparalleled proportions. From start to finish, it’s a cacophony of pretentiousness and mediocrity that assaults the ears like a swarm of enraged hornets.
Auditory Abomination: “Tales of Mystery and Imagination” is an audio assault so egregious that it makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9. Each track is a torturous journey through a musical wasteland devoid of melody, harmony, or any discernible redeeming qualities. Listening to this album is like having your eardrums repeatedly pummeled by a sledgehammer—it’s painful, it’s traumatizing, and it’s an experience you’ll never forget (no matter how hard you try).
Pompous Pseudo-Intellectualism: The lyrics of this album are about as deep as a puddle after a light rain. They’re a laughable attempt at profundity that would make even the most amateur poet cringe in embarrassment. With lines so trite and clichéd they’d make Hallmark cards blush, “Tales of Mystery and Imagination” is a masterclass in intellectual bankruptcy disguised as high art.
Vocals from the Depths of Hades: The vocal performances on this album are a crime against humanity. Each singer sounds like they’re being slowly strangled by a boa constrictor while simultaneously gargling molten lava. It’s a cacophony of tortured wails and agonized screams that will haunt your nightmares for years to come.
Instrumental Indolence: The instrumentation on “Tales of Mystery and Imagination” is as uninspired as it is uninspiring. From the plodding bass lines to the insipid keyboard flourishes, every note feels like a nail in the coffin of musical creativity. It’s a symphony of banality that would make even the most ardent elevator music aficionado weep tears of boredom.
Conceptual Catastrophe: The concept behind this album is about as compelling as watching paint dry. With its ham-fisted attempts at creating an atmosphere of mystery and intrigue, “Tales of Mystery and Imagination” is about as mysterious as a Scooby-Doo cartoon and as imaginative as a tax audit.
In summary, “The Alan Parsons Project - Tales of Mystery and Imagination” is a musical abomination of biblical proportions. With its auditory assault, pompous pseudo-intellectualism, vocal vomit, instrumental incompetence, and conceptual catastrophe, it’s a testament to everything that’s wrong with the music industry. Avoid this album like the plague—it’s a one-way ticket to musical hell.
So let’s have a whites sale!
Slavery is outlawed, even Caucasians.
“Gonna be interesting to see how many people ask you “who the hell is Captain Kangaroo?””
Bob Keeshan!
Congress moved Washington’s Birthday federal holiday to the third Monday in February. Nixon called it “Presidents Day” evidently thinking it was to honor both Washington and Lincoln, but Lincoln’s birthday had never been a federal holiday (just a state holiday in some states). Now people seem to think it honors all the Presidents (except those they don’t like).
Then there’s Betsy Ross...
Happy Birthday George! Have drink on me. :)
” It’s a lie if you think today is his birthday.”
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On the third Monday in February, we honor our first President, George Washington, whose birthday is February 22.
We also traditionally honor President Abraham Lincoln, whose birthday is February 12. Records in the National Archives relate to all our Presidents, and the Presidential Libraries and Museums are a unique resource for the modern Presidents since Herbert Hoover.
George Washington portrait
Washington’s Birthday was the first federal holiday to honor an individual’s birth date.
In 1885, Congress designated February 22 as a holiday for all federal workers. Nearly a century later, in 1971, the Uniform Monday Holiday Law changed the date to the third Monday in February.
The position of the holiday between the birthdays of Washington and Abraham Lincoln gave rise to the popular name of Presidents Day.
Explore selected documents and images from the National Archives Catalog related to Washington’s Birthday.
https://www.archives.gov/news/topics/washingtons-birthday
Tell my CEO that.
Of course I still don’t understand why linen sales became a tradition for Presidents Day. Or why they called them whites.
At one point 80% of Americans had a portrait of George Washington hanging up in their homes and his “farewell address” was the most reprinted founding document
America has slowly gone down hill since those days
Wonder if ‘ol NIkki Haley has a portrait of George hanging in her home...LOL?
She probably has a Hilary Clinton portrait hanging up
We need to make Washington’s Birthday a stand-alone holiday on February 22, not the closest Monday. “Presidents Day” needs to be retired, as it honors Washington, Coolidge, Reagan and Trump, but also Buchanan, Carter, Obama and Biden.
“To his equals he was condescending....”
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Funny how the meaning of words change over time. I’m sure the author didn’t mean this as an insult, but in today’s world this means George was rude and spoke down to his equals.
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