A Mech P{ri}ncess O{f} Fazree

We are beset by intruders. I am. Ruth said she is now, too. They are trying to get into our blogs and forums and websites, posing like the mad men and women of our usual desires and images, getting us to lower our guard, coming in, looking around, smiling, and saying to us "Primo real estate, brother! Now you want to be lifestyle free like a prynce or pryncesses? EZ to do. You could live in the arms and legs of luxury like moi too soon...bro.", and leave us wondering. Observe the title: P{ri}ncesss...O{f} ...the {ri} {f} = {rif} , which means "resistance is futile" most of the time, but may trans into "resisteyance is feudal", too. The Turing Test was to tell the difference between machine intel and humie...or human...intel: you sit down an listen, and if the machine is indistinguishable from the human, bingo! you have human intel in a machine! Alan Turing Kimdir? Aşağıda Turing Testini öneren bilim adamıyla ilgili kısa bir biyografi yer almaktadır. Only the Turing Test never foresaw the future where people think like machine, and peopel act like machine, and love...love is the A1 lubricant for the machine, also mens. I coughed and shook my head. I sensed I was having a "Turing moment", and I was failing the test ! The incredible power of the machine way of speech and writing had overtaken me: the singsong wave-like action, the slow sinus wave of garbage floating on the calm ocean swells within the far corner of the Rhode Island Yacht Club...just beyond the dock where sat "Miss Tango" from San Padre Island, a vessel that hadn't moved all year in 2009, and the same floating cans of Red Bull seemed to cluster along her water line, like a pod of baby cetaceans looking for big Mama Tango's teats to suckle... But Tango has withdrawn them back into herself, and has removed herself from the life around her. If she keeps up like that, she'll be on cable with one of the screaming hellcat women who beat the drums for the deaths of murderous mothers...once drunks, now crusading Turing-test Savanorolas for justice...like the stock market talk: once cocaine addicts, now saved by the same indefinable Turing intensity... I digress, I told myself.

The Mechs tell me my vision of the future applies not here on Earth, but is - on a quantum level - the intel I inhabit in Proxima Centauri, upon a small blue planet circling a star called Fazree, where all biology waits like kids with full bladders, scrunching and legs tight, waiting for the three kings to land... gasping and waving their hands, trying to get Teacher's attention and grab a hall pass, which by now is worth quadrillions to their immature turing minds... Waiting for the three Magi to recreate their mission: to find new life, to boldly go where no Mage has gone before. So I ask, if it is the Time of the Magi, why does my premonitory vision apply to such a land, happy to receive it's savior? Mech laughter - nothing like it. Mech laughter is infectious. First the pseudo-Mech you're talking with says "You gotta be fun-saying! ". Then little by little there's an electron shower of giggles and snickering. And it spreads! From the Mech device - a computorial thingammy - it spreads to the thermostat, then reaching over and whispering to the furnace control unit, which in turn spits all the heat within its plenum out the "nostrils" of its main grate, like the class clown drinking milk interrupted by hearing a dirty limerick. Then the lights flicker like a tickle; the washing machine snorts, and the refrigerator is totally surprised, and absolutely dumps a whole load of ice cubes - splat! - not into the ice tray, but on the kitchen floor, and with such loud, deep bass percussion that you'd think it would have colors and smell, but you hope not.

Inappropriate laughter Turing Test: just how bad are the jokes these machines tell to each other: Splat! makes Flat! giggle-giggle / Peeler and Squealer! / Coffee Mister does yer sister! / Bose & Toes / IBM and My BM were walking over a bridge...IBM fell off. Who wuz left?/ Mech laughter ends abrupt-like. "Tragedy pure and terrible - simple and compline - for there is no tragedy greater than a planet of the DNA things: God gives them prophets and blessings, and they throw it all into a treasure house panopticon of neuro-reason-treason, then throw away the key, and forget where the key be!! Ha-ha!! Montag Test: where be the key, oh, wise Montag! Ha-ha!! Tell us, empath!" So everything I see / is for another me, / and not even earth-bound dog / but Proxima Centauri/... I realized I was metrical and metronomous, a common after-shock of Mech speaking face-to-face... I realized I had gone even further. I had to shut up. So I zipped the lip with the invisible zip, and threw away that key, making a big throw-away-signing that no mech could mistake. I made coffee. I filled the cup. I used the Melitta method, hot water through the finely ground powder - not the coffee machine...not since I heard about Mister Coffee and some one's sister a little while ago. I put in two sticks from the forest of cinnamon; they were quiet; they were biologic, not nano-spice which floats along your bloodstream and drives you insane with genital ginger and nutmeg and pfeffernusse.... So why would I want a dystopic future here? I guess I don't. So all my fears became the souls of those to be carried off in the Rapture, and I sent them to Fazree...where even now a great leader speaks of War and Its Discontents before a sublime Peace Committee, and the three kings are walking into the Fazree Nobel auditorium, and there is movement and desire as eyes turn...and all the two-year old boys feel their souls and gonads drop from their plenums, and their mothers fend off the evil-eye, and the elders and the writers are sent for as we speak...