Ian and I got to talkin’ this morning, as we often do. Google chat is an efficient way to ignore real work and have a conversation while maintaining my cult of silence. Really a win all around, except for the fact that I just referred to something in my life as “efficient.” I use that word to describe my company’s software at least a dozen times a day. Everything we create is fucking efficient as hell. We may as well be replacing hospital staff with an army of factory robots zipping around on tracks in the ceiling. Whoops! Little Timmy got his arm cut off by the bolt-fastening robot. At least it was efficient.
Ian and I actually were talking about robots, though. Specifically, the one they created in China to help men at sperm donor clinics get their jollies off. Yes, this robot is essentially a box with a soft, wet hole to stick your ding-a-ling in and deposit some seed. Gross, right? Unsanitary and probably not too pleasant. And, as Ian pointed out, it’s probably harder to succeed with a ro-blow-job kiosk doing the tugging and pulling rather than one’s own hands. Which naturally raised the question: What would you do with your hands? Grip the cold, metal box like a lover? Wave them in the air like you just don’t care? Take advantage of the simultaneous palm reading sessions? Unless the Chinese have a cultural heritage of masturbating into metal boxes, I don’t think even they would be too comfortable caressing a robot.
So we thought maybe they should put some boobs on top. Logical solution, right? Put your weiner in the slot, close your eyes, grab at the hopefully-warmish mounds atop the box. I could see that almost working. Sure, if it were an actual woman there wouldn’t be boobs there unless she’s realll flexible, but when has the imagination of a man in heat ever failed? Man could probably imagine a big pile of boobs and still be turned on. Boobs are great. Just heaps and heaps of them, sloshing all over the sperm donor clinic, what a great thing that would be.
Ok, maybe not. And the more we thought about it, the more Ian and I realized this wouldn’t be some pleasant, quiet Westernized robot, servicing you obsequiously. No, no, this robot would have a large diesel engine under the hood, chugging and rocking around like an old washing machine. Just imagine: Exhaust fumes fill the room, you’re coughing and can’t see, and then suddenly the robot downshifts and your dick is in second gear when it should be in fourth and you’re seriously concerned that if you look down there won’t be much of anything to see besides spraying blood and what might have once been a deflated balloon.
But then, abruptly, you’re done (Whee!) and, with the sound of a slide whistle, the machine sucks your semen away into the bowels of the sperm donor clinic, where an army of blind clones works frantically to turn all this deposited goodness into soy milk.