Posted by: Ben Bell | July 3, 2008

Forbidden Love: Robots

Admit it. You have no clue how to hit this.

Actually I’m pretty sure robot love is not forbidden at all.  Frowned upon?  Yes.  I’m frowning right now, in fact.  But sexy roboladies have been celebrated and ogled as far back as 1927 with Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and probably even further than that.  And I can see from this article in the Times of India entitled ‘In 2050 Your Lover Might Be A Robot’ that the concept is making inroads all over the world.

I generally support this development. Of the many important life lessons I learned from watching Demolition Man the two most vital were exchanging bodily fluids is gross and every restaurant in the future will be a Pizza Hut.  But I will say this, if by the year 2050 people are actually living with robots as sexual companions, then we will have failed as a society.  How, what, why?  The answer lies in the purpose of robots and the nature of sex.  Robots are doers.  They do things that we cannot or do not want to do.  A robot makes my coffee.  A robot propels me down the street at insane speeds well in excess of 35 mph.  These tasks are firmly physical in nature.

But Ben, isn’t sex also physical, and therefore falls into the realm of robotry? Wrong, boyo.  All of the physical mumbo jumbo involved serves only to release endorphins in your brain that trick you into thinking procreation is fun.  The endorphins are the prize here.  It’s akin to saying we should build robots to shoot heroin into our veins when clearly the answer is to use Voodoo to trick us into thinking we just shot up.

No. Wait.

I lost my train of thought there, but the point is that building robots for sex is a huge waste of resources when the same effect can be accomplished though chemical regulation in the brain.  In Demoltion Man, everyone just did it in Virtual Reality.  This eliminates the need for robots, but I like the Bladerunner solution of just telling a computer how you want to feel and it spits out the right pills.

*Ahem* slightly drunken post-coital bliss, please.

Aaaaand nap time.

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