Brobots

            In the hallowed halls of fraternity Pi Sigma Phi, two fraternity elders chilled by the fireplace in the den.  The crackling fire pleased their ears and soothed their minds almost as much as the outrageous scotch they sipped at so absent-mindedly. The ice in their glasses clinked harmoniously with the fire’s crackling, creating a symphony for the pleasantly inanimate.  Even the old men managed to creak and groan in manners reminiscent of the antique chairs in which they sat. Had anyone walked by that room, which no one did, they would not have inspected the room with much attention, as there were no real signs of life at the superficial levels. 

            Suddenly, an idea struck Nigel, the elder sitting closest to the fire.

            “Why did we buy those Brobots, George?” Nigel asked quietly, breaking the mausoleum-like feel of the room nonetheless.

            “So we wouldn’t have to bother the poor brothers that are still going to college to get our drinks, and so I can be alerted to emails instantly upon receiving my beverages. The convenience of Brobo-servitude is overwhelming.” George replied haughtily between sips of outrageous scotch.

            “You could be right, but,” Nigel pondered, twirling his mustache at the same time, “ I can’t remember the last time I interacted with any of the current members. I haven’t even seen this season’s initiates, have you?”

            “Thankfully not. From what I gather, they are as insolent as we were. I don’t care to revisit those times.” A dark look came over George’s eyes. Nigel was not sure whether or not to press that issue further, so he stayed on his previous tack.

            “Yes…” Nigel continued, “but what I’m getting at is, it seems like no one interacts with other people anymore. We just talk to robots.”

            “Brobots.” George corrected him. “But you raise an interesting point. I’d like to raise a toast!” Moving only his drinking arm, George raised his half-full glass in the air. An observer might even swear that the rest of him was sewn into the chair, somehow.

            “A toast, with just the two of us?” Nigel asked incredulously, raising his glass at the same time. “To what?”

            “To eliminating inter-dipshit communications on the personal level.”

            “I don’t know if that’s a good thi-“

            George tapped his glass against Nigel’s before that thought could be completed. They drank, one bemused while the other was highly amused, and the toast was completed.