The other night, I was suspected of being a robot, not-so-cleverly disguised as a person while chatting with my new friend on the ‘twit. I assured Ali that I did not consort with the robit kind, nor could my Dyson vacuum with the pet cleaner attachment build a Terminator…yet.
This seemed like a good opportunity to warn Ali of the dangers of PowerPoint, but alas, Ali was unconvinced :(. I tried to call Ed Tufte, but he wasn’t home, so I couldn’t assemble the
Psychic Technical-Writer Friends Network… I had to settle for a traditional fact-finding committee.
They couldn’t reach a quorum, and just when I thought all hope was lost, my astrologer told me that my metachlorian count exceeded my cholesterol level, and that I would die of the diabetus within two years. This is good news, because that means I won’t live to see the birth of AI and subsequent robot uprising!
Thank Dog for small favors.