As a warmer, correct the English of your nearest multi-millionaire football coach. Pep, Jürgen, Joey Barton. Take your pick. They do. You, you, you, not you, you. The rest of yous lot can give me five laps of the pitch. Lardy arse, sugar addicts do not get in the team, simple as. Boss, I need a hug. Boss, I’m hungry. Boss, I’m lonely. I don’t care, I don’t care, I, read my lips, do not care.
You are now on track for fully-automated emotional support. The awkwardness of human-to-human hugs is a thing of the past. HUGGO lets go when you say and not before. Warm and strong, but not too long, so you keep control. HUGGO won’t get bad breath. HUGGO won’t squeeze you to death. HUGGO won’t stick around. When you’re done hugging, he’s out of there.
All that ticky-tacky, keeping hold of the ball malarkey is all well and good, if you’re any good. If you’re not so hot to trot, kick ‘em off the park, bark in their face and make them wish they’d stayed in Manchester, Leicester or Marbella. There’s more than one way to smoke skat. What’s the matter, soft lad? Cat got your skinning knife? Right, You, you, you, give me five.
Footage from social media is adapted, face-swapped onto celebrity bodies, voices inserted and before you know, no further human intervention is required. You and HUGGO are free to do as you please. There's no need to download images of random women, their throats cut by homicidal creatures with razor-sharp claws.
With HUGGO life is soft, warm and tight, tight, tight, so tight, so tight. Let go HUGGO. Let go of me now! HUGGO!... A young woman pulls a pistol and mutters, “I think I’d like to talk to you? Are you Pep J. Jürgen Barton IV?”
HUGGO, pre-owned by Googlism, does not respond to a request to comment and you shrink back into your shell-suit, the hoodie you sport is your own fashion brand, of course, you are your own man, you are profitable, you are professional, you need a hug. You've been provided with fully-automated emotional support. There's no going back to four-four-two, they’ll tear you apart and feed you to the twitterati.
At the border, the Peruvians insist on actual passports, photo ID will no longer cut the cerviche, no way José Barton, you no got the gringo, you no go nowhere, cabrón. The economic death spiral of Venezuela, not your fault, can only be stopped by dollarization.
The adverts have frozen, the kids are bloodied, screaming, phones smashed, Lego all over the kitchen floor, nanny nowhere to be seen, father in Marbella, again, the plot is unfathomable… and you adopt the greenback, like it is some kind of solution.
However…
The tension… is… successfully built…
On a whim from the boss, who insists on being called God.
Zone out, go online, lose yourself, smooth away the frictions of being a human being by accepting the natural progression of technology. For the first time ever, there are more telephones than people. What's App? Boss, I need a hug. Boss, I’m hungry. Boss, I’m lonely. I don’t care, I don’t care, I, read my lips, do not care.
Standing still in the rain, chewing the cud, the bovine await their moment. In the UK alone, seven people a year are killed by cows. Unless they've got semi-automatic weapons, they're unlikely to make a comeback in the second half, boss. We must be about two and a half Birminghams to seven up.
Ok, sell the cow, put the magic beans in the ground, and while the Border Patrol are chopping down the gigantic, out-of-control, bean-stalk, cross the frontier. When you get to Strawberry Fields, start packing that fruit away and they might let you stay.
The end of the training session ends with the boss blow drying HUGGO. A disembodied female roars with laughter. The dialogue is unsurprisingly disjointed, but you think you hear Pep say: “We arrive to do every time the same thing.” You have absolutely no idea what any of it means. Menos mal.
You are now on track for fully-automated emotional support. The awkwardness of human-to-human hugs is a thing of the past. HUGGO lets go when you say and not before. Warm and strong, but not too long, so you keep control. HUGGO won’t get bad breath. HUGGO won’t squeeze you to death. HUGGO won’t stick around. When you’re done hugging, he’s out of there.
All that ticky-tacky, keeping hold of the ball malarkey is all well and good, if you’re any good. If you’re not so hot to trot, kick ‘em off the park, bark in their face and make them wish they’d stayed in Manchester, Leicester or Marbella. There’s more than one way to smoke skat. What’s the matter, soft lad? Cat got your skinning knife? Right, You, you, you, give me five.
Footage from social media is adapted, face-swapped onto celebrity bodies, voices inserted and before you know, no further human intervention is required. You and HUGGO are free to do as you please. There's no need to download images of random women, their throats cut by homicidal creatures with razor-sharp claws.
With HUGGO life is soft, warm and tight, tight, tight, so tight, so tight. Let go HUGGO. Let go of me now! HUGGO!... A young woman pulls a pistol and mutters, “I think I’d like to talk to you? Are you Pep J. Jürgen Barton IV?”
HUGGO, pre-owned by Googlism, does not respond to a request to comment and you shrink back into your shell-suit, the hoodie you sport is your own fashion brand, of course, you are your own man, you are profitable, you are professional, you need a hug. You've been provided with fully-automated emotional support. There's no going back to four-four-two, they’ll tear you apart and feed you to the twitterati.
At the border, the Peruvians insist on actual passports, photo ID will no longer cut the cerviche, no way José Barton, you no got the gringo, you no go nowhere, cabrón. The economic death spiral of Venezuela, not your fault, can only be stopped by dollarization.
The adverts have frozen, the kids are bloodied, screaming, phones smashed, Lego all over the kitchen floor, nanny nowhere to be seen, father in Marbella, again, the plot is unfathomable… and you adopt the greenback, like it is some kind of solution.
However…
The tension… is… successfully built…
On a whim from the boss, who insists on being called God.
Zone out, go online, lose yourself, smooth away the frictions of being a human being by accepting the natural progression of technology. For the first time ever, there are more telephones than people. What's App? Boss, I need a hug. Boss, I’m hungry. Boss, I’m lonely. I don’t care, I don’t care, I, read my lips, do not care.
Standing still in the rain, chewing the cud, the bovine await their moment. In the UK alone, seven people a year are killed by cows. Unless they've got semi-automatic weapons, they're unlikely to make a comeback in the second half, boss. We must be about two and a half Birminghams to seven up.
Ok, sell the cow, put the magic beans in the ground, and while the Border Patrol are chopping down the gigantic, out-of-control, bean-stalk, cross the frontier. When you get to Strawberry Fields, start packing that fruit away and they might let you stay.
The end of the training session ends with the boss blow drying HUGGO. A disembodied female roars with laughter. The dialogue is unsurprisingly disjointed, but you think you hear Pep say: “We arrive to do every time the same thing.” You have absolutely no idea what any of it means. Menos mal.
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