In which Jason and Hilary Kelley review “Who’s Johnny” by El DeBarge from the movie Short Circuit.
What we have here is a taut legal thriller in which El DeBarge is being brought up on charges for the plot of the movie Short Circuit. I bet John Grisham is biting his gavel in half, he’s so mad he didn’t write this first! And his wife is sick of finding gnawed gavels all over the place. “John, you’ve either been taking cases in beaver court again, or you’ve been watching El DeBarge’s Who’s Johnny, and I know you haven’t been to beaver court because your comically oversized buck teeth are still soaking on the bedside table.”
Has there ever been a robot more in contempt of court than Johnny Five? Has a robot ever shown a more flagrant disregard for our system of law? He’s planting explosives in the judge’s gavel! Imagine if John Grisham had been gnawing on it. He’d have to use his fake beaver teeth as his real teeth. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a deleted scene of Johnny Five’s robotic hand groping the statue of Lady Justice.
This. Robot. Hates our freedom.
I might have to disagree with you, Jason. This whole thing is very familiar, and I feel like this is actually a peek into a small convention for people born with a specific genetic mutation: Wrigglewrist Syndrome. The hallmarks of this syndrome are a proclivity to gesticulate effusively with one’s index finger or thumb in the faces of people whom you are trying to persuade, and also to waggle repeatedly (but this is not to be confused with Wagglerot Disease).
I tried to say “Wrigglewrist Syndrome” five times in a row once, and I snapped the little sliver of connective tissue under my tongue. For the rest of the year I was able to touch my cheek with the tip of my tongue. I was popular with fifth-graders and fit in with Lhasa Apsos. Things were looking up. But then I got my flap-implant. Since replacing that little piece of flesh, I notice that I don’t have the social freedoms I once so enjoyed. I guess what I’m saying, Jason, is that if I’ve ever been asked “How loose is your goose?” I have to say, “Not very, sir. Not very at all.”
Johnny Five knows what it means to be constricted. These people hate him because his joints are fixed, and he doesn’t have to worry about flopping fingers, or wrists that become a slapping hazard in high winds. He’s in control–and they hate that. I hate that. But I’m also a robot bigot. A robot traded my ancestors on a human plantation in the 1800s. Rumor has it, I’m 1/32 robot on my mom’s side, but we don’t bring it up at dinner.