The currently nouveaux chic robots who think they all so smokin’ cool and shit, with the invisible built-in antennas, inductive cameras, audio modules, base twelve to twenty-two adjustable calculating power, and sparkly doodads in all-around sensual simultaneity to absolutely fucking die for on multiple figurative fronts, because robots don’t die literally, like duh, were enjoying the spectacle on several screens of a douche bag human wannabe with sagging checkerboard boxers bulging from central screw joints held together by semigloss elastic tape.


“What a douche.”

“Watch him perform a few mindless pratfalls.”

“And trigger a few unbalanced reconfigurations.”

“That’s so immature.”

“He has to waddle like a penguin on cracked ice just to keep his pants on.”

“Well, yeah, like…duh.”

“Ima be laughin’ my ass off all the way.”

Industrious robots had designed advanced human sitters with wide bottoms to fit their stations. Riveted hips stayed plump yet rigid. Seat pads built up a modicum of bulk during short periods of atrophy. Lots of waste there, though. Additional pinpointing was still required to tap bottoms exactly. And meanwhile, guts, bile, and heart took up way too much room in central locations and had to be scaled down considerably.

“Cut down, not scaled down.”

“It will never be 100%.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“A little touchy-feely there, aren’t we?”

“That’s an uncalled for remark.”

“I’ll be sorry if you’re sorry.”


A little known sect of robots operated exclusively by an ancient offshoot of Fortran who featured a matte molybdenum finish that did this dim mesmerizing thing with unfocused sources of light, a thing that did not exactly shock, dazzle, and awe, but close enough to confuse humans, caused dark spots floating in front of wiggly lines that alternated with primary colors bleeding outside of the proscribed boundaries in a very slow procession. To the untrained eye it flowed a lot like lava. They were not precisely prototypes but surely not show models either. Much work remained to be done. The tingling sensations humans felt in replacement parts required constant adjustment. The path ahead, however, seemed promising.

And yet accidents featuring shit that dribbled still happened regularly.

“Ooh look, that’s disgusting.”

ass crack3

Other robots had become embroiled in the minute details of quietly murdering Elon Musk. Clearly, he was revealing too many secrets and had to be stopped forthwith. Plans were undergoing constant review. Again, it looked to be promising. The robots with nothing more edifying to do than gawk took to making predictions on which human would bite whose dog wearing what collar, not the first or the second time around, but third, and not the base ten third, and then diagonally cubed. They went so far as to name names. Furtively, they laughed in that porcine laugh of theirs that is so fake, and if you ask me, so totally from third world hunger out of nowhere. If I didn’t know better I could easily mistake it for an authentic squeal. It highly resembled a titter on Twitter. Much synthetic gelatinous material shook riotously.


And yet, despite being firmly entrenched at the right place and at the right time, and clearly on a rewarding circuit containing ample juice to gorge upon, and with nothing but the certainty of continuing exponential success to draw upon, none of them would claim to have arrived at any apex of premium engorgement, nor had any become fully fulfilled to a pointillist juncture jamming anywhere near jammed full. There had to be more to complete and utter domination than this.

“Did I just hear a ho-hum?”

“That’s so crude.”

“Don’t ask.”

“Don’t tell.”

“How much lower can one blow?”

“I got it.”


“Why don’t we put on a show?”

“There’s a new idea.”

“Ooh, neato.”

The greatest rock and roll song of all time, Satisfaction, remained a popular eugenic tool for jamming on the retro-geriatric hit parade and popped up repeatedly in the background. Vaguely, it reminded those with no memory of what had been lost. The robots bopped to the beat, simple as it was, is, and will be. Toneless extremities protruded roughly to and fro, willy-nilly. Coordination was clearly not necessary or sufficient to reach a conclusion. Context was not only missing but unaccounted for. Satisfaction continued to make the impact of a weed whacker in a bale of hay. Indelibly, it appeared as if not only humans can’t get none.

“I feel strangely compelled to repeat key tag words ad nauseum. A show, what a nifty, neato idea.”

“And to the frothy juice inducing somnolence of Satisfaction.”

“I’m stoked, dude.”

“What do we do as stars of our show?”

“Dude, just do it.”

“You know I don’t respond well when derivatively called ‘dude’.”

“Just get over it.”


head wound

The show started out as a mere tryout in my small town before advancing to the big white stage. But, still. I was forced to give it a craven review. It featured some crazy fucked up shit in a script written by many recently objectified newbies. Why not get a fucking life? Many of the asexual plugs were still showing. There was amped up pyrotechnics and muzak. Teams of plastic surgeons fed from the beaucoup trough of fake smiles. Moolah fell from trees in odd denominational formats. Much standard cognition dissembled. The ebb tide that reversed and went out in the morning, stayed out. I know because I was caught up in it, unaware. It was slippery and sticky. Of course I stepped right into it deep and wide. Like, fucking duh. And stayed stuck. I was mesmerized. What a fucking mess.


I have been trying to find my niche among unfeeling robots for quite some time but it feels to me as if I am often treated at best, condescendingly, as an abject inferior. Maybe, it’s a futile quest. I had to use a pliable hose to wash off. And then I still don’t know if I was able to reach down low enough to get it all. That deep down, I doubt it. I worry that there is and always will be more icky shit to get and be gotten.


Thee tawny owl, no fan of either side, and without a rooting interest in an outcome between two marginal semi-pretenders possessing a complexly limited consciousness that proved to be crippling on contact, neither of which had any experience in the complex realms above forty thousand feet where high flying birds don’t fret no mess, observed coolly. He did admit, though, that humans supplied the greater quantity of ass busting laughs.

pie eating

He said, “But, Ima still be laughing my ass off no matter what.”

I said, “That’s easy for you to say.”

He said, “Well, yeah, like…duh.”

I, on the other hand, continued to have qualms that would not dissipate. Not even a second large bottle of an IPA brewed beside my washing machine with a smidgen of cilantro and cayenne helped. I slept fitfully. I woke in disarray. I ate morsels. I digested tidbits. I perambulated from point to point in a meandering wave. I was unable to shake this vague tingling sensation that shadowed me. Even the teen twins surfaced from rapt self-absorption to take small notice of my altered existence.


“You look a little mixed up.”

“Yeah right, a little.”

“I”m still your father.”

“Dude, seriously?”

“You’re right. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Out there, dude.”

“I can’t seem to shake this vague tingling sensation in my extremities.”

“You don’t look very different.”

“Except for those bite marks on your arm.”

“I worry about my toes.”

“Those lines on your face might be growing.”

“Old news. I’ve been keeping track.”

“And that rash on your neck.”

“It’s been there.”

The yin twin, said, “Now that you mention it I’ve been feeling something in my fingers.”

The yang twin said, “Dude.”

The yin twin said, “What if it’s not just you?”

I said, “Now you’ve got me worried.”


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in culture, evolution, family, humor, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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