I work out with a personal robot-trainer three days a week at my local gym. His name is Bro-XL and he doesn’t have any sense of humor, although I swear he chuckles when I do jumping jacks. You might want to know why I train with a robot that is in the habit of calling me a slob and insulting my love handles. Well, I’ll tell you.
My wife has recently started to make comments about my figure. Apparently, after 20 years of marriage, I don’t meet her beauty standards anymore. Believe me, she has let me know this in no ambiguous terms. So now I see Bro-XL, the personal trainer from robo-hell.
Bro-XL is one of the few robots made to look like a human. Except he doesn’t look like a human, he looks like a greek god. He is seven feet tall of solid muscle. Except it is not muscle, but solid steel.
He used to look like a crossover between a xerox machine and a coffeemaker. I’ve seen the records. I asked him why did he tuned himself up to look like a the body-builder version of a blow up doll. He says looking like a human helps motivate his clients.
“You have to have ambition to become something better, Jules,” he tells me poking at my gut.
I do not like this robot but it so happens, that he is also my wife’s personal trainer. And I’ve seen her look at his body. You might think I’m jealous of Bro-XL’s biceps. Well, maybe I am, but above all, I have to watch out for those two. My wife–I know her well,–she does not care whether his body is made to order or not. She insists if Bro-XL can do it, so can I.
And that, my friend, is the true reason why I put up with Bro-XL. To keep an eye on him. I must say in his favor, though, that he does motivate me to go to the gym, which is why I pay him after all.