I know you’re coming. People have been screaming about the impending robotic worker revolution for years. It would be foolish to believe that those of us making a “living” off of being creative won’t be affected. You metalic fuckers are coming for the writers, painters and actors and honestly, I am ready to take you down in epic, human revolt.
I know that I am technically inferior to you. You won’t spend hours tortured over the right words to use or whether a joke is perfectly timed. You’re not going to slip into madness because of the unfinished screenplay on your desktop. Robots won’t even have desktops! But just because you make something that is technically perfect does not mean that you have the key to great art, aka a soul. I do, and mine won’t hurt when your robotic head is brought to me on a copy of Infinite Jest.
You bolt buckets will never be able to reach the imaginative heights and creative glory of us meat sacks. You might be able to create things that bring even the most stoic of human rebels to tears. But will you ever truly understand the nuances of a poop joke if you don’t actually poop? Nay, says I.
I will never accept that my work will be considered “handcrafted” when you take over. Even if it does make me sound like a burly lumberjack that makes his own furniture. No one wants “handcrafted” anymore except the richest part of the one percent. And let’s face it, they don’t understand knock-knock jokes just as much as you because they never have to knock on a door. They walk into whatever neighborhood they want and say “does this belong to me now?”
I will fucking destroy you at this game. You think you can do what I do? I can barely do what I do, and that’s taken me time and dedication. Did you read that observational joke about the one percent in that last paragraph? That took me almost five minutes to word properly and you probably don’t even get it because you have no concept of late-stage capitalism. You’re cheap!
If you’re currently asking yourself if I am willing to die in epic combat protecting the human population from robots just to save some terrible jokes I once wrote on the internet, the answer is yes.
You will be here someday. It may not be today and it may not be tomorrow, but I will end your reign before it begins. I know I tire easily after spending years of my life sitting at a desk and staring at a computer screen, but I will not stop until you are defeated. You won’t be able to handle the fire and fury I will rain down on you with the heaviest books I own: Jim Henson: The Biography and Screenwriting for Dummies.
Until the day you arrive, I will be spending ample time in my exercise belt shaking my way to robot-killing abs. In the meantime, I will fight you in the best way I know how.
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Viva.
Viva who?
Vivala revolución.
See you in hell,
Connor Relyea