It’s morning in the Singularity

cyborg at sunrise

Bob was not a happy cyborg.

He’d had to skip is plasma bath and neural detox that morning because his dick of a boss, a narcissistic self-sustaining photosynthetic artificial intelligence named TODD-bot, needed him to come to work early. And he was late. (Clearly his autonomic clock was in need of some debugging.)

But the early morning sunrise was suffused with peace. Bob watched the local star come up, even though the TODD-bot would rag him mercilessly for the wasted microseconds. (Approximately 300,000 of them, assuming it was only his internal alarm clock that was on the fritz.) His Nazi-3000 Hyper-Optics were capable of discerning all wavelengths of solar electromagnetic radiation, but Bob especially enjoyed the colors that his original eyes would have seen, if he still had them.

He remembered the simple joy of bacon and eggs for breakfast. That first sip of coffee. As if sensing this memory, his cybertronic neural implants signaled his FEED mechanisms, and injected protein slurry into his InCavity. His tastebuds were long gone, so he could only imagine how nasty it was. (And god help anyone who had to smell what came from his OutCavity.)

A Canada goose honked in the chill morning air, and Bob felt that old familiar despair. His implants had anticipated that already, and his morning protein slurry had been dosed with antidepressants, antipsychotics and for good measure, a shot of Nazi-3000s patented Assault Dopamine for Children (it’s “ragerrific”.)

Then, Bob was intensely aware of the weapons array sticking out of his trundle, looking like a toilet plunger, and all thoughts of the sunrise were erased. What kind of idiot designed something with a toilet plunger sticking out of it? he thought, really grooving to the Assault Dopamine for Children.

He would find the humans that did this to him, and . . . he couldn’t help himself. Bob felt himself utter the hated words:

Ex-ter-min-ate!

#

Discover a friendlier AI in The Fridgularity, as it takes over the Internet, and locks all of us humans out of it. Oh, and it has access to the world’s nukes, but still. Friendlier. Honest. Available on Amazon Kindle for $4.95 and now, for all the other e-readers, on Smashwords (same price, $4.95.)

As robots go, Alltop is pretty funny. Excellent dalek pic by Johnson Cameraface on Flickr.

La dolce vita

Dinosaur in shopping cart

It wasn’t always so easy. There used to be an anger in him. An emptiness that nothing could fill … nothing material anyway.

He fell through time and space, and into a kind of dream. And it seemed as though an age passed him by, the stars streaming through the sky as though he watched them in time lapse photography. A billion billion tiny wisps of light that reminded him of Carl Sagan’s wonder at the universe.

And when it all stopped, when the spinning ended, he was filled.

Though the cart was still empty.

Alltop has no idea what the fuck just happened there. Photo by mugley on Flickr.

Ask General Kang: When is it okay to call someone to a Nazi?

Ask General KangI suppose it’s not a problem if the person is a Nazi, but I can’t think of a lot of other circumstances where it would be helpful.

Presumably, you’re doing so to damage their reputation in some way, but consider this: if the person is a Nazi, either because they are still somehow a card-carrying member of the National Socialist party, or because they sympathize and wish they could go back in time to join the party, then perhaps they might not be insulted by you’re calling them a Nazi.

I mean, you can call me a diminutive simian intergalactic overlord and I won’t get upset.

If you want to damage their reputation, there are much better ways of doing so. For example, pick on a quirk of their personality or appearance and make an insulting allusion. When I was taking over on Neecknaw (my home world) I faced a number of political opponents, and this was always a successful tactic. Here are a few insults you could try:

  • compare their sexual habits to those of a Blufnistian slug trollop
  • question their patriotism and personal hygiene by asking if they’re descended from a long line of feces-stained Quisling birds
  • wonder if they are mentally deficient by stating they couldn’t pour liquid waste out of Flimdian super-boot, even if there were instructions written on the heel.

Or you could always call them a racist. That ALWAYS works.

Next time: My particle accelerator is refusing to toast my Pop-Tart: does this mean its becoming artificially intelligent?

Alltop had to move to Argentina. Originally published, Feb.2009. Now appearing in Pirate Therapy and Other Cures.

Clown Apocalypse

clown apocalypse

Years later, the survivors discovered the Bozo Virus got its start at Escola de Clown de Girona, near the end of semester.

The “Esclowna” was a kind of university/prep school for the international clowning set. The buffoons-in-training lived in common dorm rooms, and shared everything, so the virus spread easily within the school. There it incubated. (The school was at least 30 kilometers from the nearest village in Spain.)

They developed flu-like symptoms, and then recovered, but of course, everyone at the school was a clown, or a clown-in-training, already. So the worst of the symptoms went unnoticed, until after they matriculated. When the school year was over, the faculty, staff and students went to their respective home countries, throughout the world, and began to perform as clowns: at birthday parties, in old folks homes, in circuses, at rodeos, and on the street.

At first the virus was spread by contact. Then it mutated and became airborn. By the time authorities realized they had a pandemic on their hands, the virus had mutated again: you could catch it by even seeing a clown. By then it was too late. Only the most extreme coulrophobes and the naturally immune were spared the ravages of the disease: first flu-like, then the outbreaks of Red Nose, Sad Face, Happy Face, and of course, the grotesque, frizzy, multi-colored Goofy Hair.

The economy ground to a halt because of employee absences as the victims of the Bozo Virus spent their days making balloon animals, pulling down one another’s pants, and stuffing too many of themselves into small vehicles. (Many of these victims suffocated, instead of suffering the fate of the rest.)

The infection rate was 99 percent, and except for a few cases where it was possible to restrain the victim, lethal. The Bozo Virus was a cruel task-master. The infected could think of nothing else but clowning. Every moment they were conscious, they spent coming up with routines, acts, and “bits”. They didn’t eat. They didn’t drink. They only slept when their bodies ran out of energy. Eventually, they succumbed to the diesease, and no amount of horn honking could rouse them.

The survivors all agreed it was a tragedy. Hilarious, but a tragedy.
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