Futurama

I fear I may not survive this war reenactment.

I can't believe we're only 12 feet from the parking lot.

This is every bit as fun as the real Civil War.

Not the Civil War, private.

We're reenacting the Sith-al War.

Sith?

What the hoth?

Enemy invaders up in yonder sky!

I am Darth Stroyer.

Darth Stroyer?

That's the stupidest name I've ever heard.

Let's hear the rest.

Darth Trocious.

Darth Sploder.

Darth Urderer.

Darth It-head.

Company, attack!

Don't fire till you see the greens of their eyes.

It saves on bullets.

I shall rip out your heart and show it to you.

It is done.

The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.

Mm-hmm.

Whoa!

You're dead.

No, I'm just very old.

Whoa, that's good acting.

It's payback time, Sploder.

Tell my mother...

To pick me up outside Quizno's.

That's three dead.

Whoa-ooh.

Let's pick up the pace, people.

At this point in the actual War, the death toll was 98 million.

You humans and your fragile organs.

One little stab to the goo, and...

You're dead, Earth man.

Oh, cruel fate,

I'm dead.

They're putting me in my Sunday suit

and shoving me in a wooden box.

Now they're lowering me into the cold, cold ground.

Hello, here come the worms.

If you were really dead, you wouldn't be laughing so hard.

Yeah, yeah, death's a big deal to you flesh bags,

but in case you didn't notice, I'm a robot.

So? What if something heavy fell on you, like a church?

You could still die.

Nuh-uh.

My wireless backup unit saves a copy of me every day,

so if my body gets killed, big whoop,

I just download into another body.

I'm immortal, baby.

What?! Then how come you always scream

so much when you're in danger?

I never said I wasn't a drama queen.

And the winner of the war is...

Ah, let me just cross-check my tabulation here.

Factor in the corsages for the widows...

Hurry up, you number-crunching crumbnuncher.

Everybody but me is dying of old age.

Okay... ah.

The winners, at a net cost

of only $12 per life cut tragically short,

our Sith Overlords.

Hot diggity.

Oh, I mean...

Supreme diggity.

Good war, good war, good war...

It may have been a fake war, but my scuffed knee is all too real.

I've got pains in joints I had removed a century ago.

Bender, bring me my soft chair with the wheels on it.

- Your wheelchair? - I don't need a wheelchair!

The one with the wheels.

Poor flimsy humans.

Don't you wish you were flawless like me?

A towering inferno of physical perfection?

I hate to pop your blimp-like ego, but you are not perfect.

- Am so. - Are not.

- Is too. - Says who?

Says the only human

whose opinion I even remotely respect.

Inspector Five, the best inspector

a kid could want.

The day I was built, he looked me over,

probably with tears of pride in his eyes,

and proclaimed to all the world, by means of this scrap of paper,

that I was perfect and infallible in every way.

Hey, Mr. Perfect,

you wet the chair.

Huh? Wasn't me.

Must be some of that urine you're all so proud of.

That's not urine. It's oil.

Impossible.

I'm triple-sealed to prevent any chance of...

You call that an ink defense?

Good-bye, friends.

What could have caused the leak?

Excessive heat, on account of I'm so hot?

Alas, no.

Oh, Bender, I'm afraid it's a symptom of a fatal defect.

Eh, fatal, shmatal.

If I die, I can just download my backup copy

into a new, equally fabulous body.

That's just it. You can't.

You were built without a backup unit.

There's no backup copy of me?

That's what I just said, you mortal coil.

So, if I die...

You die, or as you put it...

Um, excuse me for a moment.

No...!

I can't believe it! I'm gonna die!

How much time does he have left, Professor?

Between a minute and a billion years.

Well, at least you can plan accordingly.

Dying sucks butt!

How do you living beings cope with mortality?

- Violent outbursts. - General sluttiness.

Thanks to denial, I'm immortal.

Damn it, I'm supposed to be perfect!

Inspector Five gave me his blessing!

How could he bring me into this world, knowing I would die?

So you wish you were never born, maybe?

Yes, anything less than immortality

is a complete waste of time.

Then suicide it is.

Step into my office.

I'll give you a nice kevorking.

Not until I hunt down Inspector Five

and beat an explanation out of him.

I'm all for a good beating, but you'll never find him.

Product inspectors are bureaucrats,

faceless bean-counters who blend into the woodwork.

I beg to differ.

Stinkin' bureaucrats... I hate 'em!

Then again,

you might be able to find Inspector Five

with the help of another seasoned bureaucrat.

Hermes, old pal.

Old pal?

8.5 seconds ago, you said you hated me.

Time heals all wounds.

You know what? I will help you,

but only to prove I'm not just a paper-pushing file jockey.

Will you be taking your portable filing cabinet?

None of your beeswax.

I'll only be away an hour,

but I'm counting on you to do

the all-critical filing in my absence.

Shall we review alphabetical order?

Yes, I'd like to request a death certificate.

Sorry, that's Building C.

The Central Bureaucracy

maintains records on all bureaucrats.

We should be able to look up Inspector Five.

Application for ingress approved.

And the other potential entrant?

Uh... he's my pencil sharpener.

You betcha!

Proceed.

I maintain a cubicle here for weekend getaways.

Wow.

Until now, I thought giant cubes were exciting.

I did like the part where they screamed.

This is mine,

right next to the Center Square.

Sorry, Hermes, I drank all your white-out.

Once I log in, I can access Inspector Five's profile.

Damn it, it won't go on!

That's because you're not me.

Hooray, it won't go on!

The bureaucra-scan won't let anyone

but the assigned bureaucrat log in.

Identity confirmed.

Also, you have a rectangular mass in your colon.

That's a calculator. I ate it to gain its power.

You locate Inspector five while I slip into my ass-kicking feet.

Sweet file-not-found-of-puegot sound.

His record's been blanked.

Aw, man.

How am I gonna find some anonymous guy

I don't know anything about?

I recommend the men's room at the Twa Terminal.

Okay, just file it alphabetically...

Well, this requires a little extra thought.

I'm a natural.

The information we need will be here, in the physical files.