It started out fine. Backwards, but fine. My pride and joy was taking it's first steps across the living room rug. No Poppa was ever more proud. Until the back legs started rotating further to the side with each step, until they were swiveled ninety degrees from their starting orientation and the geometry couldn't take it anymore. Then it plopped over looking for all the world like a dying cockroach, legs frantically flailing about. Panic ensued. Somebody shot out the lights. Tactical operatives from the HomeOwner's Association crashed through the windows.