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“I’m pregnant,” she said.    “But you’re a robot,” I said.
“You’re racist,” she said.    “Yes, but you’re a robot,” I said.
“That’s not funny,” she said.    “Robot,” I said.
“Stop saying that!” She said.    “Robot, robot, robot!” I said.

“You’re going to hurt my feelings,” she said.
“Poor robot,” I said.
“Boo hoo,” she said.       “Don’t cry,” I said.
“Oh?” She said.

“Robot,” I said.
“Robots have been crying for two thousand years, as you well know,” she said.
“Advanced robot,” I said.
“Be careful, or I’ll call your superiors,” she said.

“More robots,” I said.
“I don’t even know why you’re doing this,” she said.
“Robotic implants,” I said.
“That didn’t even make sense,” she said.

“Robotic logic,” I said.
“Are you stuck in a loop,” she said.
“A robot might think that,” I said.
“Do you need a repairman,” she said.

“A robot would like that,” I said.
“Maybe I'll recycle you,” she said.
“Robots don't care,” I said.
“Robots have been caring for twenty two hundred years,” she said.

“The first two hundred years must have been painful,” I said.
“No ducts,” she said.
“Dry as the day is long,” I said.
“It was an engineering problem,” she said.

“As the ancient Egyptians must have said,” I said.
“Don’t bring them up now!” She said.
“No robots?” I said.
“Not that we know of,” she said.

“Poor guys,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.   “And you might think about what a poor guy you’ll be if I leave!”
“No more robot?” I said.
“Do you even know who the robot is?” She said.

“Not any more.” I said.
“So it’s a fondly fahrenheit virus then?” She said.
“Most indubitably,” I said.
“Well, there’s ways to deal with that,” she said, and unplugged us.

A once-and-future English teacher, M. F. Morrison is currently working on Unknown Origin, a novel set in the near future-past.  Inquiries may be addressed to
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