Amorous automaton, find me Jolie this very instant!
My friend Kevin is disappointed with this new millennium because he was just so set on sexy robots.”I want sexy robots to do my bidding,” he says, exhaling heavily and coughing a bit. “That’s what we were promised.”I know that when he gets like this there’s no stopping him. He lights a cigarette and moans that this – lighting his cigarette – is EXACTLY the sort of thing a sexy robot should be doing for him. Same with preparing food, selecting music or doing laundry.”Like Rosie from the Jetsons,” he says, throwing in a load of whites. “Only hot.”I know what he means, because Kevin and I have seen the same films and read many of the same magazines. But his incessant complaining has worn me down, which is the best state in which to have an epiphany.”Wait a minute,” I yell, “we DO have sexy robots to do our bidding!””Huh?” he replies.Well, not really. Nobody really says “Huh?” But for the sake of moving this tale along, let’s assume he does, and that by way of answering I point to the laptop computer sitting on his coffee table.”Where?” he asks.I point harder.”Under the computer?””No,” I say, continuing this fictitious exchange based loosely on actual events, “it IS the computer.””Zoinks!” he doesn’t say, but means. “Tell me more.””OK, then. I will, because it’s suddenly so clear to me.” I settle back into his chair, feeling at ease and comfortable with myself, take a long, deep breath, and immediately fall asleep.”Wake up,” Kevin says. “You were going to tell me about the robots.”I make a quick breakfast, because I have to have breakfast right after waking up, then I explain my theory while he interrupts with the occasional “huh?” “wow” and “well, I’ll be.””Sexy robots to do your bidding, huh? Well, my friend, what does your bidding more than your faithful laptop computer? It holds all of your addresses and phone numbers. It sends and receives messages from your friends. It balances your checkbook. It organizes your CD collection.””But it doesn’t dust my house while wearing a French maid’s outfit,” Kevin countered.”Aha! But it does!””It does? How?””I’ll get to that. But first let’s talk about the Internet, the vast pool of knowledge that you get to swim in via the sexy robot that is your laptop computer. Want a recipe? A song? A state capitol? To find an old classmate? To identify that rash? Want to buy some stuff? Any sort of stuff you can imagine? All you have to do is say, ‘Sexy robot, do my bidding.'””Well, you can’t just say it … you have to type it,” Kevin counters.”Aha! And what could be sexier than typing? So tactile, so personal, so hands-on. Sexy robot, let me fondle and caress you into doing my bidding.””I’m just not buying the sexy part. There’s nothing sexy about my computer,” Kevin says, making me wonder why I ever bothered to befriend such a contrarian.”Well, that’s because you didn’t get a Mac.””I don’t care how sexy you think your Mac is, it doesn’t look like Angelina Jolie.””Aha!” I say, realizing too late that I’ve already said “aha” twice. “But it will go out and find sexy pictures of Angelina Jolie for you. For free. Naked pictures if you pay.””Say, you’re right,” Kevin says, beginning to see things my way yet again. “And that’s pretty sexy.””Yes it is. You see, these sexy robots who do our bidding have crept up on us. At first they weren’t all that sexy and didn’t do all that much of our bidding, but we got used to them, took them for granted while they just got sexier and more capable, and now they far surpass anything in your 1950s sci-fi movie robot fantasy.””Golly.””Damn straight,” I cry, feeling victorious. “Welcome to the world of sexy robots doing your bidding!””So, how does it dust my house, exactly?””Uh, hang on … I need to take this call.”Barry Smith’s column runs in The Aspen Times on Mondays. His e-mail address is barry@Irrelativity.com, and his very own Web page is at http://www.Irrelativity.com
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