The Strangest Dream I've Ever Had, and a Renegade Roomba
All I can remember is that it ended with an Einstein lookalike saying "Watch me split this nitrogen atom...with my butt!" I've no idea what might provoke a dream like that, or if anybody's ass might ever attain mass sufficient to cause atomic fission, but I think such a line might work brilliantly to cajole 9 year old boys into watching scientific programming on television. And, if I'm being honest, 36 year old boys too.
My Roomba defied its boundaries again the other day. I'd set it to sweep up just the dining room when I went out for groceries. While I was gone, it managed to shove its docking station neatly under the nearby sofa table, and into a position impossible for it to reach. With the siren call of its home base now safely silenced, my renegade robot set its site on the other principle pollutants in my abode, namely, Kathryn and Sydney.
It safely navigated its way through my kitchen, a feat of robot derring-do that it doesn't often manage. Usually it becomes lodged under my rolling kitchen island. I'll find it there some hours later, its descending beeps and boops registering stern disapproval at my height-inappropriate furniture. Not this time, though. It was determined to get the girls.
Nudging open their door, the villainous vacuum made a bee-line for Kathryn's bed. Fortunately, its Turing engine isn't well tuned against the wiles of my progeny. Their Roomba trap consisted of a half-finished twist of plastic ribbon concealed under a discarded square of origami paper. The robot raptor became so entangled in the strands of that would-be Chinese Staircase that I felt a pang of pity for it while I cut the beast free.
When I set it down again, it chirped happily, whirred around in a small circle, and then tried to vacuum my foot. And that, my friends, is why I'm sure my Roomba will eventually win. It isn't hampered by human feelings. It knows only it's prime directive: sterilizing its environment. And it will not stop, until I am dead.
My Roomba defied its boundaries again the other day. I'd set it to sweep up just the dining room when I went out for groceries. While I was gone, it managed to shove its docking station neatly under the nearby sofa table, and into a position impossible for it to reach. With the siren call of its home base now safely silenced, my renegade robot set its site on the other principle pollutants in my abode, namely, Kathryn and Sydney.
It safely navigated its way through my kitchen, a feat of robot derring-do that it doesn't often manage. Usually it becomes lodged under my rolling kitchen island. I'll find it there some hours later, its descending beeps and boops registering stern disapproval at my height-inappropriate furniture. Not this time, though. It was determined to get the girls.
Nudging open their door, the villainous vacuum made a bee-line for Kathryn's bed. Fortunately, its Turing engine isn't well tuned against the wiles of my progeny. Their Roomba trap consisted of a half-finished twist of plastic ribbon concealed under a discarded square of origami paper. The robot raptor became so entangled in the strands of that would-be Chinese Staircase that I felt a pang of pity for it while I cut the beast free.
When I set it down again, it chirped happily, whirred around in a small circle, and then tried to vacuum my foot. And that, my friends, is why I'm sure my Roomba will eventually win. It isn't hampered by human feelings. It knows only it's prime directive: sterilizing its environment. And it will not stop, until I am dead.