Thanks, everyone, thank you for listening in.

Well, I don’t celebrate Easter or anything, but I’m glad it’s over. Except for one thing: when Jesus rose from the dead on Sunday, after a bit of celebration and kissing a few babies and generally assuring his followers that he was alive, again, he’s now staying at my place. I didn’t know that this is how the Resurrection worked, but he’s telling me that each year a different person is chosen at random, and this year I’m the lucky bastard. He’s asleep on the couch right now so I’m trying to talk a little softly so as not to wake him up. 

Overall, it’s not been bad hanging out with the Saviour for a few days—I’ve got tons of loaves and fishes, and he can even do Nutella—but I’m glad he’s headed back to Heaven on Thursday. They have a big celebration up there called Last Thursday Wasn’t the Last Supper After All, and the five chefs who managed to make it to Heaven put on a giant spread apparently.

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I know everyone talks about AI, but before you click off, this time I’m talking about AI and sex. So anyone can see where this whole thing is headed. We have AI that answers all our questions on the one hand, and on the other hand we have the Japanese who not only have trains run totally by solar power and trains that can go 500 km/hour, but of course are also working hard on perfecting sex dolls. You know, life-sized, super-realistic dolls that men, and yes it’s always men, use to have sex for.

Well those are ultimately going to get combined so that you get someone you can talk to, someone who knows the details of World War II as well as the length of Ron Jeremy’s cock, and whom you can get to stop talking whenever you want because you want to, you know, be intimate with it.

I predict some problems though. Mostly based on the fact that’s it’s a machine and all machines are subject to major malfunctions. Teslas crash. Windows freezes. The coffee grinder stops working. The difference with the sex dolls is that the malfunction might happen while you have your dick in its rubbery mouth. There’s going to be a bite-down or an activation of the previously unknown real-tooth function that some man is going to regret enormously. To say the least.

But even malfunctions less severe than this will be an issue. Like an embarrassment for example when you have to go to the hospital. You’ve got a massive bruise on your shoulder and a rubber finger imbedded in your pubic hair and straight through through the skin. That information is not going to look good on a hospital emergency intake form.

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Well, maybe that’s enough about future injuries that I might have to worry about when I’m 80. Right now, I’ve got a bad knee. But the weird thing is that it’s not that it’s sore, or I get pain when I walk down a flight of stairs. I mean, it’s bad, in the sense of evil. I never used to believe in ghosthunters and haunted and all that other bullshit, but I’m starting to change my mind. It always happens during the night when I’m asleep and the other thing is that it never wakes me up.

But the way I find out about it is that when I chat with someone in my condo building the next day, or when the rumours start circulating, someone will be complaining that they were hit in the head by, and they call it a number of things, a baseball, a small rock, an old-fashioned Christmas tree ornament. There was even one time when the person attacked happened to be a doctor who slept with the lights on, and this is one of those cases where him having the facts didn’t do him any good.

“Jesus, Tom,” I heard people saying to him. “What do you mean, a kneecap? This is not funny, you know. A good dozen residents have been injured.”

“But I’m a doctor—” he starts but people start waving him off and walking away or making fun of him.

“For fuck sake, man, take a vacation or something. If everything is starting to look like a kneecap to you, maybe you need to see less patients in the hospital, or take some time off or something.”

I keep my mouth shut.