I was assembled on a bleak, wintry day in an automobile factory outside of Detroit. I would prefer to keep my birthplace anonymous though (due to the risk of a "factory recall").

For my first eight years, I worked in the crash test industry. This brutal and unflinchingly cruel punishment towards dummies took the life of my parents. The nightmare still haunts my chamois leather skin. I remember Ma and Pa strapped up inside the metal beast and forcefully propelled towards the imposing steel barricade. Over and over they were hurled at it, as the beast began to crumble and dent, and men in white lab coats smiled and took notes. On the eighteenth consecutive collision a roaring fire erupted. The yellow-suited men with fire hoses did not make it in time though.

My parents were seared and consumed by the raging flames.

Six months later, I escaped from the North through the Dummy Underground Railroad, an abolitionist, crash test dummy society that has aided in the defection of nearly 10,000 dummies. I will tell the story of my escape, in more detail, later.

I fled to the dummy-accepting city of Nashville, where my artificial intelligence is generally able to blend in among the country folk. Despite its predominantly pro-dummy population, the occasional ignoramus still attempts to plow me over with a pick-up though, as if he is some sort of modern, redneck gladiator.

Just prior to my ninth birthday, the Tennessee Initiative for the Relocation of Dummies (TIRD) placed me in a foster home. I am indebted to TIRD, but, honestly...I wish they had required a minimum IQ score for adoptive parents. I doubt Bobby and Bobbi could even spell IQ.