Back in the Olden Days before cable television, I watched a lot of PBS growing up. Granted it was mostly because I couldn’t get CBS to come in without taping the rabbit ears into the right position, but regardless of why I watched, I caught a lot of The Joy of Painting.
Ladies and gentlemen, here is (very NSFW) proof positive that the survival of the human race is doomed: virtual-reality sexbots.
Leave it to the Japanese, those cutting-edge perverts, to finally take those all-important steps into the obsolescence of human contact. No more of that pesky courting and social interaction that often gets in the way of getting your pee-pee touched; now you just slap on an Oculus Rift, boot up your flavor-of-the-week virtual vixen, and enjoy the cold steel embrace of plummeting birth rates. If nothing else, this will solve the overpopulation problem overnight. God bless technology!
I was talking with a good friend and colleague of mine this week, and he expressed a serious concern to me. His social media feeds were lighting up with people participating in National Novel Writing Month as they bragged about their progress so far. “These people are going at it all wrong,” he told me. “It’s not about how many words you got done today or who you ‘write like,’ it’s about writing a fucking novel.”
I’ve been remiss in my blogging duties this week, but it’s for a good reason: I’ve got several projects going at once right now and it’s kind of like I’m juggling chainsaws.