red pills found behind the sofa cushions, analepsis 15
At first blush, my purchase of an iRobot Roomba Discovery seemed a fairly innocuous domestic gesture—I mean, sure, I’m introducing artificial intelligence into an already potentially volatile environment, one overrun with strung-out sugar beets and a megalomaniacal Sea monkey king; but it’s not like the thing doesn’t have an on/off switch, right?—and yet I have to admit that, since its first halting jerks along the floor of the great room, its little spinning brushes eager to make good by gently kissing dirt off the baseboards, I’ve already begun to sense a change in its demeanor, as if it’s starting to learn on its own.
I can’t prove this, of course—and my dolphin friend, for all his agency training, has no interest at all in entertaining my concerns just now, content as he is to spread himself across the sofa in his frumpy bathrobe, smoking hash out of a pyrex hookah and watching “Lost” in a continuous loop—but, so far as circumstantial evidence goes, my dog seems to be unusually suspicious of the thing, and, unless I got incredibly stoned last night and ate an entire cakepan of butternut fudge (along with $260 in small bills), my Roomba seems to be “vaccuuming up” more than just Cheerio spills and clumps of pet hair.
And I’m not just saying that because, two bottles of Roederer Cristal and an eightball in hand, he’s already staked a claim on the guest bedroom—and in fact is up there now enjoying a rather noisy three-way with a Kitchen Aid slow cooker and an Arielle Prestige espresso / cappuccino maker.
That I consider incidental.
Bottom line, though? This can’t end well. At least, not while a bunch of paranoid tubers have access to live ammunition—or while the sneaky little Roomba has only to seduce a rather needy Harmony 880 remote in order to have access to our entire in-house security system.
Because fuck knows I can’t re-program that damn thing.