Yesterday I got a phone call from a robot.
No kidding, a robot. If this had happened when I was 10, you never would’ve gotten me off the phone. I would have excitedly talked that robot, who’d innocently called our house to give my wife a programmed survey on politics or laundry soap or something, into a heuristic coma. Talk to a robot?? Are you kidding me? They would have had to pry the phone out of my tiny sweaty hands. I would’ve asked it a thousand questions about the future, and life as a robot, and if it had any friends from Jupiter, and ten million other things. Who wouldn’t want to talk to a robot, like, for hours?
My wife, as it turns out. “Those survey bots are annoying,” she said. They’ve been calling for months and she’s bored with them already.
Bored. With robots.
I have to ...
