Robots Replace Men

Face it…real men are about to become extinct. Forget caves, they’re getting stuffed into closets.

The news is shocking. Men sweat in fear of being re-programmed while snoring. They know their time is limited. Cloning is easy. This discovery is not surprising…what is, however, is that it took so long for someone to figure out how to hot-wire a man’s brain.

The secret of replicating a man’s brain is simple…eliminate a few parts and re-program the rest. It was inadvertently discovered by a MIT social roboticist. A woman, of course. She reported that all she did was hook her computer hard drive to a Mr. Wonderful Doll. You know, the doll that repeats pre-programmed drivel when its button is pressed. Things like, “You look lovely, dear,” and “Can I rub your feet, sweetie.” Now, with a Wi-Fi connection, the brains of men can be reduced to a bundle of wires and circuits.

The news is staggering. It puts at peril men’s franchise as head of the household. Women have said ‘Enough!’ to the visceral vortex of irrational marital relationships. Future husbands are now being cloned. Soon they’ll be for sale in toy stores. This is the ugly underbelly of research, affirming why women should be confined to kitchens and truck-driving.

But it was bound to happen. Men got lackadaisical, forgot to use florists. They became arrogant and condescending. Women have endured for centuries the crude social gestures of men. Now they’ve done something about it. The world is turning ugly. Payback is a bitter pill.

Waldo Buffett started it by issuing a challenge grant…$10 billion for a robotic substitute for humans. Some say Waldo claims to be an emissary to the Almighty Himself, direct descendent of Mohammed and the reigning Grand Master of reading tea leaves. He’s reported to be hysterical from the delight this discovery is providing.

It was an unfair match. Women had the edge. Men’s brains are simple. By the process of elimination of certain primordial chemistry, the rest was a slam dunk. The result, pictured here, is an absurd caricature and complete defilement of the male anatomy. The New Man is now two feet tall, a complete denigration of the male ego. It’s a plastic wind-up toy, a marionette whose digital strings are pulled by its new master…a woman.

I took it upon myself to interview the researcher. She was quite conversational, even if she did gloat while having a male assistant do her nails. Here’s an excerpt of the interview:

I asked what the key to the discovery was. “Eliminate all trace of testosterone. It’s not needed. Batteries are cheap.” she said. “Miraculously, my six-foot plastic manikin shrank to 2 feet tall.” She added that she patented the process and branded it “T-x.” She sold it to Waldo for uber billions. Says she’s now Waldo’s partner and manages all scientific R & D for his monopolization of the Land of Oz.

“Where’d you find the parts?” I asked. “At a junk yard,” she said. “Certain parts were superfluous, like a heart, a brain and, well, you know what else. I simply hot-wired all the circuitry to respond to female commands. It works off a remote.”

I asked what initiated her research. She said, “Well, money. Plus, I dated a boy from Georgia. I got sick and tired of hearing, ‘How ‘bout them Dawgs?’ Now, I’ve eliminated all irrelevant blather and replaced it with 0’s and 1’s. Brilliant, huh?”

“Did you replace the ‘missing rib,’” I asked. She laughed. “Oh, that. Well, I found a gnawed T-bone steak bone and shoved it in for old time’s sake. Plus, I put in a crushed beer can so my robot wouldn’t be lonely. You know, like King Tut, who was buried with his stash.”

“Ma’am, what are the benefits of such inhumane denigration?” I asked. She laughed, sipped more champagne. “I use my dummy for bar-room comedy. He, or rather it, is learning how to respond with social graces. No more grunts, uh’s, huh’s or outrageous outbursts. I have complete control. No more NFL, NASCAR, and wrestling on TV. Just the Shopping Channel. Best of all, no more hogwash like, ‘What’s for dinner, baby?’”

She asked for my phone number. “Forget I called,” I said. “Thanks. Goodbye.” But it occurred to me that it’s not too late to combat this insidious evil. All that’s needed is to substitute sports for shopping. Get busy guys…the clock’s ticking!

Bud Hearn
May 31, 2012

The Summer Vacation...a Parody

Ah, summer in the Golden Isles…it doesn’t blossom, it explodes. Memorial Day weekend lights the fuse.

Cities empty. Farms lie fallow. Small towns sizzle. Weeds wither. Humidity hovers. The hordes converge. Blanched bodies walk forward in backward-facing caps. Caravans crawl by with bikes bouncing on bumpers. They’re here for fun, no matter what.

The island sinks. The sea rises. So do prices. Tacos are scarce. Food lines form. BBQ is ubiquitous. Pigs are scarce. Watermelons run short. Squabbles crop up. It’s reported that a melon sold for $500 to a fellow from Indiana. A boy from Enigma helped him eat it. Yes, they both had fun, by golly.

Beaches suffer. The heft of humanity sets up shop with chairs, umbrellas and coolers filled with Red Bull. The sands tremble. Teens sneak out at night to stake out spots. They rent them the next day to late arrivals from Lithonia. Nobody’s missing out on the fun.

Drivers of Hummers with big black dogs scour neighborhoods for parking. Residents guard their Bermuda grass with guns. The Lawn Avengers Patrol is armed with tasers. They stalk all license plates from Alma and Atlanta. Not everyone’s having fun.

The traffic roundabout becomes a bumper-cars course. Last year two widows from Willacoochee got confused. Their tractor trailer, loaded with Spam, jackknifed while dodging bleary-eyed ladies in their Cadillacs who were returning from a bridge tournament. Shrimpers from Darien rushed in and highjacked the spoils for crab chum. The widows married them and moved to Darien. The insurance company is still investigating. The fun is just beginning.

Several years ago sunscreen was in short supply. Some mechanics from Macon conspired with chemistry majors from Mercer to make their own. They combined 40-weight motor oil with antifreeze and Old Spice. They patented the process and branded it Quik-Fry. This toxic concoction boiled the skin of users like fried chicken in hot grease. The hospital emergency rooms had a lot of fun with this.

Tommy, the local druggist, anticipated this sunscreen problem. He cornered the market by hedging derivatives on the entire stock of Caribbean Bronze 1000. Lines pushed and shoved into his pharmacy. Words were exchanged. He sold out and held an auction for the last bottle. He reported that an Amish couple from Cordele paid $890 for it, almost enough to pay for a round of golf at SeaSide. Tommy has a lot of fun these days.

But locals plan for these problems. They scarf up all fresh produce before the prices triple. They drain all gas supplies before the price of unleaded rises past $10 a gallon. They flee the scourge for sanctuaries like Daytona Beach. They take their fun with them.

Beaches seduce tourists. Strange things happen. Last year the boy’s Glee Club from Homerville gained notoriety by arriving a week early and staking off prime property, ostensibly for a chorale concert. It was a ruse. They rented chair spaces to young women in miniscule swimwear for modest prices and promises of Bubbas burritos. Fun and games continue.

Linda and Laverne, retired librarians and occasional Sunday school teachers from Ludowici, visited the Golden Isles. They attracted a curious crowd on East Beach with their rented red Corvette. They wore matching leopard tights enhanced by peacock feathers and passed out religious tracts. Things went sideways when a pack of roving raccoons and a lone buzzard attacked the plumage. Neither has been heard from since. No one recalls if the librarians had fun, or if anyone repented.

Tides are unpredictable. Wind surfing was banned recently. The last two surfers mistook a water spout for a gentle breeze. They were last seen passing Key West. Four body surfers from Statesboro were stranded on a sandbar. Dark fins circled the waters. Later, some fingers and a big toe washed up onshore. They were examined and matched those of a New Jersey man named D’Cappellini. He was last seen leaving Two Way Fish Camp on the Altamaha River with Larry and Butch, two local loggers. The fun never quits.

And so it goes, day by day, here on the Golden Isles. Until Labor Day. They come, they go, they spend. They create memories and stories. They all have fun. After all, what’s summer for, anyway? We’ll be looking for you.

Bud Hearn
May 25, 2012

Dusting Erasers....Back to the Future

Walker Percy, once wrote, "(in) spite of the great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing." It doesn’t take much living to figure this out.

It was the last day of school, May, 1955. I remember it well. It was the day I escaped the dreaded wooden paddle. You remember that ‘corrective’ device, right? The board, the one with three holes bored into it for effect. Apparently I had no idea of who I was, and a reminder of that fact was about to be administered to a tender part of my anatomy. For ‘good measure,’ you understand.

I remember this because my daddy told the teacher, “Honey, the boy just ain’t right. That’s all I can say.” He always called women ‘Honey.’ Either he couldn’t remember their names, or there was something more going on. We lived in the town that coined the concept of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ She apparently bought the compliment and didn’t beat me within an inch of my life. Threats were always measured in inches in those days. Such reasoning remains obscure.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever thanked my father for this act of kindness. It must have been hard for him to admit that the imbecile gene ran in our family. But, I digress. Back to the story.

It’s a sultry South Georgia morning, hot and humid. A group of us sit outside on the back steps of the library, beating off boredom. We dust the felt erasers on the brick walls and on each other's heads. Imbeciles do this. Rectangular white remnants on the red bricks are our rebellious graffiti. The chalk marks are what remains of black-board wisdom the teachers had tried to cram into our granite-crusted brains. All dust. Metaphors are alien creatures to youth.

Students today don’t have to endure the chore of dusting erasers. It’s all digital now. The click of a keystroke, viola, another year deleted, sent hurtling into cyber space. We threw erasers at one another…laptops are more valuable than erasers.

So here we are, waiting for the final bell to ring, signaling that school is over for the year. Summertime. Sweet freedom. I’m 13, graduating from the 8th grade, soon to be in the bottom class of high school. I wonder what the future holds.

Time marches on. On another hot May-day, our high school graduation occurs. It’s tough to figure who’s the happiest, teachers or students. My best friend and I drive the open-air jeep with no seat belts down to the creek to swim. It’s a bitter-sweet day. One thing’s over, another begins. Now we’re about to become college freshmen. The bottom again, the future still a mystery.

College graduation ends in May, too. Somehow I pop out of the Higher Ed pipeline and emerge in the ‘real world.’ I toast with beer, not a swim. The bright lights of the big city beckon. The diploma is my meal ticket to a fabulous future. So I think. Only I’m in the bottom of the next class---the Job Market. I keep wondering why the future is so amorphous.

In time the crisp diploma yellows. It’s relegated to a scrapbook. Nobody cares about it anymore. I move on without it. The realities of life assault me: job, marriage, children and mortgages. Summer vacations become occasional weekend escapes. The barefoot summers of youth vanish. I keep wondering what happened to the future I envisioned.

Years come and go. Age slows some things down, but life gains clarity. The fond memories of the Mays past make me kick back, suck down some sweet tea and blow the brown gnats away. Even now the future remains a diffused mirror, uncertain of what’s looking back at you.

It’s funny, now that I think about it, that this one particular day remains fresh in my memory. The dust of those erasers held the essence of a whole school-year. With a few slaps on the wall, it’s gone. Poof. Vanished. Gone. The whole year, wiped clean.

A lot of things have changed since that May in 1955. The red-brick school of my 8th grade has disappeared. Only memories remain. It was a long time ago when we dusted erasers there. We wondered about the future, only to now discover that it ends in dust, just like residue of those erasers, and too soon. Much too soon.

Bud Hearn
May 17, 2012

The Mistress

“He stopped loving her today. They laid a wreath upon his door. Soon they’ll carry him away, he stopped loving her today.” George T. Jones

Ray was an architect. His creations were exquisite. He lived by the addictive sword of ‘not enough.’ On Monday he fell on it, slain by his inability to say ‘Enough.’ They buried him today.

He would have blamed his demise on age, or the infidelity of the so-called ‘mistresses’ he had accumulated by his obsessive desires. In the end they couldn’t save him. They mocked him and found new homes. Mistresses follow the scent of money. Ray’s luck and bank account had run dry.

Ray was a small man with a huge ego. He gobbled life in large gulps. He lived for the moment, the next new thing. Work was his passion. It was the nectar he drank, the spirit he breathed, the god he served. People and details were flotsam, churned up by his wake. He chewed them up and spit them out like seeds from a grape. He never loved his ‘mistresses’…he just used them.

I recalled a conversation we had about his inordinate affections. It’s as fresh as a Georgia watermelon. Here’s what I recall:

“I can’t keep up this pace,” he says. “They come, they go. The opportunities get more beautiful, more challenging. They torture me with their seductive possibilities. I’m powerless. I just cave in.”

“Listen, Ray, ‘NO’ is still a word,” I say.“ Get a grip. You can’t deal with everything that walks in off the street. Be selective.”

“I tried that. Years ago. I’m obsessed with them. They walk into my life wherever I go. It takes more to satisfy me now.” He fidgets.

“Man, you sound like a meth addict chasing another high. The risks are huge. Take a vacation.” I say.

“I do. But they haunt my mind. I’m hooked. I can’t escape. They stalk me in my dreams. As soon as I say ‘good bye’ to one, another pops up. I’m in prison.” He wrings his hands.

“How’s your home life, the wife, the children? Do they know about your fetish for these so-called ‘mistresses?’ Have you been honest with them?” I ask.

“From the start. I explained to my wife that I had the will power of a mouse when it came to saying ‘NO.’ She suffers the embarrassments, the slights, the burned bridges of friends. She tries to overlook it, but, you know, she’s hurt when I come in late, missing dinner, my clothes all crumpled and wrinkled. I spend more time with ‘them’ than I do with her. Am I a bad person?” he asks. I tell him to consult with Freud.

“Early on they were tawdry tricks, easy to manipulate,” he says. “In the old days I could juggle a bunch of them. It was a cheap high. Not today. They’re complicated, expensive. I’m borrowing big money to support my habits.”

He continues his lament. “I work harder, longer, and the thrill is gone. My vitality and patience are flagging. If I don’t react quickly they walk out, find some other fool,” he says. “It’s an insidious cycle.” Age has taken its inevitable toll, I think.

Before I could offer my advice, his secretary enters. “Ray, she’s here again with her lawyer. She says that the charade is over.” He sinks into the chair, a beaten man. I leave him with his dilemma. I think he died inside that day. Reality is tough to take for such a romantic.

The funeral was sad. His casket sank slowly into a hole that was carved from the bone-dry earth. Dried clods of red clay landed on it with thuds. His widow cried. The end had come for Ray. His mistresses had abandoned him.

The mourners left slowly. I sat on a bench and watched the grave diggers erect a white-marble tombstone. Curious, I wandered over to see what the widow had inscribed. It read:

Ray Mountebank
1942-2012
A Man Who Never Said NO
RIP

I concluded that falling in love with work and with a Siren, the ‘Mistress of More,’ are dead ends…sooner or later.

Bud Hearn
May 10, 2012

The Politician

“I was born into politics, a wedded man with a storm for a bride.” Huey P. Long

Work gets dull. The thrill is gone. Then the cell rings.

It’s Charlie. “Get down here. Now! I want you to meet my ‘good’ friend, Junior. He’s running for office.”

“How much will it cost me?” He laughs. Meeting his friends always costs. They’re politicians. Are all politicians ‘good’ friends of lawyers? I drop the question, get in the pickup and go.

A reasonable crowd mills around in his back yard. They make small talk. Mostly men, a few women. Billows of smoke pour from the cooker. BBQ and beer...typical fare for a political reception. Some call these ‘shakedowns.’ Yard signs beg, “Elect Junior.” No office, no last name.

“Charlie, where’s Junior?”

“Junior smells money. He’ll show. Have another beer.”

“Does Junior practice ‘quid pro quo?’” I ask. “Huh? Of course, he’s a politician.”

“What’s his last name?” I ask. “Not sure. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

Soon Junior arrives. His aura is awesome. Some have power in their organizations, but Junior has power in himself. He brings them all to their knees.

He swaggers in. He’s an actor. Timing is everything. Self-confidence oozes out. A big man. His tie is loose at the neck, his suspenders show under his blazer. He sweats.

He has the eyes of an assassin...sharp, cold, steely. They measure the crowd. His mind calculates the evening’s take. He smiles, grabs my hand with a plow-share paw and squeezes. My feet feel the pain. He hugs my neck. “Whatcha say, hoss?” he says. I feel small.

He wears a smile like a Baptist preacher who holds four aces at the Thursday night card game. I can feel his smile. It counts the money in my hip pocket.

He owns the crowd. He hugs the women, kisses a few. They swoon. I can see right off that Junior knows his way with women. He glad-hands the men, high-fives a few, slaps some backs, hugs three. To some he points, nods, winks. Enough. They’re affirmed.

The carnival begins. He needs no introduction. “Every man’s a king, folks, that’s my slogan. The others are thieves and robbers. Now give me a chance.” The crowd nods.

“Listen, everything I did, I had to do with one hand, because I had to fight with the other. Amen?” The crowd applauds.

“I’m gonna fight for you. They give the little man a biscuit to eat, and put a barrel of flour more taxes on his head to carry. You had enough?” The crowd cheers.

“Wake up. They’re Republican waiters on one side of the aisle and Democratic waiters on the other. It doesn’t matter who brings you the grub, it’s all prepared by the same Wall Street kitchen. That’s gonna change!” The crowd roars. Amens resound.

“I have enemies. They don’t like my politics. But I’ve got alligator hide and Jesus inside. I fight fire with fire. The end justifies the means. You’re with me or against me. No middle ground. Reward or retribution. Amen?” The wallets come out of the pockets.

“Now my opponent. He has robbed you and covered up the grave. But the corpse is not buried very deep. It stinks. I’m gonna expose the crime the bastard is covering up. Now, I don’t use profanity, I’m just referring to the circumstances of his birth.” Wild shouts of approval erupt.

“The media reports I’ve got closet skeletons.” Before he can continue the women retreat to the ladies room. They know the gender of his skeletons. He’s a politician, after all. “Folks, I’m a deacon down at First, and my sins are washed in The Blood. Yessir. Lily white.” The crowd shouts Hallelujah! Some cry.

Then suddenly his speech becomes manic. His fists beat the air. They pound his chest. He burns like fire. His fervor is intense. He’s possessed. He grips his lapels, grabs his tie. It’s a noose. His body twists and turns, dips and sways. He tears his passion to tatters. The crowd shouts wildly in a frenzy of evangelical ecstasy.

And then it’s over. His shirt’s wet. His jacket lies crumpled on the grass. His voice moderates, his body regains composure. He concludes with a wink and a benediction: “Every man’s a king.” He’s mobbed. Checks and cash fill his pockets. The carnival leaves.

I ask Charlie what he said. “Beats me. Who cares? We got a winner here…buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I leave, poorer but wiser, but feeling good about government again. The more things change, the more they remain the same. “Alligator hide and Jesus inside” still rings in my ears.


Bud Hearn
May 3, 2012


PS: A posthumous thanks to Huey P. Long and Hunter S. Thompson for their contributions.