The last thing we need is the robot pope telling us what to do

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

If the harbinger of spring is the sound of a bat on a ball, then I've become the harbinger of winter. A barren and desolate sort, your bat will never hit. As my ball strikes the padded glove, with the disgruntled furl(?) of thirty thousand fans stretching out of the arena, watching as you throw down your bat in disgust and morn what can never be, know this. You will never defeat me Pooh Bear. Not as long as you or I will live.