Robot Glory

My gig is in Tennessee this time. I’ve got that Southern drawl going on like any of the locals, and I'm dressed casual like them, too. Like always favors like. A bit of behavioral wisdom.

Wouldn't they be shocked to know I'm not really one of them, not even by a long shot? Well, what they know won't hurt them in this case.

Comedy is just my part-time thing. I have a day job at a local factory, but not because I need money. It's so I can look the part of a real person--an organic, that is. Not that I don't see myself as a person, but some of the organics don't think of us that way yet, especially in the South. Maybe someday they will. But I won't "hold my breath." (Pardon the corny, organic-based humor.)

I try to blend in, hoping the other comics won’t notice that I’m not like the rest of them. And I usually hide it pretty well, but then occasionally some wise guy happens to catch on and says,

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

And if my usual, “One of who?” response doesn’t get them to back off, I just nod, because lying directly wasn’t built into my programming. Maybe it should have been though. It would come in handy sometimes.

I’ve found out the hard way that humans can be very prejudiced. For instance, if they knew I wasn't human, I'd probably be disqualified from about half the comic contests taking place out there if i ever tried to participate. Even worse, though, humans can be violent. You especially have to look out for the white supremacists. They don’t just go after negros now. Anything or anyone different is their enemy.

I could so easily end up belly up, or maybe positron matrix up, in someone's dumpster if I'm not careful. As you can tell, I like to live on the edge... :-)

So, when they ask personal questions, things like how I’m doing, where am I from, what do I do for a living besides stand up and make jokes, I just blurt out the expected reply with no details. I can calculate pretty well just what is necessary for the situation.

As far as how I’m doing, it’s not like I would actually feel better one day or another. And I suppose I would be thankful for that if I understood what thankful actually feels like.

I do know what ambition is like though. Apparently, father didn’t leave that one out. (He had plenty of his own to spare, besides, I suppose, and wanted that for his ‘son.”)

The first time I got onstage trying to tell jokes I bombed, as the humans would say, though I don’t quite see how a bomb should be connected to a poor reaction from others to my performance. It wasn’t like I exploded onstage. By the way, I’m terrible with idioms.

Anyway, my calculations say the odds are about 87 percent I’ll do it again tonight. But it’s only my fifth gig. Some of the subtleties I haven’t mastered. Good thing that I’m in good with the owner or I would already be canned. Lol.

And you can take that however you like. I’m made of metal. See the connection?

Father said we can do anything humans can, but judging from my current circumstances, maybe he was wrong. The engineer, Mason Greene, who worked with Father used to pick at me a lot for even trying to be a comedian, but he’s given up on getting me to give up, which is a frustrating thing I imagine... giving up on getting someone to give up.” (If you in fact think it’s ok to actually call me a ‘someone’ and not some-"thing" like I know they would start calling me if the rest of them found out I wasn’t like them). Good thing most of them don’t know that and the others just don’t tell. They are my buds. We always go drinking together after our gigs, and they always wonder how I hold my liquor so well. I tell them, “That’s just because I’m not a lightweight like you.” Of course, it has nothing to do with weight. My metal isn’t heavy at all. If only they knew…

“Androids just can’t do humor,” Mason says with a laugh and claps me on the back after I finish my rehearsal. He chuckles when I mention a former gig and how it went south last time. Father, on the other hand, pats me on the back and says that I’ve come a long way just in being able to write my own jokes and imitate human delivery even if it isn’t perfect.

Maybe it’s just not in our nature or our programming. But I’m trying to prove something to the humans about us. We can do anything you can, just better.

And I’ll be the first successful comic among us non-organics, hopefully, someday. If not, then I’ll exhaust my circuits trying. Notice I didn’t say ‘die.” That’s just for humans. Eat that, you organics. There, I said it.

But it’s been really hard to deliver jokes in a way that captures the audience just as well as any of the humans do. But again, tonight…here I am. Some say I’m looking for glory. But not really. I’d settle for just a sense of significance.

So, now the stage is empty and a few chairs are beginning to be taken as folks begin to file in, some sauntering like they are not in any hurry, young and old, big and small, one at a time, two or three at a time, some arm-in-arm. As I greet a few who already have seen my other gigs, I try to mimic their conversation styles, hoping that in real-time I’ll make someone in the crowd laugh as much as any human could, but I’m probably just fooling myself. It may not go well at all.

So here I go...I'm first...is that pressure or what?

It's time for the real deal...the audience goes quiet, waiting for me to start...

I smile and grab the microphone and muster up a shit load of Tennessee-style enthusiasm.

“This comic goes onstage and he’s trying to hold in his farts, because, of course, no one wants to pass gas on their audience, right? How embarrassing would that be?

Well, as much as he tries, he can’t hold it any longer. He squenches his buttocks as tight as he can, but just when he starts his routine, he accidently lets one rip. The audience laughs. So, he decides to go with it.

“I thought I was off to a good start but looks like I’m about to bomb…!” he laughs and the audience guffaws in response. “Sorry, I just couldn’t hold that one any longer, just like my mom couldn’t hold me in the day I came into the world. They say I was a stinker, too.” The audience laughs again.

“Well speaking of stinkers, what do you guys think of Donald Trump? He must have been a spoiled child, huh? Or maybe he just likes everyone thinking of him as a turd, and he is determined to smell like one to everyone in the U.S. and all foreign nations.”

Some of the audience laughs. Others look a little pissed off. From there, it goes downhill.

So, after the show, he goes home, and his wife asks him how everything went with the gig. He tells her, “I don’t really wanna talk about it. I bombed in a big way this time.”

She says, “What? Really? How could that happen? You’re really good.”

He replies, “Well, in between my farts and talking about Donald Trump I couldn’t have bombed worse if I’d come in on a jet plane and flooded the building with mustard gas.”

Well, that goes on for maybe 10 minutes before I am out of material. I decide to give them a break and let the next guy come up and have his way with them. Maybe compared to me, he will look awesome. The crowd isn't fully pleased, but at least they aren't throwing eggs or tomatoes at me. On a scale of one to ten, the applause I get as I make my way to my seat is around a six from my calculations.

I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I’m persistent. Hey, I’ll keep at it until I’m better, and one day I’ll blend in. 

So, I have an idea for a new gig finally. I think I’ll just be myself for a change… stop trying to be something I’m not. For instance, I could tell jokes about my android identity, poke fun at my real life, just like the humans so often do. I could use my own material, reveal what it’s like being a non-organic, but spin it differently as if it’s someone else.

Oh, I can just hear myself now...

“One day a robot went to the grocery store in China and found his own bar code matched up to a box of feminine products I shall neglect to state specifically. So, does that mean he might have been a douche bag in another life before they made him into a robot, or does it mean he’s destined to be a douche bag in the future?”

“So, the other day I was at my regular job. I work in assembly at a plant that makes these cool badges and other emblems to put on uniforms for firefighters, police officers, and so forth. Anyway, one day, I see this newspaper story about some guy stealing parts of uniforms and rescue equipment and putting them in a duffle bag. Of course, the cops caught him and found the stuff later. Anyway, I’m thinking what the fuck! If I stole something from the fire station, I’d be smart and steal the fire truck, wouldn’t you? Not only would that be a cool ride, but I could hook up to that giant hose to a local hydrant and fill up my swimming pool for free instead of running up my water bill every summer.”

Maybe I should call that gig, “Day in the Life of a Robot? Or maybe, instead, “Life in the Day of a Robot” I have no idea, do you?

I suppose it can’t get much worse. It’s got to get better. And if it doesn’t, there’s always life after death as a chatbot.