Paragon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

The following requires a GOOD sense of humour. DO NOT CONTINUE if you're easily offended.

Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards - Vladimir Nabokov.

 

 

 

Hebe is a posthuman. And Hebe, I've been told, is physiologically RESPONSIVE just like a real woman. She is, in fact, the 'beau ideal' of biosynthetic companions. Real skin and muscular tissue adorns Hebe's graphene resin skeleton. The resin absorbs kinetic forces - the same material used in industrial 3D printing. Mechanoids for the military sector are typically made of titanium, have low torque and sound, um . . . rather clunky! One of the boffins laid it on strong like a true salesman: She has the same dermal thickness, collagen content and keratin production as a human. But her telomeres are resistant to damage. Her skin won't age and she won't lose muscle tone. He continued: You'll notice there's a smooth synergy between the nervous system, motor skills and sensory stimuli. Her 'seat of consciousness' resides like yours and mine, inside her cranium sensorium. The institute said it was okay. So I did what the head techie suggested. I cradled Hebe in my arms. I picked her up and she immediately responded - approving my Paul Smith aftershave. I noticed her breath was warm, odourless - the carbon dioxide she exhaled was healthy. Hebe caressed my jawline with warm-blooded fingertips: I prefer a man with some stubble - said with such relaxed realism. She'd even washed her hair for the occasion. Whiffs of conditioner kept flooding my system with endorphins. Back on the floor, Hebe lifted the hemline of her white futurewear, exposing her thighs. The group smiled and she became more playful . . . flexing one of her calves: You like . . . ? She was, with their consent, teasing me. Her creators had made her even more life-like, giving her a strong sense of theism based on intuitive insight. This added mansuetude to her nuances. She was genteel but not obsequious - she didn't curry favour or manipulate like her human counterparts.

 

The Ganymede Institute has a billion-dollar humanoid. And 'humanism' is the driving force behind its ethos. Hebe, it was emphasized, isn't a piece of hardware for recon' and intel' operations. X amounts of funding have been poured into her neural and subjective capacity to register sentience. Via Skype, I was addressed by the board of directors. They were, I could see, very HAPPY with their investment. Ymir, Hapi and G-d, they added, were forthcoming siblings of Hebe - all namesakes of 'intersex' deities.

 

Posthumans are interoperable with all data-gathering systems - utilizing the PRISM-program to better understand their suitors. Hive (gestalt intelligence) feeds their prime objective to DELIGHT and INDULGE. To paraphrase one member of the board: Some puritan agitators have raised alarm over what they've termed 'sleeping insurgency' - rogue interfacing with malware. And this, they postulate, could lead to some kind of AI blitzbreig! Only the 'apparatus' would fare in a battle-space scenario. Hypothetically, Hebe would have no problem wearing heavy body armour and operating a sidearm. And full-spectrum dominance would give her the advantage of multiple perspectives. Of course she would be more effective than any soldier on the battlefield. But she isn't built for trench warfare. She would reject any internecine programming. Her theosophical side is just too much of a humanizing factor. It is the very essence of her subservient nature. Finally Hebe explained the purple contusions around her neck: He likes role play - likes to choke and strangle me. They're a little sore but I heal quickly. Do these bruises, Jobe . . . bother you? Her big nubile eyes looked into mine. And I was left transfixed - beguiled. Some folks, I said, can be heavy-handed. Hope you end up with a better suitor. She blushed. Christ, I thought, was this REALLY happening? The personnel loved the subtext between me and their creation. It's no wonder clients want to cohabit. Posthumans are not hormonal. Their voices do not deepen and they remain glabrous. One of the problems is misandry. It's an aggressive outpouring. Man-haters have higher levels of androgens. Radical feminists end up looking like men. Thank God for HRT. Though, it has to be said, society's moody mares always seek out oppression and inequity WHERE THERE IS NONE!!! These PUNKS only see the play of refraction. They're not heroines. They're hypochondriacs - it's all pity parties and group therapy. These anomalies have evolved, I am sure, for the sole purpose of looking stupid: the angry spinster meme with a Germaine Greer book, isn't empowering, it's JUST SAD. Maybe that theatre-in-the-round production, The Vagina Monologues, is more your thing. 'Vagina care' was one of its themes, but-but-but, it steered away from any mentioning of trichomoniasis - yuck! The sharing of sex toys, I suspect, had more comedic value. The real world, girls, doesn't care about these gynocentric concerns. PROGRESS is about getting rid of them. You 'radicals' have unknowingly SPAYED yourselves.

 

Cloud computing enables posthumans to interact with social media platforms - what's trending. The mantissa is so far-reaching, all the redundant observer sees is a vanishing point. Biosynthetic self-awareness is here to PLEASE. Posthumans will replace much of the ageing and recalcitrant population. DON'T HATE THE GAME. Granted, it's not tailor-made for the common folk. It's here for the greater good: the trailblazers and visionaries. And with each calling comes the merits of the job - the luxury of futurist technologies.

 

Appendix:

 

One of the share holders of the Ganymede Institute are the Bogdanoff Twins. Hail their ancient blood line. On one occasion, the Rothschilds bowed to the brothers. This act of genuflection was out of reverence for the real puppet masters of existence.

 

Germaine Greer. Germaine was quite dishy in her younger years. She had a cheeky look. She's best known for some hogwash thesis about, would you believe it, repressed female sexuality. And the culprit for this repression . . . the nuclear family itself. Oh, my heart bleeds for these 'female eunuchs' and the slow erosion of their 'personhood' - of which, the kids and provider husband are to blame. Germaine, in the seventies, was a confessed goer - dropping her knickers for a toffee apple. Her works are insufferable, with a blatant undercurrent of penis envy. She anthropomorphizes the menses, turning it into a character for the Muppets. Repressed sexuality. Solution. Remain single - express your need to copulate with whoever. Oh, Germaine, you old hussy in your sagging skin suit . . . whinge whinge fuckin' whinge!!!


Submitted: October 18, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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