Imagine it is your final frame of what has, up to this point, been a perfect game of bowling. You blow on your fingers and select your ball, steadying its heft with your off hand. You try your best to move regularly, breathe regularly, and put irregular thoughts out of your head, because regular, flawless bowling is what got you to this point, and it's what's going to get you that 300. You stride toward the lane, swing your arm and hurl the ball forth. The release feels true. The spin is perfect. The trajectory looks right on--MUTOMBOOOOOOO! Your ball slams into the pin-setting rake with a thud, caroming backward as the pins get swept away. The rack dropped at exactly the right moment, as if it had a malicious will of its own, but you suspect it was your fault. You take another roll, but you know full well you're not gonna take all ten pins this time, and you don't. 297.
This, via The Turnstile, sucks. This is how the robot uprising begins.