Wednesday, January 19, 2005
You Sexy Thing
Mike and Terry gazed in wonder.
“It’s got a throughput of 410 gigabytes per hour,” squealed Mike.
“Hell yeah. 19 Mb per second. Beautiful.”
“If we go for Twizzlewhack Bipodules, we’ll be talking 30Mb/sec.”
They paused to hold that thought, catching their breath like Edmund Hillary at the summit of Everest, adventurers of the data storage age.
Polystyrene packaging was jettisoned all around the North Face of the Data Centre. You could hear the sound of numbers being crunched in their big nerdy brains.
If you’d told the eleven year old me that in years to come I’d be working with robots, what would I have thought?
I suspect I’d have imagined a divine pouting robot babe, looking not unlike the blonde one out of Abba - then at the height of her powers, with a firm grip on the fevered imagination of a generation of spotty boys - compliant, Scandinavian and eager to succumb to my every cyber-whim.
“You couldn’t pass me that adjustable spanner, could you please, Blonde One out of Abba?”
“Tim,” she would purr. “There is nothing that would turn me on more, you gorgeous thing!”
“Oh. Erm, thanks, Blonde One,” I would reply. “You know, you don’t have to be so sexy and subservient all the time. Why don’t you put your feet up and recharge your batteries now and again?”
“Oh no Tim,” she would recoil with her fetching Swedish-Robotic accent. “I could never do that. I was bought to make you happy.”
The robot in our office doesn’t live up to the dream.
Functional? I suppose so.
Sex-tastic? What kind of blogger do you take me for?
“Oh sweet Jesus!” Mike and Terry exclaimed simultaneously in an orgasm of mental arithmetic. “Sixty three gigabytes per hour!”
I switched the lights off on my way out and left them to savour the moment.
“It’s got a throughput of 410 gigabytes per hour,” squealed Mike.
“Hell yeah. 19 Mb per second. Beautiful.”
“If we go for Twizzlewhack Bipodules, we’ll be talking 30Mb/sec.”
They paused to hold that thought, catching their breath like Edmund Hillary at the summit of Everest, adventurers of the data storage age.
Polystyrene packaging was jettisoned all around the North Face of the Data Centre. You could hear the sound of numbers being crunched in their big nerdy brains.
If you’d told the eleven year old me that in years to come I’d be working with robots, what would I have thought?
I suspect I’d have imagined a divine pouting robot babe, looking not unlike the blonde one out of Abba - then at the height of her powers, with a firm grip on the fevered imagination of a generation of spotty boys - compliant, Scandinavian and eager to succumb to my every cyber-whim.
“You couldn’t pass me that adjustable spanner, could you please, Blonde One out of Abba?”
“Tim,” she would purr. “There is nothing that would turn me on more, you gorgeous thing!”
“Oh. Erm, thanks, Blonde One,” I would reply. “You know, you don’t have to be so sexy and subservient all the time. Why don’t you put your feet up and recharge your batteries now and again?”
“Oh no Tim,” she would recoil with her fetching Swedish-Robotic accent. “I could never do that. I was bought to make you happy.”
The robot in our office doesn’t live up to the dream.
Functional? I suppose so.
Sex-tastic? What kind of blogger do you take me for?
“Oh sweet Jesus!” Mike and Terry exclaimed simultaneously in an orgasm of mental arithmetic. “Sixty three gigabytes per hour!”
I switched the lights off on my way out and left them to savour the moment.

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