Robot Intercession
Drew salutes our robot overlords.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
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I’m having surgery tomorrow.
I don’t particularly like that phrasing because it makes it sound as though I am actively pursuing the removal of 12-18 inches of my bowel. I’d prefer to leave my bowel just as it is, but unfortunately when I developed diverticulitis a few years ago, my body did not seem to understand that flare ups can be minor and do not have to result in immediate perforation of the bowel and subsequent hospital stays of five to six days to avoid possible death.
As my cardiologist offered off-handedly at my pre-surgery consult, he was surprised that I was still alive after a recent attack, since a perforated bowel often leads to sepsis and ultimately death in the patient. He also reminded me that bowel surgeries can be complicated. After those little nuggets of good news, he thought it would be a good time to check my blood pressure.
The point of this column though is not to bemoan my fate nor ruin your Sunday morning omelet with cheese, but to get ahead of any rumors later this summer that humorist Drew Gallagher lost a bunch of weight, so he must have taken Ozempic. Rest assured, any weight loss will be due to not eating or drinking beer for a few weeks and not to Hollywood’s miracle drug. I also thought it would be prudent to take a moment to suck up to my surgeon and the robot he will be using to perform the surgery.
Some might argue that choosing one’s surgeon based upon a feature article written by Cathy Dyson in the Free Lance-Star might not be the best selection process for a “complicated” surgery, but when Cathy featured Dr. Thomas and his 1,500th robotic surgery complete with an office celebration that included a cutout of my homegirl, Taylor Swift, it appeared that the gods were giving me a sign. The only thing keeping local newspapers afloat these days are public notices required by municipalities and signs from gods hidden in feature stories or wire photos that take up space at deadline.
I have every faith in Dr. Thomas, and I’m certain that the defense counsel provided by his professional liability insurer will use that statement as Exhibit A in any malpractice lawsuit my distraught wife will bring in the unfortunate event of my passing.
However, I have at times in this column questioned the benefit of Artificial Intelligence and wanted to let my robot overlords and robot surgeon know that I was just kidding. I have a long history of undocumented (until now!) respect and even adoration for robots and how they can and will improve our quality of life provided they don’t decide to end humankind because we are a bunch of nincompoops. To wit:
When I was a child in the 1970s, my cousin Shawn received a toy called Rock’em Sock’em Robots for Christmas, so at our next visit to his house we dutifully played Rock’em Sock’em Robots for the entire visit. Shawn, having the benefit of playing for days against a much younger sister, won every bout by knocking the head off my robot which elicited a sound similar to someone stepping on the tail of a sleeping cat with golf shoes. It’s a sound that still haunts my dreams, but it taught me early that robots—even plastic ones with glass chins—are something to be feared and respected. (Note to self—check to see if Dr. Thomas was really good at Rock’em Sock’em Robots, because the robot he’ll use for my surgery is similar although quite a bit larger, a bit more expensive, and not available in red or blue.)
The Jetsons television show was my first real glimpse into what a beautiful world this could be if only we embraced the entrance of robots into our apartments in outer space. Though I did not agree with Rosie the Robot being portrayed as merely a servant (as opposed to the leader of humankind as all robots should be), I respected her housekeeping abilities, especially with Hurricane Elroy constantly leaving his crap around the flat. Some would argue that family dog Astro was the true star of The Jetsons, but I would offer that Lectronimo was never given an equal opportunity to fulfill the family pet role. Alas, bumbling George was the only one who shared my true wonder and appreciation of a robot dog. (My non-robot dog Fenway is asleep on my office floor at the moment, and he just farted. Lectronimo never passed gas that peeled paint off the walls as 14-year-old Fenway just did.)
For a few blissful years in the late 1970s, there was a television show titled Buck Rogers in the 25th Century that featured a robot named Twiki. Twiki was kind of annoying because he could not say anything without first saying: “Beedee, beedee, beedee, beedee.” Then he would speak his profundity in the voice of Mel Blanc for at least one season of the show. Twiki may have proven to be less annoying if not for the fact that my friend Mike has continued to periodically say, “Beedee, beedee, beedee, beedee” for the last 45 years. The true attraction of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, however, was Erin Gray as Colonel Wilma Deering dressed in brightly colored, and remarkably revealing, outfits that she literally had to be sewn into. I do not know what actual advances there might be in the next three centuries, but nothing will prove as formative to a young boy as Erin Gray in those costumes.
Lastly, no reverence of robots by a man in his mid-50s is complete without acknowledging the importance that R2D2 and C-3PO, from the original Star Wars trilogy, had in shaping one’s world view. Sure, they were merely droids to some, but to Luke Skywalker, R2D2 was like the metal brother he never had—or at least better than the annoying younger brother that some of us did have. And the lumbering, straight-line exits of R2 and C-3PO from battlegrounds proved time and time again that stormtroopers were possibly the worst shots in the entire galaxy. Stormtroopers could build a Death Star to destroy the universe but ask them to hit a bright gold robot at 15 feet with a blaster and they were as worthless as Tyrone at a fishing hole.
So today I salute robots, specifically the one that is going to perform my surgery tomorrow. And I salute you too, dear readers and your continued faith in the FXBG Advance and its ongoing quest to provide local journalism for the betterment of Fredericksburg and all those who live here. And I also salute my dear wife Margaret on this, our 23rd wedding anniversary. And yes, the life insurance policy limits were increased, and the premiums are current.
And lastly, I salute this column’s sponsor, the Card Cellar, located at 915 Caroline Street, which does not have a Colonel Wilma Deering action figure or an autographed photo. I checked.
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Beedee, beedee,beedee,beedee.
Good thoughts being sent your way (and to your robot, too.) may beer not be far behind.