Oncourse and sex machines

Pimples, tumors and testicle sweat: These are now the only attributes that distinguish human beings from robots. \nOur imperfections. \nAs American culture continues to evolve both technologically and socially everything seems to be getting increasingly mechanical. We consume so much technology daily – so many Word documents, so many Excel spreadsheets, that it’s amazing we’re not pooping in binary, or peeing in Times New Roman.\nAfter all, everyone’s becoming a robot. \nCollege seems like the unfortunate gateway to this robotic existence. Classes are now headquartered online, forcing students to compulsively check their inboxes. Campus Webmail pages are “refreshed” so often you’d think they were starring in a douching commercial. \nIt’s getting ridiculous. \nWe’re not even treated like humans anymore. At Sol Spa on Tenth Street, you now have to do a fingerprint scan to prove your identity. A freakin’ fingerprint scan! Isn’t that a bit much? This isn’t “Alias,” for Christ’s sake. No one’s tanning for the FBI. \n“What happens when armless people want to tan?” I asked the bronzed receptionist, the other day. “What do you scan then?”\n“I don’t know,” she said coyly, arching her eyebrow to a suggestive altitude. “I guess it depends how hot they are.”\nSadly, this kind of interaction – this playful volley of communication – is slowly being siphoned away, as we succumb to living in a virtual world. Witty banter might as well be growing out of Britney Spears’ head: shaved off by the increased autonomization of digital technology. \nGrocery and department stores are trying to replace humans all together with their newly developed self-checkout lines. “Put your item in the bag,” an automated woman instructs in a creepy, dominatrix tone. \nThough the introduction of self-checkouts does seem handy – especially for those who face the embarrassment of buying lubricant or lice shampoo – these machines are inherently flawed. While grocery shopping the other day, stocking up on 10/$10 Kroger “Rescue Hero” gummies, I spotted a woman who was trying to buy a broom. \n“Put your item in the bag,” the voice demanded. \n“I can’t!” the woman screamed nervously, sweating like Michael Richards at the Black Expo. “It just won’t fit!”\nIndeed, robots will never make adequate substitutes for humans: not in the checkout and certainly not in the bedroom. \nThe Web site RealDoll.com, which manufactures life-size sex dolls (ho-bots, if you will), believes otherwise. For $7,000, buyers are able to custom-design their own partner of choice, choosing everything from hair length to fingernail color.\nLike the automatic checkout, these robotic substitutes for actual people are littered with pitfalls. Men derive the majority of sexual pleasure from “the chase,” the victory of obtaining physical domination. How gratifying is it to conquer a dusty doll with rubber yabos that you keep next to the Dirt Devil?\nThe fabricated perfection of all these robotic substitutes – Oncourse, self-checkouts, ho-bots – is, ironically, what illuminates their imperfection. \nAfter all, it’s the flaws that define our humanity – our imperfections that prove we really exist.