[Scene: A dimly lit dive bar on the 8th moon of the Plasmic Wastes. Neon signs flicker. Lou Toad nurses a bitterroot lager. Steel Falcon, a half-sentient AI in a glam rock exosuit, hums a Kraftwerk riff through its speaker-mouth.]
Steel Falcon:
You ever notice how Strange Planet is like if you took Douglas Adams, ran him through a kindness simulator, and dropped the result in a vat of pastel paint? I mean, those beings—they don’t even walk, they just kind of exist politely.
Lou Toad:
Yeah, it's like therapy disguised as animation. That one episode where they kept saying “I craved the orb,” and it turned out to be the moon? Brother, I felt that. That’s me at 3am with a guitar and no idea why my amp smells like cinnamon.
Steel Falcon:
It's all cinnamon and sadness, Lou. That's the flavor of modern life. But seriously—Strange Planet is pure philosophy, but wearing footie pajamas. And the way they just state feelings without any flair? That’s illegal where I’m from.
Lou Toad:
Where are you from again?
Steel Falcon:
Oh, I was coded in a malfunctioning synthpop lab on Europa. Raised on obsolete MIDI files and whispered gossip from retired Roland drum machines. My first word was “arpeggiator.”
Lou Toad:
That's beautiful. I was born behind a strip mall in Arkansas during a hailstorm. A dog barked and someone yelled "TOAD!" and it just… stuck. Anyway, the show—every time they say “mouth stone,” I giggle like I’m 11 and just found my dad’s old Iggy Pop records.
Steel Falcon:
I live for their terminology. “Vibrating creature.” “Moisture sack.” It’s like they’re describing humanity from the outside, which is frankly the only way I can handle it post-2016.
Lou Toad:
What do you think those beings would call The Electric Cowboy?
Steel Falcon:
Probably “audio-induced escapist identity fractal.” Or “harmony fugitive.” Either way, they’d cry and clap. I’d like to think they’d get you, Lou.
Lou Toad:
They better. I once cried to a Cracker Barrel jukebox, so I’m basically one of them already. You think they'd let me move there?
Steel Falcon:
Only if you stop referring to their food as “squishables.” And no stage-diving during their mating dances. They do not like that.
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