Things I Can Do Better Than a Better Bot

I’m not entirely sure if Elon is going to rename his new army of Optimus robots “Better Bots,” but let it be known that if he does, he obviously stole the idea from me, and I want a financial cut of that shit.

It’s the least he could do since the robots will drastically diminish my ability to find lawful employment.

I read a little snippet of an article the other day advising that ol’ Musky poo has big plans to have a line of robot helpers ready for the workforce by 2027.

Well, that’s just hunky fucking dorey, now isn’t it. Not only do we have to fight off AI from farming our words and artwork, but now, for those of us who aren’t funny/smart enough to make writing a full-time gig, we will also have to combat AB (artificial bodies) for manual labour jobs.

At first, the idea sent shivers down my spine.

Robot apocalypse, my brain whispered, then screamed. This is how it happens. This is what all the movies about robots taking over the world warned us about. This is why the Trumpster is trying to fuck around with union rights and kill off the working class. He and his bestie are making room for the Brotherhood of Steel!

Well, maybe.

I’m cynical at heart, so this is where my meaty skull CPU goes.

And what the heck am I going to do then? If the Optimus Christ has superseded both online and IRL positions for pathetic little fleshbags, where does that leave me, the fleshiest of fleshbags?

I have a tough time imagining that the regime will offer some sort of universal income so that humans can continue to live. So, I’m here today to provide a list of things I can do better than a Better Bot, hoping to secure employment once the Metalocalypse commences.

Middle Management Loves Me.

Being in the general vicinity of a 2000-pound bro-bot set on world domination will surely make a mere meatbag human uncomfortable. You’d have to possess a sociopath level of self-assurance not to feel slightly “less than” when faced with a gaggle of robotic workers you need to order around.

Here enters me, with my weird and sweaty jokes, innate need to please and utter inability to concoct, let alone carry out, a plan for world domination.

The closest I’ll come to starting an end-times scenario would be the awkpocolpse.

So, please tell me, who do you think the exhausted mid-level managers would rather manage?

Also, please don’t ask my last manager if he’d rather manage me or a Better Bot.

Dogs think I’m Cool.

Will this be a relevant issue in the coming robotics war? Who knows. Probably because not even a soulless android could gaze upon this face without its sad little mechanical heart melting.

But the thing is, dogs can sense evil, and these bots will surely be evil because I think it’s pretty evident that Elon is going to upload his consciousness into each and every one of them, and then we’ll just have a shitload of mechanical Elons on our hands forevermore.

The world will need someone to tame and deal with all the dogs, and that someone could be me.

Create self-loathing out of thin air.

At first consideration, this is not a strong case for keeping ol’ LRB around, but actually, it’s one of my finer superpowers. This constant hum of self-loathing that flows through my veins keeps me brutally honest and transparent with those around me.

Need someone to spy on the evil robots, but all the normies are too afraid for fear that Elon will find out and turn them into some cruel and unusual cyborg atrocity? Not me! I’m disappointed in myself enough to gladly take one for the team, boss!

Plus, being a cyborg doesn’t seem too bad.

I can see it now, The Lindsinator!

My Feet are Gorgeous.

I’m not just saying that. I’d send you a pic, but I charge for that shit. Robots have weird metallic tootsies filled with gears and little motors (I’m assuming), which is simply not hot at all.

I guess some messed up designer somewhere will attempt to build a human-looking bot, but honestly, it’s always better with the real thing.

My feet are tiny and always don toe-painted perfection — a foot fetishist’s dream, really. But now, you’re telling me that this money-making cash cow (feet pics on OnlyFans) will get ripped away from me, too?!

So help me, God, I will never stop posting photos of my feet online.

And you people will like it!

That said, it’s all good and fair to plead my case as to why I should be given a free spot at the ditch-digging club of the future, but the point is pretty much moot already.

Once the robots learn how to effectively become the ultimate sex machine, and I mean that literally, then all bets are off.

Think of it now, my pathetically slow-motion hand job compared to the superspeed of a sexy robotized five-fingered slippy. It would probably be able to shoot out some kind of fancy pine-smelling lube from its wrist like the robonatrix queen it is.

The cockatron? Yes, please.

And once the robots corner the sex market, you can bet your bottom dollar (again, literally) that the rest of us fleshies will be deemed replaceable in no time flat.