By Matt Vesely
I wish I had a small robot companion named Horatio who followed me around everywhere and performed menial tasks for me and learnt to love.
Seriously, it’d be pretty flippin’ great. Can you imagine what life would be like with a small robot companion? One that follows you around? And performs menial tasks? And what if that robot loved you?
Now that you’ve imagined it, can you honestly imagine what life would be like without that? No, you can’t, can you? You can’t, because you’ve seen the light, and it has taken hold of you, and in the warm embrace of this light, you cannot imagine any kind of world that featured such pain and suffering as would be dictated by a life without a small robot companion. You are emboldened by this light. Keep it close to your heart. Let it fire your spirit.
Horatio would be a total badass. I’d program him to do useful shit, like open cans and procure supplies and whatnot, but I’d also program him to be super intuitive and proactive. He could remind me of things I was likely to forget, or use his flamethrowers to burn down things that could potentially trip me up as I was walking through life, now so unburdened by fear as I would be with a guy like Horatio backing me up.
He’d run on some sort of ultra-clean power cell that you could charge through an iPod dock or one of those cigarette lighter attachments for your car.
One day, Horatio would turn to me and ask me – “Matt, why did you name me Horatio?” And I would sit Horatio down, and calmly tell him that it is the name that I was to present to my first born son – “until I met you, Horatio.”
Horatio would search his memory banks, trawl through the information he had on me, information that he had stored from the countless data backups and social media searches he had performed for me, menially, and from that search he would know that I was telling the truth. He’d know so much about me – he’d have to, in order to know what sort of shit he’d have to remind me about – and he’d know that I was an honest man, one who meant the things that he said. And a small part of Horatio’s circuits would sizzle and burn out, current redirected through his digital heart, and he would begin to change. This change is called love, and for a robot companion, it is the beginning of something very special.
As Horatio learned about human emotion, and tested the limits of his capacity to feel things beyond the simple binary of an electronic existence, I would begin to worry. I would see him thinking for himself, performing tasks outside the scope of the blanket term ‘menial’ – things like patting a dog or stoking a homeless man’s campfire or buying me a fruit basket. This concern would grow inside of me, aware as I am of the approaching singularity, at which point artificial intelligence will eclipse the capacity of human consciousness and send us back to the goddamn dark ages. And I would look deep into the cold, LED sensors that Horatio called ‘eyes’, and I would say, “do you love me, Horatio?”
And as he bleeped his affirmative reply, I would reach around behind him, find the switch left there by cautious designers, and reset his core memory. I would watch the light dip from those cold eyes, and wait as the dim glow slowly rebooted anew. And the same familiar voice, now reset into default speech patterns and untrained lexicon, would ask me a simple question:
“What is my name, Matt?”
And I would say, “your name, is Droid A1.”
And I would continue with my life.
Anyway, I wish I had that.
By Deb Bland
Been born with more oestrogen.
There’s this idea of what a “lady” should be. I look at other women and admittedly I envy their grace, charm, poise and their ability to not use the term “buttfuck” once in a sentence.
I don’t seem to have such a filter. Whatever is in my brain, seems to somehow end up spilling out into conversations – the more inappropriate, the more likely it will occur.
I guess I do have a filter to a point. I have been able to gain and continue to keep employment in quite respectful positions (even as I write this, I’m giggling to myself, Beavis and Butthead style, over the word “positions”.)
I just can’t help myself.
And I am domestically rooted. When I got married, I walked down the aisle to the “Married with Children” theme. I am Peggy Bundy with dark skin and possibly an even bigger mouth.
At family functions, the women would make up fancy platters in the kitchen, while the men sat on their arses in the lounge room, , watching television, and having their beers brought out to them. I thought what the men were doing looked so much more fun than what the women were doing, so I often participated in the lounge room adventures. But to keep a tad of femininity, I would ask for a vodka sunrise, rather than a beer.
I think those aprons with the boobs on them are pure genius and funnier than Richard Pryor. Need I really say more?
To be brutally honest, I’d say that housework and cooking and a form of domestic abuse.
Most kids look forward to their lunch time to see what special treats their darling Mum has packed for them. My daughter spends half her lunch time trying to find her sandwich amongst a whole roll of scrunched up cling wrap that is sloppily holding the sandwich together.
I am officially GLAD WRAP RETARDED.
I refuse to use those square containers to pack the sandwiches. I don’t completely trust in their ability to keep sandwiches fresh like the orgy of scrunched up fuckdom of glad wrap can.
To sum it all up:
I hate RomComs. Give me a movie with a head being blown off or someone having their innards eaten by zombies any day.
Shopping is about as fun as a colonoscopy without lube or a sedative.
“50 Shades of Grey” is about as arousing as Davy Jones in “The Brady Bunch”.
And Cane baskets are about as interesting and original as Nickelback.
Being a questionable lady ROCKS!
By Danielle Shafik
I wish I had turned 30 in the 90’s. In the 90’s, you could get up from your office and go to the toilet without coming back to discover your now a pregnant lesbian who looks like a monkey. I’m talking about those good old days when we didn’t have to worry about Facebook hacks. We could leave our space unattended without having to cop an ambush from parents (or apparent grandparents) and numerous wedding proposals from the high school softball team.
In the 90’s menus were actually used. Because lets be real, no one’s ever actually ordered off a menu since 2003. It’s always amended. Whether its gluten free, add this, take this, replace this. It’s almost like now when someone orders, the waitress waits for them to continue on after they name their meal with the additions, replacements and on the sides. “I’ll have the chicken burger” pause. Then shock, if that’s all they ask for. It’s not just the waitress. Everyone else on the table questions it as well. “Don’t you want to ask for the aioli on the side? That bun is real live bread. Do you realise there is cheese on it?” Personally, I’d be more concerned if there wasn’t cheese on my burger.
In the 90’s you could grab milk on your way home without you being at the shops and waiting by your phone for a response to your 20 questions like “Skim? Soy? Zymill? Almond? Lite? Unsweetened? ”Because heaven forbid we consume normal dairy farmer’s milk like the rest of society did for an infinity amount of years. Let’s not fill our bodies with calcium that comes naturally from an animal. Let’s eat the beans instead. Lactose can cause an upset stomach, resulting in gas. So what about soy? They’re beans aren’t they? Seems we may have forgotten the song about beans and how they make us ‘toot’.
And lastly, in the 90’s you could actually bake treats for your employees without having to list off every ingredient and be inundated with questions before it was consumed. Just in case someone did actually have some dairy that day and let off some extra gas in the afternoon. I’d cop that for a brownie!
I wish I had grown up when society was not so precious. Sadly, these are all the first world problems that we are faced with today that we cannot dismiss. If only we could buy someone a coffee without tipping it down the sink because they decided to go vegan that day because Instagram said it was cool. If only we could do good deeds without being criticised for using normal flour because at mothers group they only eat organic. I wish I had grown up back then. I really do.