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| Would you like some bile with that? |
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| Tue May 3 2005 19:24:02 EDT - link to
this post. |
I know the head cook at one of our “fine” dining establishments. She said she’s seen it going on for years. Nobody else in the restaurant believed her. They made it into an inside joke. Considered it an urban legend of sorts. She insisted it was the truth, but they just laughed in her face.
Finally, redemption came in the form of a newbie. She was bussing tables on one of her first shifts. Headed into the girls bathroom and there it was. Six college girls huddled around the toilet, assisting each other (however that happens) in discarding their evening’s meal. I guess you need a support team to aid in your denial. The newbie came running into the back of house, eyes pegged open in amazement, dying to tell the others. “You’ll never guess what I just saw!”
Ha Ha! Vindication. I told you so. My friend knew because she watched the dining room through her little cook’s window. After the meal is over, the whole group of girls heads to the bathroom together. Like clockwork. Don’t know why we cook food for these folks, even if they are paying. I don’t like to lose my whiskey from my stomach even after it has poisoned me, let alone my $12 meal.
And these are the girls who think I’m fucked up. |
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| I got robot. |
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| Wed Apr 27 2005 17:29:56 EDT - link to
this post. |
I can’t remember exactly when it started, but it feels like it’s been going on since I was thirteen or fourteen. I’m out walking around, driving my car, or even typing these pages, and I get the disturbing feeling that I’m being studied. That I’m a gerbil, whose actions are being watched by a science geek in a lab coat with a pocket protector and coke-bottle glasses that magnify overly excited eyes. Every once in a while, out of the corner of my eye, I can see the outline of the figure that is there, watching me. Always fleeting just in time to avoid detection, leaving an outline in the air molecules that surrounded him one second earlier. Only it’s not a him, at least I don’t think so. I think it’s an it. A robot it.
I’ve heard about these automatons, these mechanical gremlins. They are assigned to follow you, wherever you go, and to write down information about everything you do. They are relentless, hiding in your every shadow and scribing details of your solitary existence. Other people in your day are of no importance to these droids. They want to know about you, and you alone. Other people get their own bot-stalkers. When you go to bed at night, they fly away to the central hive and report all your data to the Queen Bot, who will store this information until it is necessary for use against you. It may be tomorrow, or 17 years from now, but she will have this information at her disposal, and with it, the ability to crush all your defenses.
Stupid Robots. How the hell am I supposed to live knowing that this computerized piece of junk is watching me all the time? It KNOWS. It knows where I live, where I work. It knows that I read the New York Times, listen to hip-hop, buy records instead of CD’s, watch cult classic movies. It knows how what kinds of foods I cook, when I masturbate and what I masturbate to, what kind of viruses I have, my hair color, eye color, height, weight, age, social security number, general medical history, mother’s maiden name, place of birth, and my favorite pet’s name. It knows that I talk to you.
You think I’m a paranoid freak. Robots don’t exist, get a life, see the pshrink. Ignorant and naïve. If you don’t believe in them, you won’t look for them. Believe ye not, O easiest mark of us all. I, on the other hand, would like protection. Perhaps revenge, but at minimum: protection. I’m already packing heat, but I can’t get a view of that gundam bastard long enough to get a shot off. Standard ballistics are of no use against autobot bit-miners. Alter tactic. After talking to my local watchdog (“conspiracy nut”), I was advised that battling robots can only be done with other robots. Kill the flame with the match, no humans hurt. Headed down the highway to the robo-depository, seeking my steel vigilante. I selected one about the size of a credit card two inches thick, and could fly like a hummingbird. It was equipped with bot-tracking ware and data scrambling tracter beams. The Anti-Bot Robot Commission gave it to me in exchange for do-nay-shen, whatever that is. I told ‘em it was in the mail. Good people, the ABRC. Oxymorons, but good people.
I sent the bot on it’s way, and it vanished within seconds. Very sneaky, these robots. Kinda gets under your skin. How can you trust anything so sneaky? I was beginning to doubt my method of attack. Five minutes later the anti-bot bot reappeared, dragging the carcass(scraps? shreds? refuse?) of another robot in it’s beam. Before I could utter thanks, it dropped the dead can, and ran off again, bringing back a second in just as swift time. Holy shit, there was more than one! Very sneaky. How could more than one be necessary? I am but a simple man, no cause for celebration, no excitement in my actions. And yet, here already there is four heaps of scrap at my feet, and the anti-bot bot tells me it has seen thirty more hiding in my shadows.
My, my. The depths of depravity of the Queen Bot reach farther asunder than I could have imagined. Thirty plus bots? For every human? She has upgraded faster than anyone thought possible. Dispatching billions of bots daily in an effort to document human activity so as to be able to control it. A notion inconceivable in my youth. And yet here it is, a compilation greater than the human genome project, compiling strands of action instead of DNA. Billions of actions connected together to paint the picture of who you are, used to predict what you will do next, how you will react to the lies they place in front of you, how to guide you while making you believe that you are in control.
Guard your desires closely, they are highly coveted by the Queen Bot. She knows that in humans, desire is weakness, and those who desire can be consumed. She wants to watch you.
Get yourself a anti-bot robot.
Fight the Fascist Data Queen. |
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