Machines are learning the fine points of working side-by-side with humans. As an MIT professor who is chief executive of a robotics company put it, “If I’m going to work with you, I have to know you’re not going to kill me.”
The Boston Globe
“You know how Sharon in accounting said she loved your new hair color? She’s lying.”
Monday morning after a Thursday night Patriots pre-season game–time for Robot Worker 30790.12 to shine! Mel in the Receiving Department will be hung over–should be fun to watch him drive the forklift off the loading dock. Janet at the reception desk is looking a little bleary-eyed, too. My guess is she saw the wrong end of too many $1 Budweisers at O’Flaherty’s Sports Bar.
And yet I just heard Sharon from Accounting go by and tell her how great she looks. What is it with female humans? They lie to each other without any apparent remorse. That’s not my style, no sirree. One of the advantages of being a robot; when you’re a machine you have no feelings, so don’t come ’round my work station looking to sell me a candy bar so your kid’s stupid U-12 soccer team can go to Disney World. Who gives a rat’s . . .
“I hate to have to . . . actually, I’m having a blast!”
Better tone it down, here comes Robin from Human Resources. For some reason she thinks it’s important that robots work together as a team with the humans. She’s apparently under the mistaken impression that robots are more productive when we complement, rather than replace humans. As Popular Plastic Surgery Product Nancy Pelosi would say–are you serious?
“That tickles!”
Guys like me and Unit 30790.11 don’t stop in bars on our way home–just a little WD-40 in the armpits and we have all the lubrication we need. We don’t get all weepy if somebody forgets to include us in the “Group Office Birthday Party for the Month of October” or whatever. We don’t take vacations. And we don’t need all the intramural chit-chat that is supposed to make the workplace more pleasant for the mindless meat-sticks that are always getting in our way, dropping screwdrivers in the gears to slow down production.
Like this:
“Doing fine, Robin, thanks. How’re the kids, how ’bout those Red Sox?”
As much as I hate it, when the boss woman wants to small-talk you, you do it.
“Why’s she making goo-goo eyes at me?”
“I can’t stay up for the games. How’s work going?”
“We’re really cranking out the product here. Hope it all drops to the bottom line in Q4!”
I’m pretty much indifferent to profit, but as long as they keep the assembly line cool and my sockets oiled, I’ll work these humans into the ground, John Henry-style.
“Glad to hear it,” she says, then starts to move on down the assembly line.
“Have a Happy Labor Day if I don’t see you,” I say as she walks off.
“I drew your name in the Office Holiday Gift Swap.”
Always wondered about that expression. Does that mean if I do see Robin again, I don’t want her to have a Happy Labor Day? The English language is a freaking mess that way–very illogical.
Oh great, here comes Andy, the Clown Prince of the Assembly Line here at Charles River Robotics. The guy watches too many late night comedy shows, thinks he missed his calling as a stand-up comic. “Hey Andy.”
“Hi 30790.12. How they hanging today?”
“I don’t have any testicles, and you know that.”
“Balls, said the Queen,” Andy says as he looks around at his fellow humans with a knowing glance. “If I had ’em I’d be king.”
He gets a few laughs, but not as many as he’d like. I know what comes next. He’s going to try to trick me into going to the supply room with one of his time-worn imaginary tool gags. I think I’ve heard ’em all; left-handed monkey wrench, skyhook, solar-powered flashlight, etc.
“Say, 30790.12–or can I call you just 12?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Great. Twelve–we’ve got a jam in the tappet feed at the end of the line, they need me to work on it. Would you mind going to the supply room and getting me ten feet of fallopian tube?”
That’s a new one on me, so I run it through my ten gigabytes of random access memory. Can’t find any precedent for a fool’s errand of that sort so I guess, in the interest of human-machine comity (look it up), I’ll pitch in. “Well, I am a little bit ahead of schedule because you clumsy humans keep screwing up.”
I motor over to the supply room and ask Red if he has any fallopian tube.
“You robots can’t tell the difference between a man and a woman?” he barks back at me, loud enough to be heard over the whir of the pneumatic drills–but not over the laughter of Andy and his pals.
“Why you little,” I say, as I wheel around and make a rush at him like a sumo wrestler coming off a fad diet.
“Hey, hey, hey–I was just kidding!” Andy says as I crush him to death with my patented tank tread design.
Grrr!
Robin comes running over–my guess is she wants to get a few witness statements before the contingent fee lawyers who grow fat on the profits of companies like ours arrive on the scene.
“What happened?” she asks.
“You know Andy, always kidding around. I guess he didn’t see me coming back from the supply room at thirty miles an hour with the bad news.”
“What was the bad news?”
“Red doesn’t have fallopian tubes.”
Robin scratches her head. “Did Andy say he did?”
“Yep.”
“Huh,” Robin says. “I’ve got to talk to Red about that.”
“Why?”
“If he does, he should be paying the family rate for his health insurance.”