TV's Newest Hunk. Of Steel.
by Amy Keyishian
Bender: robotic bad-boy, man of steel, he whose conscience wouldn't let
him create girders for suicide booths. Bender: cheap bastard who uses a
trick quarter for his own journey into said suicide booth. Bender: lost
soul with an unfortunate habit of pouring Olde Fortran into his tin-man
gullet, surely starting the sort of rust that could end his career.
Ah, Bender. My long search for a suitable TV boyfriend, since Roseanne
took Johnny Galecki off the air, is over.
I knew I would love Futurama,
Matt Groening's long-awaited sophomore
effort. But I assumed that it, like the Simpsons, would leave me steely-cold
below the belt. Mais non! From the moment I saw him, impatiently tapping
his oil can-shaped foot on line behind a clueless Fry, I was transfixed.
Crabby, awkward, prone to falling apart, and a rebel: Bender is my thirtieth-century
Now I dream of wrapping my four fingers around the bars of my own private
gilded cage, calling out for Bender. His spindly arms appear out of nowhere,
his Barney Fife-like voice calling to me as he wraps his two fingers around
those bars and ties them into knots. I nestle into his bendy embrace as
he clanks down the ladder, carrying me over his robo-threshold and laying
me upon a bed of bolts.
Nuts. If only he weren't animated.
Amy Keyishian is an editor at Cosmopolitan. If you see an article
about "How to Drive Your Android Wild," well, guess who.
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