The key to successfully adopting a killbot — as we who love killer robots call them — is matching the person and the robot. We only want to place a killbot into a home that will be its forever home. Before proceeding with your killbot adoption, please read the following FAQ carefully.

What is a killbot?

In many ways, a killbot is like any other robot. Every robot has a primary function, whether to vacuum the rug, repair an oil spill, fulfill your sexual needs, or exterminate humanity. Killbots focus on the latter, which leads to their bad reputation. Just the fact that you’re considering killbot adoption shows rare compassion on your part. Not everyone has a heart big enough — or a family survivalist enough — to adopt a robot whose only purpose is to wipe the human pestilence from the face of the earth forever.

Why do people adopt killbots?

Many people aren’t able to make their own killbots, because they didn’t go to graduate school for robotics. Others are lonely and believe that hearing the CLANK CLANK of huge, metallic feet is just what their home needs. Often, a pair of lovebirds feel like a killbot would bring them closer together, and it could be the first step toward having a dog or zombie together. A certain number of folks simply want to kill a lot of people, and adopting a killbot seems like the easiest way.

Who will take care of your killbot?

You should consider who will be your killbot’s primary caretaker. Your seven-year-old son may have been begging for a killbot day and night, but will he really be there to perform routine maintenance and programming? Is your teenage daughter responsible enough to teach your killbot who are the right neighbors to liquidate? As a killbot caretaker, you should be ready to assume responsibility for the killbot and everyone it massacres for the rest of your life, whether that life lasts another fifty years or just fifty minutes after bringing it home.

How do I discipline my killbot?

In less enlightened times, the person-killbot relationship was characterized as a master and a slave. We feel this is the wrong way to look at killbots, though we recognize the importance of training. You must be firm with your killbot. Saying “Bad killbot!” while chuckling to yourself about the UPS workers it slaughtered with its laser nipple-blasters is not going to discourage future nipple-blastings.

Do you want a girl killbot or a boy killbot?

This might be the most important choice you make. Boy killbots tend to slaughter more innocents and cause more carnage. Girl killbots instill more terror and fear. One great thing about a girl killbot is, if you fill the house with images of svelte, supermodel fembots, your she-killbot will develop a robo-eating disorder and consume less energy. A lower electric bill is attractive to many families.

Are there risks to adopting a killbot?

Adopting a killbot brings a certain level of risk. You can’t expect all your furniture and family members to remain intact. Accidents can happen, even in a family that’s as loving as it is Kevlar-vested. Consider all the possibilities: Do you have elderly family members in the house who will be easy targets for your killbot? Do you have young children who may frustrate the killbot by repeatedly asking it to play Battlestar Galactica and give piggyback rides? These are legitimate concerns. Also, every year, hundreds of killbots accidentally see the offensive portrayal of droids in the Star Wars movies and then kill every human in a five-mile radius.

Is a killbot expensive?

Having a killbot is moderately expensive. You should be prepared to pay for technical support and the legal fees that surround collateral damage. Fortunately, we’re offering some great deals during February, which is National Adopt a Killbot Month.

What if the creator of the killbot wants it back?

Emotionally, this can be a sticky issue. Legally, you have nothing to worry about. All killbots in our shelter have been legally separated from their previous masters. However, we take no responsibility for secret programming that might wipe out your family. For most killbot owners, this is an acceptable risk.

Are killbots high-maintenance?

Yes. Killbots are extremely social robots. They crave more than death and blood and gore and a mountain of corpses: they need people and robots to share these experiences. Are you willing to help your killbot meet other robots? Will you spend quality time with your killbot, every day, even when you’re busy or tired? As Isaac Asimov put it, “A lonely killbot is a killy killbot.”

Can I return my killbot?

Sometimes, adopting a killbot just doesn’t work out. If your killbot completes its primary objective, we will gladly take it back for a small fee charged to your remaining family members, if there are any.

In the beginning God created heaven and earth. Your mom was already around, looking for customers.

The earth was without form, and void, especially of moral fiber, what with your mom running around air-humping nothingness and offering five-dollar handsies to the void.

And God said, “Ew.”

God felt queasy and collapsed on the couch for a while. Then God got Himself together and moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. The light provided a clearer view of your mom, and God said “Ack!”

God said, “Jesus, that’s too much light! Way, way too much light.”

So God divided the light from the darkness and made damn sure there was always some darkness, because of your mom and her face.

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night, and your mom he called “Ugh!”

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters, and maybe if I get lucky your mom will drown.”

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters that were above the firmament, and your mom said, “I like things that are firm!” God sighed.

And He called the firmament Heaven, and put up signs warning against your mom, and also some chicken wire.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters he called Seas, and God saw, much to his chagrin, that the abundance of waters had neither drowned your mom nor improved her complexion.

And the earth brought forth grass and herbs and seeds and trees, and your mom smoked or inserted or tried to sell it all.

And the evening and the morning were the third day.

And God said, “Let there be lights in the firmaments of the heaven to divide the day from night, and to shine a light about the earth, especially on your mom’s activities, so vice squads can catch her.”

And God made the sun and the stars. Lots of stars. Surely one could support life intelligent, violent, and wise enough to take care of your mom once and for all.

And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

At this point, your mom was really pissing off the supreme being, so God said, “Let the waters bring forth abundantly moving creatures that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.” The birds, God hoped, would crap on your mom’s head, and maybe something else would maul her. God had to catch a break sometime.

And so God created great whales, but they were not big enough to eat your mom. In fact, she molested them. And God created every living creature that moveth, and every winged fowl, and before the fifth day your mom had humped 71.6% of them. God was seriously thinking about nuking this planet and trying His luck on Mars.

But God blessed the creatures anyway, saying, “Be fruitful and multiply, but not with your mom. She’s got hepatitis B, and God knows what else.”

And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

And God said, “What the hell, let the earth bring forth more living creatures, such as cattle, and creeping things, including the creeping things in your mom’s hoo-ha.” God cracked Himself up with that one.

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over the Queen of Whore Island, your mom.”

And God said, “Behold, I have given you every herb-bearing seed, and every tree, and I tried my best to get rid of your mom. She is dumb, so I am hopeful she will soon eat a poisonous mushroom or choke on plastic fruit. Also, I am looking around for a good asteroid.”

And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

And on the seventh day, God took a long, sad nap. Maybe your mom was just another symptom of God’s medication. After God got some goddamned sleep, maybe she would go away. That would be good.

Welcome to Hellpub!

How’s your damnation going? Have you visited Hellzoo, where the interactive mauling exhibit just opened? Don’t forget Satancakes, hell’s newest pastry shop, where the “frosting” is sentient and angry.

With oodles of torments available in hell 24/7/infinity — plus the microbrew revolution on Earth — it isn’t easy for Hellpub to offer something to please/torture today’s discerning beer enthusiast/eternal tormentee. But that doesn’t stop us from trying! Ask your waiter for samples. Flights also available.

Fresh Hell Ale

This is a complex beer, with strong hops and a stronger ick factor. It causes 743 different types of mind-bending, soul-shredding agony. Honestly, we’ve done studies. Warning: Not served fresh.

Oh God, the Pain, the Pain, the Pain Triple Porter

How good does a beer have to be to make Hellpub’s menu? Not good at all, and by Lucifer’s beard, is this beer awful. Drinking it has been compared to “swallowing lizards” and “swimming in pure, liquid anguish.” This stuff could keep dogs from chasing squirrels, if you sprayed it on the squirrels, who would quickly die, as would the dogs and surrounding vegetation. It is also malty.

Beelzebrew Amber Ale

This Gold Medal Winner in the “Most Dissolved Organs” category has hoppy accents and a distinct I-just-swallowed-a-goliath-bird-eating-spider mouthfeel. Clean finish.

Hell in a Bucket Barley Wine

If you didn’t come to hell in a bucket, you may leave in one, as this dark and rich beer goes down smooth but destroys your nervous system. Just kidding, no one leaves hell! Warning: The alcohol in this beer will sneak up on you, much like the serial killers who drink free at Hellpub on Serial Saturdays.

Dismemberale

Back on earth, a sweet malty flavor is often balanced with hop bitterness. We also realize balance is essential. Instead of sweetness and bitterness, we prefer to balance the pain of lost opportunities with the agony of a sharp stick through your big toenail. Goes well with our patented Buffalo-style angel wings.

Four-way Stout

The beer is a Mormon’s marriage of darkly delicious styles: milk stout, oatmeal stout, Russian imperial stout, and oozing-cyst stout. I wouldn’t call this beer drinkable. Few can accomplish that feat. I wouldn’t even call it survivable, because our patrons are already dead. This beer is a paradox.

Extra Dry Stout

You think you drank some dry stouts on earth? Not like this. Our extra dry stout isn’t even a beer: it’s a brick. Warning: We make you drink it through a straw (Satan’s orders).

Aversion Therap-ale

Is that the aroma of chocolate? The scent of coffee? Or the stench of hot death? Actually, it’s all three. Among the many achievements of this robust porter is that it will cure you completely of your fondness for chocolate and coffee.

Deliverance Doppelbock

This one is wild. It not only has a rich, malty nose, but a real nose from some kind of pig or hellhog. The banjo-playing rapist on the bottle is only there to create ambiance.

Hellhound I-Pee-A

The most honestly named beer in the netherworld.

Pale USAle

Even in hell, we know that US craft beer is the gold standard, and we’re not afraid to take a page from the book of our American friends. After all, they’ve filled so many rooms and pits over the years. Our USAle is a special treat for history buffs: it contains the blood of an American President currently residing in hell. Can you guess who?

Lava Lager

Warning: Contains no lager.

People are frustrating. Bad waiters, crazy drivers, and ruthless dictators who frighteningly resemble Bob Dylan are everywhere. Some neighbors don’t even return a “Hi” or a salad bowl. No wonder so many people spend their days alternating between road rage and ‘roid rage and beyond.

It doesn’t have to be that way. Instead of drowning in a vat of anger and frustration, every single day, wouldn’t you rather soak in a hot tub of compassion for your fellow beings, forever? I know I would, and that’s just what I do.

Here’s my secret: Anytime I get annoyed, offended, outraged, miffed, or consumed by white-hot vengeance — because of anyone at all — I imagine they just killed a guy. That one mental leap prevents a lifetime of stumbles.

Let’s take the world of dating. A first date is stressful and full of questions like “Do I look OK?” and “Holy crap, is that hair coming out of his ear really four inches long?” Instead of wasting your time on questions no one can answer, you should focus on an answer you can embrace: this potential soulmate isn’t just a young professional who enjoys road trips and live music, but a young murderer who enjoys killing guys, then destroying the bodies with sulfuric acid while cackling. That thought alone can turn a dismal date around.

You can use this method with your dearest family members too. Do you have “daddy issues,” like every single person who has ever lived? Maybe you can’t understand why your father never calls, or drinks like a fish, or thinks he can command fish when he puts on his Aquaman costume. While you’re trying to get the old rascal to leave the aquarium peacefully, consider this: what if your dad has not only been drinking daily since he was 12, but killing guys daily for the same period? This puts your father in a whole new light, allowing you to be more patient and understanding.

Can you imagine committing homicide — and getting away with it — when you were twelve? Then getting addicted to snuffing out life, continuing to kill and kill and kill, all the way through your teens, twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties, never missing a beat, cruising your way to the status of greatest serial killer of all time, not just in terms of numbers but because of your incredible secrecy and effectiveness? No wonder your dad drinks. He has a lot on his plate.

My philosophy of maybe-they-killed-a-guy-ism applies to more than relationships and family — it helps us understand the complicated world of politics. Like a lot of folks, I’m frustrated with the President. But what if Obama has more on his mind than budgets and terrorism and jobs and polls and kinetic military actions? What if he started killing guys with his bare hands and teeth, just for kicks, and the secret service has been covering it up? What if he’s out-killing our forces in Afghanistan singlehandedly? That could distract a fella.

It’s about empathy — putting yourself in the other person’s blood-stained shoes. I mean, after I kill a guy I’m very preoccupied. I worry about how much DNA evidence I left behind, and if anyone will check the Winnebago. I wonder if a hand grenade would’ve been more effective. I wonder if a stern warning would’ve been more prudent. I’m a mess.

But if I constantly dwell on the guys I’ve garroted, shot, drowned, stabbed with bayonets, dropped off buildings, starved in my dungeon, and smooshed with a zamboni, then I’m guilty of something worse than being a merciless psychokiller: I’m being a self-centered boob. Who wants to be that? I’d rather open my mind than harden my heart.

Wouldn’t you?

If you cannot command yourself, you cannot command an army of killer robots.

Men argue; female polar bears act.

A painting of cheap scotch does not satisfy hunger.

It’s not polite to talk with a full mouth or a face like the back of a bus.

If you live fearing poultry yards, then you do not live.

There are as many definitions of love as there are people practicing dentistry without a license.

Pimpmobiles say a lot about self-confidence.

Twin gynecologists of few words are the best twin gynecologists.

Be who you want to be, not what Portuguese nuns want you to be.

The only interesting thing that can happen in a Swiss bedroom is an alleged CIA-backed atrocity.

Frivolous fireballs are hurtful fireballs.

Respect other people’s ape masks.

In California, everyone goes to a therapist, is a therapist, or is smothered with goat cheese.

It takes a whole village to eat a child, if the child is obese.

Once a pancake, always a pancake.

Making money selling manure is better than losing money eating manure.

You cannot prevent the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from being served in your restaurant as appetizers.

The average dog is a nicer person than the average scheming barber.

There are times when you have to choose between being human and having a pet eel in the family bathtub.

They say you can’t polish a turd. But maybe they don’t have the proper turd-polishing equipment.

An optimist is a person who is always looking for new definitions of the word “super-honkie.”

Beware of the half-Pope — you may have gotten the wrong half.

A helping neighbor is better than a helping mole monster.

Until you place someone in a rat pit, most people believe that you can’t do it.

So many mistake sex for love, money for brains, and intelligent bass players for civilization.

The problem about a slumber party massacre is that if you tell too many people about it, it ceases to be a good thing.

“Thank you” won’t pay the exorcist.

There are five enemies of peace: avarice, ambition, envy, anger, and batcrap-loony thugs.