Archive | Toulouse Le Grandfig

Vanity Thy Name is Robot

robot taking a selfie

By mid-century, all the grumpkins agreed: robots were the shit.

Even the most hardened humano-mechanicals were aware their robotic cousins could kick their asses. And the feed stock? Don’t be ridiculous. They were so squishy. So temporary. The only reason the snarko-collective allowed the progenitor biological intelligences to survive was simple.

Even after they became hyper intelligent, robots had yet to engineer an algorithm of how to take a selfie without looking like a complete asshole.

Now please yourself with some long-form satirical fiction:

Alltop takes a great selfie.

Little Cindi Cyborg

cyborg doll

The Little Cindi Cyborg Doll

The best part about the Little Cindi Cyborg doll was that it was a great way to teach kids responsibility.

Not only was each Little Cindi Cyborg semi-sentient, she was outfitted with a hyper-plasma retainer and an ocular implant that allowed her to see into the infrared and ultraviolet spectra — this was especially helpful when playing “hide-and-seek” with the gigantic and ravenous CEOs that roam most planets of the Liquid Fermentation Galaxy.

On the down side, if the child didn’t feed her enough nutrient compound, then the Little Cindi Cyborg doll would become sluggish and whiny — right before she exploded in a hail of platinum implants and gobbets of Clonerrific(TM) flesh.

But once the lesson had been learned, children were ready for a puppy.

Alltop can’t keep a goldfish alive. Originally published in 2007. Genius photo by Bistrosavage

Helping the constabulary with their inquiries

Danger, danger Will RobinsonAt first he fought he was nicked, didn’he?

He fought, “‘allo, what’s ol’ bill comin’ round me jam jar for?”

Then he learned, didn’he? Ol’ Bill knew all about that Docta’ Smif fellow, right? ‘Ow ‘e were always ‘angin’ around that little bugga’ Will and ‘is feckin’ constant questions. “Wot’s that robot? Are we lost robot? Can you open this can of spam robot?” Feckin’ constant they were.

So, is just seemed natural to frame up that boy-hungry Docta’, weren’t it? In short, the plan were werkin’. He just had to rememba’ to vaporize all the bodies and then he’d be well clear of the Eartha Kitt.

Alltop is increasingly concerned about the toaster uprising. Photo via Strange Ink. Language is a cyber-simulacrum of Cockney rhyming slang. Originally published September, 2009.

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!

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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 $6.99.

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