My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

Deep in the biotech colony of South San Francisco a new race of humans is being engineered. By human engineers. They want to look good. They’re only human after all. A series of service vans are contracted to provide necessities not found on the acres of manicured campus that houses the laboratorys and research centers ensconced in stucco and glass towers not far from the Bay. Perhaps a seagull occasionally wheels through the currents above but there are no merchants in this city, only developers. Footpaths hedged with shrubs link parking lots together but you don’t pass a newsstand. So the rolling storefront is born. Every Thursday you can step into a hair salon that gets 12 miles to the gallon. And the familiar tootling of a taco truck horn is of course nothing like the sound a hairdresser equipped to do nails has under the hood. Anywhere there is a captive audience there will be a sales pitch. The dreamer who trailers in a video game arcade with Galaga, a cocktail table Ms. Pacman, the machine that accepts ones and fives and returns quarters. This is that person’s moment. Those of you wondering where your next paycheck is coming, pay attention. This is an economic opportunity. Look beyond the stigma of a construction site lunch truck or that weird van at the beach selling tie-dies. What can you bring to the table? Or to be clearer, what can you bring to the office park?