Warning: I am still cold-sick & am full of difficult medications. So before I tell you why robots will eventually enslave us & make us into no better than toasters for their sick fantasies, let me assure you that I am as lucid as the old mill stream. Or if I could put it in limerick form:
There once was an inveterate drummer,
Whose lack of teeth made him a gummer,
Hoof & mouth disease
Had killed all his fleas
But they couldn't kill his neighborhood plumber.
I drifted off there for a second. What was I saying? Something about the nascent probability of orbital decay? That old party fluke? I never! Still, when it's balmy out, the medication makes me feel the strangest pure joy. I should like to blow my nose exclusively in the shower. We wait, don't we, for the many ways to bend & unbend.
Still not convinced? Exhibit R: robots! They may seem lovable now, but doesn't a knife seem nice until it's cutting your jugular? Could I say the same about scissors? & David Duchovny?
I trust you'll vouchsafe my godspeed as I away? Very well. Damn, this is good cold medicine.
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