In the silence of the forest floor, tiny robots are gathering. They mill about, and dash to and fro under cover of darkness, but I know they're there. They will meet, now here, now there, and discuss their tiny robot plans, no doubt for total world domination. Sometimes they sneak off with my pies, and then I chase them, waving my tentacles about furiously, threatening them with all manner of bodily harm, but they keep coming back. It's probably the secret blend of herbs and spices that keeps them coming back. I know it isn't my sparkling wit.

I feel like setting a trap for them. I fantasize about unrolling myself around the pie like a big roll of freezer wrap, feeling their tiny robot feet all over me... it helps to relieve the boredom, anyway. I know I'm doomed, which is more than you can say for most people.

I suppose I should just learn to live with them. But when the flaming kelp appears and tells you to smite something, you just sorta have to believe. I'm easy, I go where I'm told, you don't have to push me. No need to go roiling in the underbrush and setting fire to my best set of buttocks, after all. A word to the wise is efficient; two are worth hiding in the bush for. So I file my reports like I've been told to, and hope that when the pantaloons run out, I'll be able to find a nice hold to hide in, one where the tiny robots will see that I pose them no threat without my massive support network.