Chuck: Guess I text too much about Mr. Roboti or something.
Me: It's your favorite song.
Chuck: IT'S YOUR FAVORITE SONG.
Me: You slow dance to it by yourself in the bathroom with the lights out when I'm not home. I know.
Chuck: No. You blare it with the windows down when you cruise past the DQ.
Me: You roller skate to it in the basement.
Chuck: You dress up as it for Halloween.
Me: You wrote the lyrics on your lunch sack.
Chuck: You make it the theme of your 10th birthday party.
Me: You made a mix tape of it that only had that song over and over and over. But you could only fit 67 percent of the song at the end of Side B.
Chuck: You got the iron-ons of that song from the Scholastic book club and made your mom put them on your PJs.
Me: You wrote a short story that included a character named Mr. Roboto in your junior high English class, then brought your boom box to school so you could play the song during your presentation, but the tape was a little warped and it sounded like shit and you got a B.
Chuck: Your science project involved a caterpillar named Kilroy whose name was supposed to be changed to Mr. Roboto when he emerged as a butterfly. He never emerged, but you got an A anyway due to the sheer passion of your report.
Me: You signed up for the West Duluth talent show where you were going to wear tight jeans, a sleeveless shirt and have a comb sticking out of your back pocket. You were going to lip-sync and spazz dance to it, but your brother saw you practicing, said you were gay, and you started listening to Rush instead.
Chuck: You did the exact same thing you just described, except you didn't start listening to Rush, you kept listening to Mr. Roboto.