If you’re leasing a racially ambiguous, completely electronic cyborg Boyfriend® with vague political ambitions and a nice Jewish “mother”, it can be irritating when he starts to glitch (especially after that hefty down payment!). How do you know it’s time for a good, old-fashioned defrag? Keep your human eyes peeled for these telltale signs.
He starts asking you to pay for things.
There’s no reason your cyborg boyfriend should be asking you to pay for anything—after all, you’re the one whose bank account is attached to his credit card. All cyborg Boyfriends® have been programmed to engage in a light, “No, I insist,” back and forth before paying with “his own” card. If you’re hearing a hesitant, “Didn’t I get you at Chili’s last time?” it’s time to take him into the shop and maybe upgrade his chivalry pack. Ugh, dating inorganic men is a hassle!
He’s stopped pretending to sleep.
If you wake up and your Boyfriend®’s fiberglass resin eyes have begun to collect detritus, chances are his sleep functionality is malfunctioning. Pretending to sleep is a vital part of your Boyfriend®’s daily routine, limiting the creepiness of owning a robot, and preventing programming glitches such as developing a celebrity crush with a different hair color from you. Nice try, cyber guy!
He asks you for a ride.
If your Boyfriend® contacts you via telepathy (as they always should) asking for “a ride home,” then it’s a clear sign that the functionality of self-driving car is underperforming and it’s time to bring him back to the programmer. While you’re at it, feel free to make any number of Boyfriend® upgrades including the Magic Michael™ dance moves add-on.
He’s stopped asking you to marry him in public.
Don’t let him tell you that he “wants to play the field before [you] decide on each other for life.” You have purchased a fuck robot who’s blindly committed to you. If he is not down on one cybertronic knee during every public outing—be it a grocery run, picking you up at work, or the third time you’re insisting on seeing Steve Jobs—try upgrading his software to Startup Owner and Occasional Bass Player with a Big Inheritance On the Way.
His nipples have begun to burn holes in his shirts.
A classic indication that it’s time for a tune-up is when your Boyfriend® soils his standard issue casual button-down shirt. If you’re using a model from 2014 or earlier, you need to turn down his nipples from “Sultry” to “Neutral” until you can get them looked at.
His dirty talk is in zeros and ones.
The last thing you want when your cyborg boyfriend has you within an inch of climax is “I want to fuck you so zero zero zero zero zero zero one zero one zero.” Actually, that’s not entirely true. The last thing you want is for your Boyfriend’s® pointer to malfunction while he’s fingerbanging you, subsequently electrocuting you from the inside out and leaving your poor mother to explain that her eldest daughter died from a “shock to the privates.” Imagine her having to say this to person after person at your wake as you lay there in the coffin. Imagine your cyborg Boyfriend®, embracing her in shame. Still, the binary dirty talk isn’t great, either.
He’s all, “What if we did this instead?”
Boyfriends® were not made to suggest an alternative to what you want to do, so if there’s ever a time he suggests doing something else like going to his buddy Adam’s to watch a WWE pay-per-view or “maybe not watch a million episodes of Mysteries and Scandals tonight,” then you’ve probably bought a lemon. Hope you got that warranty!
He insists, “My name is Thomas and I am not a cyborg. My uncle said he’d pay off my student loans if I pretended to be one for a few months and lied to Scientific American so that he could get tenure. It was a mistake and I regret it every day. Please stop asking me to propose to you in public.”
Stick the roto tool in his butt and reset, honey, because your Boyfriend® is being sent back to the factory where he will be melted down for scrap. You heard that, Thomas? Melted down for scrap.
When that metal-mouth starts neglecting your uncanny valley, show him who’s in control—at least until the singularity!
