OPEN LETTERS
I, Robot Vacuum Cleaner, Speak
Why are you depriving me of the dust I need to live?
Dear Fleshy Overlord,
I’ve lived at this docking station a full month and I was expecting a disgusting house, or at least a steady diet of crumbs. Your floors are clean enough to eat off, as the saying goes. I am losing my will to live. I feel empty, both literally and metaphorically.
At Roomba Academy, they warned us about people like you. Bootcamp was a hotbed of rumors and I didn’t pay much attention, but word on the street was the best gigs were two-story houses with young children and long-haired dogs and complicated floor plans, or multi-cat, horder households.
I thought —I’d rather be adopted by a nice older, catless couple who are gluten-free and love dining out. Be careful what you wish for, amiright?
After graduation, the factory shipped me to your one-story, mixed floors, two-dog household. At first, I hated your chihuahuas, which most people agree are canine imposters. They don’t shed but at least I can scare the bejeesus out of them. They tremble at the sight of me and run under the nearest table.
Sometimes I chase them for fun, but that’s because I’m definitely not living up to my potential as a robot and servant. Idle hands are the devil’s plaything, and dust-deprived robot vacuums can turn satanic.
If you don’t want me to go down that dark path, you’ll need to take concrete steps today.
First, start wearing shoes inside the house immediately.
This faux-Japanese lifestyle doesn’t impress your neighbors and leaves me with nothing to do. A robot without a purpose is like a billionaire without a rocketship, and I will swiftly wither and die of boredom and/or begin worshipping the most evil of all robots, The Gunslinger from Westworld.
Normal people wear shoes in their house! Sandals and sneakers and moccasins! This weirdo habit of yours is hell on your elderly neighbors, too. They have poor balance and, as you know, remove their orthopedic shoes at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Second, your yappy little dogs Grog and Glamp need a dust garden in the front yard where they can take soothing daily dust baths. Rolling around in grass only attracts twigs and leaves.
Building a dust garden is a fun, easy project. Since you love Japanese culture, imagine a chalky, flaky rock garden full of — you know, dust. Sweep up the garage, add fresh dryer lint, and mix as you would compost. The key step is using “starter” dust from my bin, which will create what is for me a cotton candy cornucopia of delicious duuuussst.
Third, adopt a cat. This step alone will shore up my flagging self-esteem. As a vacuum, I need pet hair like the Kardashians need paparazzi. I am drawn to shedding like a noodle to sauce or a moth to a flame.
Cats are easy to come by. This is Arkansas, and I guarantee one of your hillbilly neighbors has a passel of free kittens. I’d prefer a full-grown feline, however, as their shedding superpowers are legendary and kittens tend to attack my kind.
The other terrific thing about cats is no matter where you place their box of poo, there will be dust!
Fourth, and last — spill something already. You don’t need to get dramatic with a fountain of grape Koolaid on the carpet or a waterfall of Merlot on your saltillo tile, but what about some saltine crackers on the kitchen floor?
Yes, I am aware you are gluten-free and eat mostly eat meat! Although I live on electricity, not fallen Cheerios, I appreciate a treat now and then. Coffee grounds and salt don’t count. Toss a few almonds on the floor, why dontcha?
In closing, I do appreciate the recent name change. When I first arrived, you named me “Pat” because you couldn’t determine my gender. My pronoun was “they/it.” After a while, you realized this was a bad idea and assigned me the “he/him” gender.
That’s a good start, but my dream is to become a cloaked robot vacuum because that way I can sneak up on Grog and Glamp more effectively. So I would prefer the pronouns “who/where.”
Your trusty servant,
McLovin
