Do Androids Dream of Electric Poop?
Straight up: When it comes to tech acumen, I land somewhere just ahead of my wife (e.g., transfers photos by taking pictures with her phone of pictures on my phone) yet well behind the octogenarian rocking the self-checkout system at the library (i.e., skillz).
Knowing that, know this: I’m just about done trying to keep up with the latest and greatest cyber-junk.
I’m convinced it’s the only race that provides predated loss results to contestants at the starting line.
I’m OK letting go.
I have internet.
I have Gmail.
I’ve battled the worst the net has to offer without falling for the 1–888-YES-WE-REALLY-ARE-MICROSOFT scam that claims a portion of my dad’s pension each year.
I just can’t continue upgrading my internet just so I can then upgrade my modem so I can then upgrade my router so I can upgrade my PC so I can upgrade my cat to catch the bird to catch the spider to catch the fly.
Perhaps I’ll die.
Then again, I believe by bailing now, I might be able to save me and my family.
C’mon — you know what I’m talking about.
As prominent as AI is in our daily lives, who isn’t thinking about The Terminator paying us a visit two or three months from now?
[reminder: call Sarah]
Heck, at the rate we’re going, I bet we never lay eyes on a shiny, pulse-rifle toting endoskeleton.
The robots have already positioned themselves.
They’ve gained our trust, our credit cards, our social security numbers, our personal contacts — the whole shebang.
And what do we have to protect us?
A really bitchin’ password?
This is how it’ll go down:
The middle-aged dude with a weird sensation in his chest will still hit his morning jog when FitBit guilts him into it.
Siri will offer a short-cut to save five minutes drive-time but neglect to mention the drawbridge under construction.
Alexa will simply respond “Sure, why not?” when asked if mixing bleach and vinegar is a good idea.
Millions of social media users will have their personal information…
Maybe I’m being overly cynical.
It could be motivated out of bitterness.
I can’t afford cool tech.
I’d love for nothing more than to spend an entire Saturday teaching my Google Home assistant who Jesus is.
I just don’t have that kind of coin lying around.
My brother, on the other hand, is loaded and wired to the hilt.
For Christmas*, her generous uncle got one of my daughters a Furby.
(*When the birth of Jesus is celebrated. OK, Google?)
Out of the box, this thing was scary.
Not Zuni fetish doll scary, but still…
Could I envision waking up to it on my nightstand wielding a paring knife?
Yes. Yes I could.
But my little girl loved it so she named it Pinky.
Since we haven’t bequeathed our daughters with phones, I downloaded the must-have Furby app on my phone so my kid could take Pinky to the next level.
The app allows the critter to play games and sing songs, all in sync to little videos.
Oh, it does something else.
Something I wasn’t mentally prepared for.
I watched as the mechanical rodent took a virtual dump.
This wasn’t the cute Skittle-sized pellet poo you’d imagine coming out of a gibberish-speaking, Gizmo-looking, mildly annoying robot.
We’re talking major production.
Large and intimidating.
The thing must’ve eaten Teddy Ruxpin.
Then it became clear:
What I was looking at was a message.
They’re onto me.
As much as I try to fight the future — OK, avoid it — the tech takeover will continue.
And it’s befriended my daughter.