Tobor: Chicanery Spelled Backwards

My first taste of true heartbreaking disappointment in this cold world arrived Christmas Eve, 1978, in the form of a product called "Tobor, the tele-sonic robot." I'd seen the commercial, so I was certain that all my woes would come to an abrupt end if I could only acquire this robot. The Mike Oldfield "Tubular Bells"-like soundtrack proved that Tobor was without a doubt a serious technological achievement to be reckoned with. I imagined that it would follow me to school, carry my books, crush my enemies, and foster a cult of adoration from the true believers. Say no more, sober narrator guy! I'm sold! And just look how happy that red-headed hillbilly idiot-boy is! So, I penciled in "Tobor" on the top of my Christmas list, and Santa came through a month later like I knew he would. Within 5 minutes of opening the box, I'd snapped the remote control's plastic antenna in half. Fuck! I flipped out, hoping superglue would fix it, because without the ability to control the robot, really, what's the point? And then I discovered that by simply clapping my hands, I could control the robot just as well as I could with the remote control. What a piece of crap! I'd effectively squandered the top slot of my Christmas list on a rolling Clapper. Fuck you, Tobor!