Mr Robot Quotes

Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor, What have you done to my boy? He's not flesh and blood, he's aluminum alloy!" The doctor said gently, What I'm going to say will sound pretty wild. But you're not the father of this strange looking child. You see, there still is some question about the child's gender, but we think that its father is a microwave blender.

Krista asks,"What is it about society that disappoints you so much?" Elliot thinks, "Oh I don't know, is it that we collectively thought Steve Jobs was a great man even when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it's that it feels like all our heroes are counterfeit; the world itself's just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our burning commentary of bullshit masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy. Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I'm not saying anything new. We all know why we do this, not because Hunger Games books makes us happy but because we wanna be sedated. Because it's painful not to pretend, because we're cowards. Fuck Society." "Mr. Robot" season 1 episode 1, 'ohellofriend.mov

Look in the mirror. See that bad ass bitch? That's the only person you should ever worry about.

I always thought the key to immortality would be, like, tiny robots fixing things in your brain,” she says. “Not books.

What I'm about to tell you is top secret. A conspiracy bigger than all of us. There's a powerful group of people out there that are secretly running the world. I'm talking about the guys no one knows about, the ones that are invisible. The top 1% of the top 1%, the guys that play God without permission. And now I think they're following me.

Do my worst, eh? Smithers, release the robotic Richard Simmons." --Mr. Burns

Robot Boy Mr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life. They were a normal, happy husband and wife. One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad. Mrs. Smith would would be a mom which would make him the dad! But something was wrong with their bundle of joy. It wasn't human at all, it was a robot boy! He wasn't warm and cuddly and he didn't have skin. Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin. There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head. He just lay there and stared, not living or dead. The only time he seemed alive at all was with a long extension cord plugged into the wall. Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor, "What have you done to my boy? He's not flesh and blood, he's aluminum alloy!" The doctor said gently, "What I'm going to say will sound pretty wild. But you're not the father of this strange looking child. You see, there still is some question about the child's gender, but we think that its father is a microwave blender." The Smith's lives were now filled with misery and strife. Mrs. Smith hated her husband, and he hated his wife. He never forgave her unholy alliance: a sexual encounter with a kitchen appliance. And Robot Boy grew to be a young man. Though he was often mistaken for a garbage can.

Mr Baley", said Quemot, "you can't treat human emotions as though they were built about a positronic brain". "I'm not saying you can. Robotics is a deductive science and sociology an inductive one. But mathematics can be made to apply in either case.

Is that what God does? He helps? Tell me, why didn't God help my innocent friend who died for no reason while the guilty ran free? Okay. Fine. Forget the one offs. How about the countless wars declared in his name? Okay. Fine. Let's skip the random, meaningless murder for a second, shall we? How about the racist, sexist, phobia soup we've all been drowning in because of him? And I'm not just talking about Jesus. I'm talking about all organized religion. Exclusive groups created to manage control. A dealer getting people hooked on the drug of hope. His followers, nothing but addicts who want their hit of bullshit to keep their dopamine of ignorance. Addicts. Afraid to believe the truth. That there's no order. There's no power. That all religions are just metastasizing mind worms, meant to divide us so it's easier to rule us by the charlatans that wanna run us. All we are to them are paying fanboys of their poorly-written sci-fi franchise. If I don't listen to my imaginary friend, why the fuck should I listen to yours? People think their worship's some key to happiness. That's just how he owns you. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that distortion of reality. So fuck God. He's not a good enough scapegoat for me.

I reached for the phone and dialed his number. I listened to it ring. It rang on and on. I imagined the phone crying out in his empty room. I didn't count the rings, but it felt like hundreds. Could Mr. Tate hear them echoing through his house? Was I torturing him? Making him scream in frustration, pressing his hands to his ears to block out the noise? If he wanted to make the ringing stop, all he had to do was pick up. Maybe he had unplugged Jonah's phone. Maybe he couldn't hear the ringing at all.

My father picked me up from school one day, and we played hooky and went to the beach. It was too cold to go in the water, so we sat on a blanket and ate pizza. When I got home, my sneakers were full of sand, and I dumped it on my bedroom floor. I didn't know the difference. I was six. My mother screamed at me for the mess, but he wasn't mad. He said that billions of years ago, the world shifting and the oceans moving brought that sand to that spot on the beach, and then I took it away. "Every day," he said, "we change the world," which is a nice thought until I think about how many days and lifetimes I would need to bring a shoe full of sand home until there is no beach, until it made a difference to anyone. Every day, we change the world, but to change the world in a way that means anything, that takes more time than most people have. It never happens all at once. It's slow. It's methodical. It's exhausting. We don't all have the stomach for it.

You can't force an agenda Mr. Alderson, you have to inspire one.

Among the many worlds that man did not receive as a gift from nature but created out of his own mind, the world of books is the greatest…without the word, without the writing of books, there is no history, there is no concept of humanity.” Anaïs was again hooked up to the detested Mr. Robot and the slow

Oh, I don't know. Is it that we collectively thought Steve Jobs was a great man, even when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it's that it feels like all our heroes are counterfeit? The world itself's just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our running commentary of bulls**t, masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy. Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I'm not saying anything new. We all know why we do this, not because Hunger Games books makes us happy, but because we wanna be sedated. Because it's painful not to pretend, because we're cowards.

While I was busy wondering if we were expecting anybody, it took me by surprise when an arm—which I was starting to get very well acquainted with at this rate—snaked around my waist and pulled me backward. My ass landed on something hard and hot, immediately molding into the space. Aaron’s lap. His breath caressed the shell of my ear. “You didn’t say good morning.” My back straightened as I remembered my lame runaway moment. “You almost made me drop my cookie, Mr. Robot.” It was so weird, so strange, calling him that, like I had done so many times in the past. As if that belonged to a whole different life. To two different people. Aaron chuckled, and it tickled my neck. “I wouldn’t dare. I know better than that.” His arm tightened around me, and I had to restrain myself from wrapping my hands around it. “What are you doing?” I whispered loudly. Charo would come back in at any second. “I was feeling lonely,” he admitted, lowering his voice and making my mind fly with everything he wasn’t saying. Stupid. I need to stop being stupid. “And if I’m going to sit through this one-sided interrogation, the least you can do is keep me company. Plus, you owe me a conversation.” “I was right there.” My voice came out strangled. “And Charo is not here now.” He hummed, and that noise traveled straight to my lower belly. “She will be back though. You know I like to be extra prepared.

Thank you, Mr. Bibleman," the robot said. 'I am very proud of you.

Are you interested in robotics, Mr. Byerley?” “Only in the legal aspects.

Is any of it real? I mean, look at this. Look at it! A world built on fantasy. Synthetic emotions in the form of pills. Psychological warfare in the form of advertising. Mind-altering chemicals in the form of … food! Brainwashing seminars in the form of media. Controlled isolated bubbles in the form of social networks. Real? You want to talk about reality? We haven’t lived in anything remotely close to it since the turn of the century. We turned it off, took out the batteries, snacked on a bag of GMOs while we tossed the remnants in the ever-expanding Dumpster of the human condition. We live in branded houses trademarked by corporations built on bipolar numbers jumping up and down on digital displays, hypnotizing us into the biggest slumber mankind has ever seen. You have to dig pretty deep, kiddo, before finding anything real.

Such unexpected details carried over onto the blues rocker ‘Mr Lacey’ on their second album, What We Did on Our Holidays. Dr Bruce Lacey was an inventor of robots and automata who lived next door to Hutchings in the mid-1960s, and the hoover-like whooshing noises that take a ‘solo’ in the song’s middle eight are made by three of Lacey’s robots, which he transported down to the studio in south London, their inventor gleefully prodding them into life while dressed in a space suit.

I don’t understand death. For that matter, I don’t really understand life. You live. You suffer. You die. It hardly seems worth doing. Yet, here I am, robotically taking a fresh breath every few seconds, standing in this awkward brown and orange polyester waitress uniform, pretending to listen to Mr. Chester go on about his bunions for the second time this week, pouring the evening’s thirty-second cup of coffee and trying so hard to put the events of the last four weeks behind me.

This problem,” Rick said, “stems entirely from your method of operation, Mr. Rosen. Nobody forced your organization to evolve the production of humanoid robots to a point where—” “We produced what the colonists wanted,” Eldon Rosen said. “We followed the time-honored principle underlying every commercial venture. If our firm hadn’t made these progressively more human types, other firms in the field would have. We knew the risk we were taking when we developed the Nexus-6 brain unit. But your Voigt-Kampff test was a failure before we released that type of android. If you had failed to classify a Nexus-6 android as an android, if you had checked it out as human—but that’s not what happened.” His voice had become hard and bitingly penetrating. “Your police department—others as well—may have retired, very probably have retired, authentic humans with underdeveloped empathic ability, such as my innocent niece here. Your position, Mr. Deckard, is extremely bad morally. Ours isn’t.

Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library The Island of Dr. Libris Welcome to Wonderland: Home Sweet Motel Welcome to Wonderland: Beach Party Surf Monkey The Haunted Mystery series COAUTHORED WITH JAMES PATTERSON Daniel X: Armageddon Daniel X: Lights Out House of Robots House of Robots: Robots Go Wild! I Funny I Even Funnier I Totally Funniest I Funny TV Jacky Ha-Ha Treasure Hunters Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile Treasure Hunters: Secret of the Forbidden City Treasure Hunters: Peril at the Top of the World Word of Mouse

It is possible to be too stable. No Outer World has colonized a new planet in two and a half centuries.. are lives too long to risk and too comfortable to upset. “I don’t know about that, Dr. Fastolfe. You’ve come to Earth. You risk disease.” “Yes, I do. There are some of us, Mr. Baley, who feel that the future of the human race is even worth the possible loss of an extended lifetime. Too few of us, I am sorry to say.” “In trying to introduce robots here on Earth, we’re doing our best to upset the balance of your City economy.” “You mean you’re creating a growing group of displaced and declassified men on purpose?” “Not out of cruelty or callousness, believe me. A group of displaced men, as you call them, are what we need to serve as a nucleus for colonization. Your ancient America was discovered by ships fitted out with men from the prisons. Don’t you see that the City’s womb has failed the displaced man. He has nothing to lose and worlds to gain by leaving Earth.

entire project would be kicked back, and he would need to start the submission process again. The proposal had to be perfect this time. If not, he was sure his competitors would swoop in on this opportunity to launch their own devices. He had spent the last two years on this project, and he was so close—only twenty-seven days left to make all the necessary corrections. He could not afford distractions now. Too much was riding on this; his name was riding on this. He remembered what his father always told him: “No one remembers the name of the person who came in second.” These words motivated him all through high school to earn a full scholarship to Boston University, where he earned his BA and master’s degrees in computer science, and then his PhD in robotics engineering at MIT. Those degrees had driven him to start his own business, Vinchi Medical Engineering, and at age thirty-four, he still lived by those words to keep the company on top. The intercom buzzed. “Your conference call is ready on line one, Mr. Vinchi.” “What the hell were you guys thinking?” Jon barked as soon as he got on the line. Not waiting for them to answer, Jon continued, “Whose bright idea was it to submit my name to participate at this event—or any event, for that matter? This type of thing has your name written all over it, Drew. Is this your doing?” As always, Trent said it the way it was. “If you had attended the last meeting, Jon, you would have been brought up to date for this and would have had the chance to voice any opposition to your participation.” It was a moot point, Jon knew he’d missed their last meeting—actually, their last few meetings—due to his own business needs. But this stunt wasn’t solely about the meeting, and he knew it. “Trent, I have always supported the decisions you guys have made in the past, but I am not supporting this one. What makes you think I will even show? I don’t have time for this nonsense.” “Time is valuable to all of us, Jon. We all have our own companies to run besides supporting what is needed for Takes One. Either you’re fully invested in this, or you’re not. There are times when it takes more than

Among the chattering, cheerful, well-dressed crowd of people waiting at the gate were a number of quiet young men, each with a pleasant but neutral expression, each rather short even for a Japanese, and each with a Japanese calligraphy character tattooed on his forehead. As I walked past, one of them smiled and raised his hand. "Mr. Rawson?" At my puzzled nod he bowed and his smile broadened. "Welcome to Japan. I am a robot working for the Convention and Visitors' Bureau of the Japanese government, and I have been assigned as your guide and interpreter while you are in our country. There is no charge for my services, but you are free to accept or decline them. I should add that the bureau wishes to extend special hospitality to a visitor from such a great distance, and that it will probably ask the favor of an interview, which will then be published in one of our tourist magazines. My name is Toshio Takata, and most of my English-speaking guests call me 'T-Square.'" Before this last sentence he had clasped his

Mr Whitby, why have you armed this cleaning robot?” “Ah, good – you’ve met him already!

You know what I’ll miss even if it does turn out to be nice in Texas?” she said finally. “What?” “You. I never had a friend as good as you, Willie. You make me laugh.” Embarrassed, he said, “Yeah, well, that’s what a goofup is good for.” She stood up then, and in the dark before the smoky fire, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. “There,” she said. “Now you’re not a goofup anymore. I’ve transformed you.” “Wow!” he said. “Wow!” He was so overwhelmed, he didn’t even help her douse the fire or collect the bundle of things she’d brought with her. And when she’d finished and told him to come, he followed her back to her house like a robot while Booboo pranced beside him enjoying the adventure. Willie was still in a daze, but when Mr. Carter insisted on driving him home he said, “You don’t have to. I can walk.” “The ladies would never allow that. You get in the car, Willie.” “Bye, Willie. See you in school,” Marla said. “Yeah,” he said. “See you. Bye, Mrs. Carter.” Booboo followed Willie into the car without waiting for an invitation. He settled on the seat with his paws on Willie’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Willie stroked the dog’s fur. It was so good to have Booboo back.

This whole time I thought changing the world was something you did, an act you perform, something you fought for. I don't know if that's true anymore. What if changing the world was just about being here, by showing up, no matter how many times we get told we don't belong, by staying true even when we're shamed into being false. By believing in ourselves even when we're told we're too different, and if we all held onto that, if we refuse to budge and fall in line, if we stood our ground for long enough, just maybe, the world can't help but change around us. -Mr Robot Season 4, episode 13

Is that what God does? He helps? Tell me, why didn't God help my innocent friend who died for no reason while the guilty roam free? Okay, fine. Forget the one-offs. How about the countless wars declared in his name? Okay, fine. Let's skip the random, meaningless murder for a second, shall we? How about the racist, sexist, phobia soup we've all been drowning in because of him? And I'm not just talking about Jesus. I'm talking about all organized religion... Exclusive groups created to manage control, a dealer getting people hooked on the drug of hope, his followers nothing but addicts who want their hit of bullshit to keep their... Their dopamine of ignorance, addicts afraid to believe the truth... That there is no order, there's no power, that all religions are just metastasizing mind worms meant to divide us so it's easier to rule us by the charlatans that want to run us. All we are to them are paying fanboys of their poorly written sci-fi franchise. If I don't listen to my imaginary friend, why the fuck should I listen to yours? People think their worship's some key to happiness. That's just how he owns you. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that distortion of reality. So fuck God. He's not a good enough scapegoat for me.

After breakfast, the gentlemen went shooting, Aunt Saffronia was busy with the mute servants, and Miss Heartwright was still at the cottage, leaving Jane and Miss Charming alone in the morning room. They stared at the brown-flecked wallpaper. “I’m so bored. This isn’t what Mrs. Wattlesbrook promised me yesterday.” “We could play whist,” Jane said. “Whist in the morning, whist in the evening, ain’t we got fun?” The wallpaper hadn’t changed. Jane kept an eye on it all the same. “I mean, is this what you expected?” asked Miss Charming. Jane glanced at the lamp, wondering if Mrs. Wattlesbrook had it bugged. “I am Jane Erstwhile, niece of Lady Templeton, visiting from America,” she said robotically. “Well, I can’t take another minute. I’m going to go find that Miss Heartwreck and see what she thinks.” Jane’s gaze jumped from wall to window, and she watched for hints of the men out in the fields, wondering if Captain East thought her pretty, if Colonel Andrews liked her better than Miss Charming. Stop it, she told herself. And then she thought about Mr. Nobley last night, his odd outburst, his insistence on dancing with her, and then his abrupt withdrawal after one dance. He truly was exasperating. But, she considered, he irritated in a very useful way. The dream of Mr. Darcy was tangling in the unpleasant reality of Mr. Nobley. As she gave herself pause to breathe in that idea, the truth felt as obliterating as her no Santa Claus discovery at age eight. There is no Mr. Darcy. Or more likely, Mr. Darcy would actually be a boring, pompous pinhead.

Hey, GreenHollyWood ruin my vision. I don't want to be gay... because what's shown in Mr.Robot it's geysish, mother fucker!

The definition of teachers or gurus was unknown to everyone including the teachers in the campus. So the people present in the school campus weren’t teachers at all, he thought. They were just people supposed to act like robots and cram things related to the subjects in the brains of their students. A bit of general imparting of knowledge wasn’t allowed and was considered as impudence. With this brief recap of his past, the wandering mind of Mr. Patil came back to the present.

The definition of teachers or gurus was unknown to everyone including the teachers in the campus. So the people present in the school campus weren’t teachers at all, he thought. They were just people supposed to act like robots and cram things related to the subjects in the brains of their students. A bit of general imparting of knowledge wasn’t allowed and was considered as impudence. With this brief recap of his past, the wandering mind of Mr. Patil came back to the present.

It’s telling that Vyacheslav Molotov, the Soviet foreign minister, a man not exactly known for his kind and forgiving manner (“I have never seen a human being who more perfectly represented the modern conception of a robot” –Winston Churchill), showed more sympathy for Hamsun than did many Norwegians. When, during a 1944 meeting in Moscow, Molotov suggested that the 85-year-old novelist should be spared the firing squad after the war, the Norwegian justice minister in exile responded, “You are too soft, Mr. Molotov.

Mr. Boakye Antwi said the nature of Ghana's constitution made it almost impossible to hold the president and government accountable. He said MPs of the governing party must support the government in everything or get into trouble. "If your party is in office, you cannot go against the government. MPs are here like robots. You have to support the government, whether it is right or wrong. The party is weak when it comes to the government because nobody can tell the President what to do. It applies to both parties, not just the NPP. The Constitution has given the President far too much power, and we don't have powerful institutions to check the President. CHRAJ, Supreme Court and all those institutions are appointed by the President. And as an MP, once you disagree with the President, they will unseat you.

As I sat down, my eyes flicked to Ms. Kenyon. The smile hadn’t moved from her face. I briefly wondered if she was some kind of robot. No one could hold a smile for this long, surely? Mr. Tubbs cleared his throat again. “I’m sure you are wondering why you are here, Mr. Stevenson.

Mr. Struthers replaced his pince-nez in one convulsive movement and gave vent to a soft cough of discomfiture.

It’s a little more sordid now that my son might have a crush on her, but I’ll upgrade his fucking robotics lab or something, make up for stealing his girlfriend. Jet wouldn’t know what to do with Kennedy, anyway. I got a taste of her, and it made me want more.

sharp sword or a robotic warrior or a singing birdbath for your grandmother’s garden. Whatever you wanted. The other cabins filed in: Demeter, Apollo, Aphrodite, Dionysus. Naiads came up from the canoe lake. Dryads melted out of the trees. From the meadow came a dozen satyrs, who reminded me painfully of Grover. I’d always had a soft spot for the satyrs. When they were at camp, they had to do all kinds of odd jobs for Mr. D, the director, but their most important work was out in the real world. They were the camp’s seekers. They went undercover into schools all over the world, looking for

Gabrielle pressed a button on Mr. Recycle Doggy’s head. The sound of servomotors was heard over the din of dozens of conversations. The dog’s mechanical ears seemed to twitch, and its eyes lit up, glowing a bright green. It turned around, looking at its surroundings, and then it looked up at Gabrielle. Ah, what an amazing invention! Truly, Gabrielle is an astounding genius to be capable of creating something so beautiful! “All right, Mr. Recycle Doggy, show them what you can do and clean up some trash!” Mr. Recycle Doggy responded to her command by searching the area. Jameson leaned forward from where he’d hidden behind a cylindrical recycler, eager to see what sort of wondrous action his Gabrielle’s invention would do. Then the dog’s eyes locked onto him. Its glowing green eyes, which seemed almost hungry. “Bark! Bark!” “Ah! Wait, Mr. Recycle Doggy version four-point-o! Where are you going?” “WAAAAA!!!!!” Jameson screamed like a little girl as the mechanical dog charged at him. Leaping to his feet, he ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. Several hours later, a young couple would find him, unconscious and lying on the walkway, with a robotic dog chewing on what remained of his clothing.

This isn’t our first rodeo, Mr. Robot.

right to attack my son!” hollered Mr. Beaver.

across the stubbly fields. The cows and the humans spent hot days indoors. Only when the sun set and the air began to cool would they venture outside. The herd strolled out to graze under the stars, the children ran out to chase fireflies, and sometimes even Mr. Shareef stepped out to stretch his stiff legs. Trees swished in

better speak with Mr. Beaver. He