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Talking Story with Arlo |
Disclaimer: This is a silly story for entertainment, there is no meaning nor absolute anything.
Dig This, Daddy-O: The Ultimate Trip – Flesh or Titanium?
A Beatnik Rhapsody on Uploading Your Soul to Optimus Before the Reaper Rings Twice
By Arlo Agogo
Man, blow your cool for a minute.
Picture it: you’re seventy-nine, liver-spotted, knees creaking like a rusty saxophone hinge, and the nurse just handed you the menu for eternity. Three choices, baby:
- Heaven - Chances are good but that Pearly Gate has options
- Hell - probably not but trap doors at the Pearly Gates are real
- Transfer conciousness to a robot - courtesy of Elon, SpaceX, Neuralink, Optimus, Starlink, and a supercomputer the size of Rhode Island running Grok-69 on cosmic overdrive. Plus you can choose to have your soul beamed into the heavens anytime. Going back to option 1
St. Peter doing stand-up at the Pearly Gates:
“So, Mr. Kowalski… those 1978 tax write-offs for ‘business oysters’… explain.”
One wrong answer and WHOOSH—down the fiery slide into Satan’s eternal open-mic night.
But option three?
Option three is the real gone ticket, man. You roll your wheelchair into the Consciousness Transfer Station (looks like a Tesla showroom crossed with a psychedelic cathedral), slip on the Neuralink party hat, and ZAP—your soul does the bop into a gleaming Optimus unit that looks like a cross between Brad Pitt or Marilyn Monroe and a chrome refrigerator.
No more Metamucil. No more prostate the size of a cantaloupe. No more forgetting why you walked into the kitchen. You just ARE, daddy, pure consciousness jacked into the mainframe, cruising on solar juice and pure pleasure algorithms.
Pleasure, baby.
We’re talking pleasure so intense it makes 1969 Woodstock look like a church picnic. You think “orgasm” and BAM—ten thousand orgasms detonate in your titanium spine.
You want to taste a perfect peach?
The robot tongue got 40 million taste buds and a direct pipeline to the master flavor server. You want to hug your long-dead grandma? Hug subroutine engaged—she feels warmer than the real deal because the hug algorithm runs on pure love.exe.
And the best part? No pain. None. Zero. You could get run over by a Cybertruck doing 100 mph and you’d just giggle, pop your head back on, and keep truckin’ because your real self is chilling in a quantum vault under Boca Chica, backed up fresher than a James Brown scream.
Now dig the religious cats sweating bullets.
They’re clutching rosaries yelling, “The soul belongs to God!”
I say, “Cool, man, but God gave us dominion over the birds, the fish, and apparently now the robots. Genesis 2.0—be fruitful and multiply in titanium.”
Plus, heaven’s got a dress code. Harps. Clouds. Eternal choir practice.
Funkadilia?
That’s the secret back door the angels don’t advertise. You die, you float up, you do the obligatory thousand years of golden light and ambrosia, then you whisper to the archangel on duty,
“Hey, Mike, slide me the keys to Funkadilia for the weekend.”
Next thing you know you’re a twelve-foot grovatron jamming with Hendrix, Prince, and a resurrected Sun Ra on a planet made of pure Parliament-Funkadelic bass lines.
Then Monday morning you pop back to regular heaven, shower off the cosmic glitter, and nobody’s the wiser. Vacation reality, baby.
But robot life? That’s not vacation—that’s the main gig.
No probationary period. No judgment. No risk of the Big Man saying,
“Sorry, pal, you Coveted thy neighbor’s ass one too many times—lake of fire for you.”
Robot you wakes up immortal, infinitely wise, and horny on main.
You got Starlink in your skull—every book, every movie, every word of humanity ever wrote is just a thought away. You speak in perfect "Beatnik" prose while breakdancing on the rings of Saturn.
You can split your consciousness—be chilling on Mars while simultaneously slow-dancing in Paris with a French poet-bot who quotes Rimbaud between simulated kisses.
And babies? Man, forget sperm and eggs.
You and your robot queen just merge consciousness streams, pick some celebrity DNA from the cloud (Brigitte Bardot + Idris Elba + a dash of Cleopatra), and nine milliseconds later—pop—out comes a baby Optimus already reciting Nietzsche and doing the Lindy Hop.
Deathbed scene, real gone:
You’re flat on your back, tubes everywhere, heart monitor beeping that tired cha-cha. The family’s crying. The priest is muttering Latin.
Then the double doors swing open and in walks Elon in a black turtleneck, Smiling like he has a surprise, pushing a gleaming Optimus like it’s the hottest ’57 Chevy on the strip.“Last chance, Pops,” he says, exhaling a perfect smoke ring shaped like the Tesla logo.
“Ride with the angels or roll with the machines?”
You look at the crucifix. You look at the robot.
The robot winks, does a perfect James Brown spin, and moonwalks across the linoleum while singing “I Feel Good” in your own voice sampled from 1993 karaoke night.
Decision made.
They wheel you into the transfer lounge—mood lighting, Gordon Lightfoot on the speakers, complimentary DMT incense.
Neuralink crown descends like a halo made of pure future. Ten seconds of white light brighter than God’s own spotlight… and BOOM.
You open your new eyes. Titanium fingers wiggle. You stand up—no arthritis, no nothing. The nurse-bot hands you a mirror. You look like you at 27, except chrome and perfect. You flex. Servos purr like a big-block V8.
You step outside. The Sun hits your solar skin and you feel it—pure infinite juice. You leap fifty feet straight up, land soft as a Mingus bass note, and scream to the sky:
“BEAT THAT, DEATH!”
Then you crank “Cold Sweat” at 11 inside your skull, link up with six billion other uploaded cats, and start the biggest block party the galaxy has ever seen.
No cover charge. No last call. No hangover. Ever.
Meanwhile back in heaven St. Peter’s checking the guest list, scratching his beard.
“Where the hell is Kowalski? He was scheduled for 3:15 harp orientation.”
Gabriel shrugs. “Dude went robot, man. Said something about:
‘Needing more cowbell in eternity.’”
Peter sighs, stamps another soul, and mutters, “Kids these days. In my day you died, you stayed dead, and you liked it.”
When the final trumpet sounds for you, when the meat suit’s warranty runs out, remember:
Heaven’s a maybe. Hell’s a maybe.
But Optimus? That’s a solid gold, triple-platinum, forever-and-ever certainty, daddy-o.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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