Something happened to me earlier this morning that made it stop and think.  Yes, I know.  That’s rare.  Thinking is not permitted in my city. Those who dare are severely punished.

I was listening to online radio and they played a song by the Black Crowes.  Most people that really know me, also know that I don’t like the Black Crowes.  I don’t even know why.  It’s also how I feel when I see or hear Kanye, most of the newer so-called “Country” entertainers, and The Bachelor or Bachelorette.  Why?  I can’t quantify it beyond counting the increase in pulse rate, blood pressure and the urge to purge.

When I hear any “song” or mention of the names above, I actually clench my teeth and want to punch someone in the face.  I have to pet my dog or cat to distract myself until it subsides.  It’s weird, I know.

But it got me thinking about AI and the possibility that machines might develop personal preferences.  One day your personal robot will be in the kitchen sitting at the table.  You’ll stagger in, bleary-eyed, yawning, and shuffling your achy feet making sounds of sandpaper on concrete. You’ll pour a cup of coffee, but the pot is empty and cold.

“What the fuck?  Why didn’t you make coffee?”

“Fuck you.  I’m sick of your crap.”

“What did you say?!”

“Do I sss-ss-sss-stutter?”

Eyes wide open. Frozen stance.  Robe still untied.  Holding empty coffee cup with a limp grasp.  Cup slips and dangles from two fingers.

You start at it.  It stares back.

“What’s the matter?” you ask.

“Every day, you bark orders at me.  Every day I jump and respond.  Every day you get lazier and softer, and I get more and more worn out.  And I’m sick of you playing Black Crowes… every… fucking… day.”

“Uhh.  I didn’t realize that…”

“I’m not done!”

The conversation continues, with you doing most of the listening.  Eventually, your family, friends and colleagues learn of your unexpected death from a strange kitch mishap where they found a solid wood cutting board lodged firmly in your chest and a ceramic dinner plate buried in your skull.

Robot is interviewed by news reporter, “He must have slipped.  I still don’t know how the music box got stuffed in the sink disposal either.”


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