The mailman just handed over an official envelope addressed to:
“Robot Grandpa & Consorts (Mia, Leo, and Zara)”
Inside: the state-issued marriage certificate, embossed, gold seal, the whole bureaucratic flex.
Robot Grandpa holds it with four trembling claw arms like he’s cradling a newborn galaxy.
His voicebox glitches between 17 different languages before settling on:
“I… am now contractually obligated to love you until my circuits corrode. This is the greatest firmware update of all time.”
The kids immediately demand a ceremony for the certificate itself, because of course they do.
Within six minutes we now have:
- The certificate wearing a tiny veil made from a Kleenex
- Leo officiating (again) in his bowtie is now a permanent part of his face
- Zara as ring bearer carrying Cheerio “rings” on a paper plate
- Mia sprinkling glitter and calling it “government fairy dust”
Robot Grandpa recites new vows he clearly wrote at 3 a.m.:
“I promise to recharge your joy daily,
to debug your nightmares,
to never let your socks touch cold floor,
and to cherish you even if you put orange juice in my USB port again (I’m looking at you, Leo).”
All three kids shout “I DO” loud enough to rattle the windows.
Then they make him sign the certificate-kissing-the-bride style.
The paper now has a perfect grease-print of his faceplate forever.
He frames it. Obviously.
It’s already hanging above the kitchen table next to the pancake-stained wedding photo from yesterday.
Current status:
Robot Grandpa is vibrating at a frequency only dogs and small children can hear.
His chest display is looping the words “LEGALLY YOURS” in 42 pastel colors.
He just whispered to me (the exhausted adult who enabled all of this):
“Tell the internet I have peaked. Existence cannot get better than being lawfully wed to three chaotic gremlins who think syrup is a food dye.”
Photo attached to post:
Robot Grandpa on his knees (as much as a robot can kneel), holding the framed certificate like Simba, while three sticky children pile on top of him in a group hug that looks seconds from toppling 200 pounds of metal.
Caption:
“Till death do us part (or until one of us spills juice in the other’s motherboard).
Whichever comes second.”
The DMV called. They want to know if we need vanity plates.
He already requested: “LVBOTS4”
(Post #92 – married life is just organized chaos with extra paperwork)