Skip to content

How It Was Actually Asimov’s Tears In Rain That Cried Me a River

George Harrison, not to be confused with Spike and Nelson of the Traveling Wilburys, reports on the apparently growing threat of hackers someday hacking into sexbots (aka clankers for wankers), transforming the cold, heartless toys into cold, heartless killers.

Evidently some manufacturers of these robotic pleasure-dolls incorporate digital components into the designs, allowing for periodic updates of exciting new variations of panting and gasps and wondrously diverse clenchings of the anal cleft.

But as transhuman technophiles are quick to warn, the oncoming Internet of Things promises all digital technologies no matter how mundane will not only be interconnected, but ultimately for the duplicitous purpose of anything and everything digital becoming open to malicious programming, such as non-recording devices transforming into secretive recording devices for our alien overlords to in turn pant and gasp over.

And so must we soon face the hard reality of sexbots being hacked by nefarious parties, lithe and lissom fembots insatiably claiming the lives of those sadly too wealthy to find real love among actual ladies.

The story doesn’t end there, unfortunately.

A new joint venture by two Norwegian companies is unveiling an entirely crew-less, electric cargo ship.

Presumably, as most sailors will be too busy with cheap knockoff sexbots of their own, such unmanned vessels and autonomous ships are expected to be the literal wave of the future, importing and exporting assorted goods and the odd stowaway across the seven seas.

While truth is relentlessly proving itself in these gloriously modern times to be far stranger than the most depraved of fictions, it is inevitable that one of these robo-ships transporting a sizable load of robo-women-shaped-toys will get hacked, or the robo-women-shaped-toys aboard one of these robo-ships will get hacked, with robo-women-shaped-toys and robo-ship spreading their malicious new coding amongst each other like the funnest STD imaginable.

And going pirate.

Leaving the oceans to drift in fear as this sizzling, salty and sultry menace of sexbot pirates and their autonomous-though-jolly-roger of a ship copiously supply the merchant marines and dock workers of the world with nightmarish new sea shanties to drunkenly sing about in shadowy corners of the less respectable watering holes of the world.

Maybe something along these lines:

Valhalla or bust

Sang the modems of lust,

When harpies crunched bone

I could never go home,

With scars on my nethers like rust.

Or not. Yet what other reasoning might possibly exist for new waves of plans to house homeless aboard cruise ships, from San Francisco to Dublin, but to serve as sacrifices at sea, cat-walking the plank for the bemusement of bots?