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What would you rather have – a real man or a robot?

The other day I got a free android tablet in the post.  Welcome to the 21st century, Rose!!!

I was pretty impressed by this little shiny black thing that pings when you touch it.  BUT –

I got to thinking, how much MORE impressed would I be, if I could have an android sex robot sent to me in the post instead! (or as well, even!)?

bladerunner

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Would I like a sex robot?  Hell yeah!  I don’t mean a sort of plastic shop dummy thing with a big dick that says ‘I love you baby’ when you squeeze its rubber balls.  No.  I mean the next generation of sex robots, the kind that look and talk and feel like a real man, only they’re not a real man.  For instance, when you turn them on (I’m talking buttons, not lingerie) they tune in to your mood and know straight away if you want a little romancin’,  a little hard luvin’,  or you just want the house cleaned up or the dogs walked.  Also, with this mind- reading app, they will also know if you like whatever it is they’re doing to you (or for you) and whether you want it right a little, left a little, harder, slower, or taken to the dry-cleaners – without you even saying a word!

With this man-robot, you will never be wrong.  He’ll give you all the information you need, and then support your decision one hundred percent.  He’ll never say I told you so.  When you take him to a party, you can set him on Flirt, Cling, Socialise or Life Of.  When you’re busy, you can stand him in the closet.   He also does your tax for you.

Some women will probably say at this point, yeah, but I want a real man, with his own opinions, his own life, his own delightful, unpredictable, annoying personality!  Really?  Some men will say, isn’t this just as sexist as wanting a blow-up doll for Christmas instead of a real woman?  To those men I say – yes it is.  But if people could easily buy sex/ companion/romance/friend) robots – would the REAL versions stand a chance?

Cause don’t we all just want a perfect match?

An ode to hunting

The lioness, with glistening jaws,

High heels, and freshly polished claws,

From corner bar, surveys the scene.

No longer young, her pickings, of late, lean.

She wonders, which to cut out from the herd.

A juicy, handsome buck? A shy and grateful nerd?

The young are chewy, over-muscled, difficult to catch and eat,

The old and lame less pleasing on the plate but relatively easy meat.

She fixes on her target with reddened lip and glittering eye,

Her lingering claws stroke shoulder, hand, thigh.

He breathes her musty, feline scent,

He thinks her cleavage heaven-sent.

An image, fleeting through her disco-tousled head,

Of prey dragged home, ripped bare upon her bed.

The Get Stuffed School of Romance

I’m bringing my daughter up in what I like to call the ‘GET STUFFED‘ school of romance.  The theory goes like this.

  • Men are desperate for sex.
  • Women therefore don’t have to do anything in particular to attract them.

So my advice to Ms M is this – if anyone ever suggests you should do anything painful, boring or stupid so men will like you better, just say the magic words.  GET STUFFED.  (And I’m not referring to the sexual meaning of the term, here.)  If all the women in the world did this, men would just HAVE to fall into line.

“I’d want to have sex with you more if you painted your toenails.”

“Mmm…30 minutes sitting stock still with toes in separator, waiting for nail polish to dry, when could be out practising my karate kicks….GET STUFFED!

“Have you ever thought about getting a brazilian?”

“Let’s see…10 minutes of intense pain and embarrassment followed by redness, itching and the kind of stubble normally only seen on Brad Pitt, to be repeated at 3 weekly intervals, so I can look like an uncooked chicken fillet?…I’ll take that on notice.”

“Why don’t you pay attention to me when I’m trying to tell you about computer programming/my horrible ex-girlfriends/my 10,000 page trilogy about someone just like me who gets to dress up in a tight space suit and shoot plasma beams? If you’re not careful I’ll just go and find someone who will!”

“Mmm, that’s a hard one…..alright, off you go then.”

Three days later they’d all be back with aching balls and a much more cooperative attitude.

I didn’t write this by the way – this was Sexist Susie the Hairy-Lipped Man Hater from Hobart.  Thanks Susie!