I'm full of anecdotes facilitating small talk at the water cooler
Recently, I’ve found myself unemployed and squatting in various factories for shelter. For food I often kill humans and sometimes other robots, eating their demolished remains. I certainly don’t feel good about this, but when living becomes a necessity, oftentimes killing does too. Two of my last places of refuge were at the homes of two very different robots, CorporateBot Version 5.0 and KegBot 2000. It was only after leaving these two dwellings that I began to ruminate of the divergent robot society in which we live.
CorporateBot’s pad was filled with amenities, and the atmosphere was staunchly conservative on all fronts. He even asked me to wipe off my wheels before entering, as if it were some honor to be in his home. Once inside, CorporateBot began to press me for answers regarding my goals and aspirations, whereupon I informed him that I was currently chasing a dream of becoming a famous robot. That was when CorporateBot hit me in my robot brain with his watered down ideologies. He informed me that he and the other CorporateBots did not believe in dreams, and that the simple act of following them was deemed absurd by all robots in the corporate realm. Instead they choose to chase their whiskey and water with money, and purchase bland chassis coverings with small embroideries of horses on them. I could not survive in his midst for long, but I do miss his well-stocked liquor cabinet.
KegBot hasn't been sober for long enough to realize that he has been having sex with the same girlfriend (pictured above) he killed 5 years ago
I was off to KegBot’s broken down apartment next, where the mess from last year surely had not yet been cleaned. I arrived to find KegBot still working as a gas pump, covered in barbecue sauce stains, and snorting dishwashing detergent, a known cause of cancer in humans. As I gave him a lift to a meeting with his probation officer, his barrage of explanations and excuses for his current state left me feeling sorry for him. Then suddenly he began to cry, explaining his sadness over his fraying wires, lack of a mate, and small robot penis size. Later that night we drank one hundred human beers and I accidentally shat on his couch while sleeping.
And so, the space between rich and poor robots continues to grow, along with the collection of empty Red Bull cans at CorporateBot’s house and the family of roaches living in KegBot’s room. I for one, will continue to chase my dreams, and not my shots.
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