Somewhere between my reptilian brain and the lobe of my brain that prompts me to open doors for other people, I have a part that loves total destruction. It’s not easy for me to admit this, but I sometimes sit alone on my sofa, squealing, pounding my fists against the cushions, and flopping around as I watch competitions where one combatant rips into another and literally tears away chucks.
Only total annihilation will do.
I’m talking about BattleBots. Fighting robots. Machines that come at each other with kill saws, flamethrowers, drum spinners, flipping arms, and giant hammers.
The fury is undeniable. Flying sparks. Smoke. Whirring blades. The screams of metal meeting metal.
Naturally, that girl would rather watch house flippers or watch a romantic comedy.
I am on my own with this television production. I have, therefore, taken to recording BattleBots so I can binge-watch three or four episodes in a row when I am left alone.
My 20 pounds of housecat has learned to hide under the clothes dryer when he hears from my television “It’s robot fightin’ time!” I don’t think it’s the robot fighting that bothers my cat as much as my shrieking and bouncing about as I watch machines battle to their own end.