Moving….     Moving….    Moving….

Janine, speaking to the Bell Telephone automated attendant

One of the more insidious (and down right uppity) tricks of the robots is that they make us talk like them before they’ll help us. I’m pretty sure it’s part of their plan to take over. Those of us that don’t assimilate will eventually be “processed”, clutching our rotary phones frantically as a big metallic claw drags us back up the hole it punched in our roof when it was dropped from the mother ship.

But submitting to the robots does have advantages. Janine, for example, is the T1000 of trip planning. While I was still making breakfast toast and picking the goo out of my eyes this morning, the gears in her head were already whirring, churning out pre-departure chore lists. Number one: terminate cable, phone and internet.  I couldn’t do this job as well as Janine because it involved communicating with the robots that have now replaced (see “processed”) all the people who used to work for these companies. But Janine glided amongst the android ranks like a pro, getting four cancellations done before I had my tea fixed.

She’s good. But for how long can I trust her? How long before she’s asked by her android overlords to choose between them and me? Sure, I’m a warm body to sleep next to at night. But they control cable. I know which way I’d go if the situation were reversed.

I’m buying a hydraulic press, just in case she turns. I won’t enjoy squishing her, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only way to handle this, barring getting my hands on a vat of liquid nitrogen or luring her to a steel factory. The latter would involve getting her to go to Hamilton. No robot is that stupid.