Originally published at: http://boingboing.net/2016/09/30/frisky-robot-opens-door.html
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So now when the robots rise up to Kill All Humans we can’t even hide behind doors. Thanks, science!
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I don’t think they are any good at lockpicking - yet.
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We will have to bring back velociraptors to protect us from the robots (especially the ones which run UNIX).
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I can’t wait for the gifs demonstrating the enhanced version with eyes and tongue and perhaps a waggly tail
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Who needs lock picking when you have thermite?
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HAH! See that, you robot-enabling Europeans with your fancy “ergonomic” door handles? See that? See what’s going to happen come the Robot Uprising?
#Door knobs for the win!#
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As long as they are not capable of teaching cats how to do it, I think we are all safe.
Robots want to just kill us. Cats want to dominate us.
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replace “robot” with “fat cat” and you know why the front door of my former landlord was all the time open
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My parents had three generations of cats who could open any door. But then there was a continuity break, and the secrets of doorknobs and bifold doors were lost to cat posterity.
This is part of why I am careful to maintain a continuous cat culture at my house. Whenever we get down to just one cat, I get two kittens.
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I believe they know UNIX.
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That will not only not prevent me from sleeping soundly, but it might give me nightmares. Thanks.
Fuck door-robot with a sharp pole.
This is why the door handles in my house point upwards. Although in my case it was to stop my small children escaping!
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Opening a door like a cat - if a cat could do a front-paw-stand, flip it’s back leg up backwards over its own hip and pull the door handle with it. A very odd mental picture, indeed!
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Pretty sure that it just wants to hump your leg.
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“They set a slamhound on Turner’s trail in New Delhi, slotted it to his pheromones and the color of his hair.”
(William Gibson, Count Zero)
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In this day and age, its not an idle concern.
“The mechanical Hound slept but did not sleep, lived but did not live in its gently humming, gently vibrating, softly illuminated kennel back in a dark corner of the fire house. The dim light of one in the morning, the moonlight from the open sky framed through the great window, touched here and there on the brass and copper and the steel of the faintly trembling beast. Light flickered on bits of ruby glass and on sensitive capillary hairs in the nylon-brushed nostrils of the creature that quivered gently, its eight legs spidered under it on rubber padded paws. Nights when things got dull, which was every night, the men slid down the brass poles, and set the ticking combinations of the olfactory system of the hound and let loose rats in the fire house areaway. Three seconds later the game was done, the rat caught half across the areaway, gripped in gentle paws while a four-inch hollow steel needle plunged down from the proboscis of the hound to inject massive jolts of morphine or procaine.”
(Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451)
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