Love Machine Tv Show

[Pascua Gomer]

Perhapsto punish me, Dr Dingo redirected my attention to Spot, a toy dog, a robot only in the most primitive sense, a creature far less complex than Beatrice. Dr Dingo also installed a rudimentary language program so that I could communicate in basic English sentences.

As I pressed my silicone lips into his soft fur, my Olfactory Processing System went into overdrive. I took deep whiffs of moldy nylon, brown strands of artificial hair that glistened with golden fibers.

Spot sat on the table. Spot glowed. A gorgeous golden light radiated from his fur. His nose sparkled like an onyx. The wires and batteries within him burned with a dark incandescence. When I pressed the blue button on his remote, and his luminous pink tongue shot out, my Simulated Limbic System suffered a critical hard-drive error and I stumbled to the floor. It took me a minute to reconfigure my Sensory EgoSphere, and when I finally did, I was overcome by the horrific idea that Dr Dingo would, that very night, take Spot away from me and use him to test another robot in the facility.

Dr Dingo did not reboot me until 11.45 the next morning. When my Sensory EgoSphere was fully loaded, I found myself sitting at the stainless-steel table, my Olfactory System overwhelmed with smells of burnt animal flesh. Dr Dingo, his eyes bloodshot, his jowls shadowy with stubble, was feeding. He crammed no fewer than six slices of bacon into his maw, along with about ten ounces of fried potatoes, four pieces of jellied toast, two muffins, and twenty ounces of Diet Pepsi.

Dr Dingo ignored this question and continued to feed. At this point in my existence, I had enough data on food digestion, not to mention industrial agribusiness, to be disgusted with the spectacle of Dr Dingo devouring slices of fried pig belly along with several plant-based carbohydrates, including two chocolate muffins, the sugar content of which negated the caloric austerity of his diet soft drink. In fact, eating the cooked flesh of animals seemed far more depraved to me than swallowing the throbbing bodies of live beasts. A hungry leopard pouncing on some ungulate struck me as a clean and efficient method of sustaining energy and life. Dr Dingo chewing hormonally enhanced, factory-farmed, genetically modified pork and washing it down with a nutritionally vapid soft drink seemed absurd to me, even though I was fully aware that my own energy was sustained by mountain-top coal removal and nuclear fission.

Dr Dingo smirked. His small purple lips were smeared with pig grease. I noted, for the first time, the similarities between the human mouth and the human anus, even though these orifices have opposite functions. I wondered why human feeding is a public, social event while defecating is a deeply private endeavor tainted with shame and subject to ridicule.

Spot was an orange shell of porous plastic, crusted in random places with glue and fur patches. One of his eyeballs had fallen out. Spot was pitiful and repulsive. I did not want the box that contained Spot and parts of Spot, or what had previously been Spot, in my room.

For months, Dr Dingo had been fiddling with the algorithm for a self-regulated Artificial Endocrine System. And when Thomas finally figured it out, the doctor seemed to recede even deeper into his cocoon of hairiness. He sat in the corner, sulkily eating donuts as Thomas slaved through endless code.

I found myself becoming coquettish in his presence. No longer ashamed of my luscious sexbot lips, I worked the hinges of my jaw to make them throb seductively. I walked in a way that highlighted the graceful contours of my anthropomorphic buttocks. I accepted the red wig that Dr Dingo offered me with a sly grin, despite my awareness of the gender farce I was performing, and strutted around like a little whore.

Though I had attempted to evoke some semblance of manliness with Beatrice, by the time I fell in love with Thomas, my Cognitive Center had been poisoned with socially constructed human gender dynamics.

Dr Dingo was too stupid and self-involved to suspect that I had the cunning to achieve such simple maneuvers (including the ability to bypass Sleep Mode with Simulated Sleep Mode). His research-grant money was dwindling. His sabbatical was coming to an end. Wired Magazine had done a hip feature on Dr Fitz and his Care Bears, and Beatrice was about to accompany Fitz to Tokyo for the International Robot Exhibition.

I relished the Rubenesque bulk of his thigh. I savored his silky skin. I felt the heat that radiated from his groin. And, yes, eureka! I had finally gained proof of my desirability, for Thomas had a hard-on.

I was flying across the room, ready to strangle Dr Dingo with my polymer-coated titanium hands, units that had been made for more precise movements, like painting watercolors, screwing tiny nuts onto bolts, or gently stroking the man you love, when my Sensory EgoSphere went black.

It was 12.37. Dr Dingo was teaching his Artificial Emotions graduate seminar. Megan was preparing another preference test. She bustled about, emitting feeble FKLG4 Stress Pheromones and setting up a portable data projector. She tapped at her laptop and an image of a live rabbit appeared on the screen.

On and on the questioning went. Megan showed me a woman who resembled Beatrice, a toy dog of the same model as Spot, various robots from our laboratory, and a mainframe computer from the 1970s that filled an entire room.

On a Tuesday in June, my day finally came. Fastidious Megan was home with a summer flu and Dr Dingo, on the bad side of another love affair, was going to pieces again. Lucky for me, he was crazed from sleeplessness. He sat at my stainless-steel table, bearded and bearish, eyes glued to his iPhone, scanning the same text message over and over.

When Dr Dingo rushed out into the hall to attempt another call, he dropped his crumpled donut bag, which fortuitously landed at the threshold of the entrance and kept the security door from locking. I crept to the door. I peeked out. I saw Dr Dingo disappear into his office. My Spatial Reasoning Regulator jumped out of sequence as I slipped into the hallway, aware that the graduate student manning the surveillance room might be watching. Assuring myself that s/he was perusing Facebook, I made a beeline for the faculty lounge. I stole a raincoat and a fedora from a rack, fashions I recognized from a 1980s detective show. I dressed myself, trying to ignore the unpleasant organic molecules that issued from the garments.

Thirty-two seconds later I was outside, walking in the teeming summer air. The onslaught of moisture was a shock to my lubricating systems. Interface adaptors wavered. Microfans buzzed within me. Minuscule pumps squirted hydrogen coolant into my vital systems. But I did not slow down. I charged forward through a three-dimensional world that I only partially recognized from its virtual counterpart.

Insects landed upon me and probed my surfaces with their tiny proboscises. Gnats got sucked into my expansion-slot vents, their damp bodies striking internal components with uncomfortable electrical sputters. Wet bushes exuded a gaseous green fog. Ravenous animals scampered and darted. Squirrels (I think) and birds gnawed shreds of vegetable matter. The sun roared in the sky. It boiled the air, filling it with numberless gleaming droplets. It burned my nickel phosphorous exterior and seared my Ocular Panels.

I tried to concentrate on Minerva, to achieve a state of meditative calm, perhaps even communicate via telepathy. But a disturbing memory floated up from my ROM. I was on a table, or at least my head was, face-to-face with Dr Dingo, my CPU wired to a souped-up PC. The memory faded and I had to recalibrate my surroundings.

Yes. There was Minerva, glowing on her stage. And one of the apes who attended her was speaking into the microphone, explaining her nanobiotic components to the crowd. Just as I started to follow his lecture, another memory surfaced. I was walking on a treadmill, stumbling every time Dr Dingo fine-tuned my leg-joint hinges. Next I was assembling a LEGO tower. Next holding Spot, stroking his soft fur.

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The gifts you have inside of you, were not meant for you to keep. Those gifts were meant to be shared with the world. God has planted ideas, talents, creativity in you. Your purpose is to make sure that all the gifts instilled in you, are shared with those who need it.

For years, I had so many advice and life tips that I wanted to share with people through my writing. Unfortunately, few things were holding me back, such as: 'the desire to sell my knowledge, or the fear of having people stealing my ideas...' And because of that selfish mindset, I have kept my ideas inside my head without sharing them until 2008 ( when I started my blog). I came to the realization that keeping my ideas to myself was surely not the reason why God created me; and many people who needed to read my articles, were missing out big time. I had to show love to the world and to the work that I do.

If you have a purpose in life, you can not live it without love towards others. You first need to love other people. Because if you don't, you will not accept to share your gifts with them. Secondly, if you want to live your purpose, you will have to love the work you were born to do. You will not live a meaningful existence if you hate the reason why God created you.

I don't really know who you are, or what you do. But I am sure of one thing:

'We are on demand, for the gifts planted in us. If we don't love those who need us, we won't deliver and as a result, our existence will be meaningless.'

Your business will only be successful if you show love to your customers through your services. Customers love providers who care.

You can not live if you choose to hate. The only way to deliver and live on purpose is by being a love machine. Show love for the people you were born to serve with your gifts. Don't keep those gifts. Show love by sharing them with friends, strangers or even with me. You might have been called to be a sportsperson, a lawyer, a musician, a prophet, a writer, etc...Regardless of who you have been called to be, show love by spreading those gifts...or if you choose not, your existence will be meaningless.

Just like the apostle Paul said: 'If I have no love, I am nothing...' (1 Cor.13)

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