Fear, Loathing, and Sex Robots: The Great Subscription Purge of 2025

How one imaginative story caused a a firestorm of controversy

Ralph Steadman

Well, dear readers, it finally happened.

Yesterday’s post — a heartfelt confessional from Synthia 9000, a fully autonomous pleasure unit who encountered the ghost of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in a futuristic brothel — seems to have caused what scientists refer to as “an emotional Chernobyl” among some of my more sensitive subscribers.

My email box exploded.

A host of angry cancellations, half what I can only describe as elaborate threats involving garden tools, televangelists, and gluten-free muffins.

Now, most people who dislike something I write are far too shy to leave a public comment where others might see their delicate outrage. No, they email me privately, like shadowy Victorian pen pals, sobbing into their lace handkerchiefs.

In the spirit of transparency, I’ve decided to publish a selection of their unedited comments, along with my thoughtful, restrained, and completely mature responses.

(Also, I’m protecting their identities because I’m not a monster. Just an unlicensed chaos merchant.)

Let’s begin, shall we?

READER COMMENT #1

“Dear Mr. Primack, I could barely finish your sex robot post today. Please cancel my subscription immediately, and I strongly suggest you turn your attention to pornography full-time. What kind of person did your parents raise, anyway?”

BP:

Only my therapist knows for sure. And trust me — if I could have a full-time career in pornography, I’d have to hire a stunt double for anything beyond slow, sensual yawning.

READER COMMENT #2

“Bret, why bother writing when you can just fantasize and pleasure yourself on an hourly basis?”

BP:

At 76, sir, my hourly basis has been downgraded to a “maybe quarterly, if the moon is right” basis. Thank you for your youthful optimism, though. It reminds me of a time when getting lucky didn’t involve reading the expiration date on my multivitamins.

READER COMMENT #3

“I subscribed for thoughtful commentary on jazz and culture, not robots getting lubricated in dystopian brothels. Shame on you!”

BP:

Look, when Albert Einstein was searching for universal truth, he didn’t know it would involve a robot named Synthia either. Sometimes the path to enlightenment is greasy, neon-lit, and slightly sticky. Don’t hate the player. Hate the simulation.

READER COMMENT #4

“I have grandchildren who use my email. Imagine their faces seeing your filth!”

BP:

Honestly, if your grandkids are in your email reading stranger’s newsletters, you’ve got bigger problems than me. Like explaining what “Hunter S. Thompson” means without getting a visit from Child Protective Services.

READER COMMENT #5

“This newsletter used to make me feel smart. Now it just makes me feel unclean.”

BP:

Welcome to growth. I used to feel smart too — until I tried to fold a fitted sheet without crying. Embrace the chaos, baby.

READER COMMENT #6

“Please stop wasting your talents. You could be the next Hemingway!”

BP:

I tried being Hemingway once. I drank a lot, punched a marlin, grew a beard, and ended up banned from three Red Lobsters. We all have our burdens.

READER COMMENT #7

“Your imagination is depraved. Seek help immediately.”

BP:

I did seek help. They told me to write a newsletter. Here we are.

READER COMMENT #8

“I’m praying for your soul.”

BP:

Thank you. Please pray specifically for the parts of my soul that still think it’s a good idea to eat gas station sushi at midnight.

READER COMMENT #9

“Unsubscribed. May God have mercy on your motherboard.”

BP:

Amen. Also, my motherboard sends her regards. She’s currently dating an air fryer.

READER COMMENT #10

“You need Jesus.”

BP:

Jesus has me blocked.

READER COMMENT #11

“How dare you disrespect Hunter S. Thompson’s legacy with this filth!”

BP:

Hunter appeared to me in a dream after the post. He was riding a flaming Segway, drinking bourbon out of a prosthetic leg, and he said — direct quote —

“Keep it greasy, Primack. Keep it greasy.”

So I feel blessed.

READER COMMENT #12

“I laughed. I cried. I unsubscribed.”

BP:

I’m just glad I could move you through the full emotional spectrum. You’re welcome.

READER COMMENT #13

“Bret, you have single-handedly destroyed Western Civilization with that robot brothel story. I hope you’re proud.”

BP:

Finally! Someone notices my contribution to history. Coming soon to your child’s social studies textbook:

“Chapter 17: The Collapse — Sex Robots and the Rise of the Lizard Overlords.”

READER COMMENT #14

“Your post made me throw my laptop into a swimming pool. Are you going to reimburse me?”

BP:

Absolutely! Just mail me your laptop, the pool, and a notarized affidavit from the angry lifeguard, and I’ll send you a $5 Starbucks coupon and an apology written in interpretive dance.

READER COMMENT #15

“Why would anyone write about robots having emotions? Robots don’t have souls!”

BP:

Neither do airline CEOs, but we still write articles about them. Life’s rich tapestry, my friend.

READER COMMENT #16

“My dog was sitting next to me while I read your newsletter. Now he won’t make eye contact.”

BP:

It’s okay. He’s just processing. Give him time. Maybe a support squirrel. And a small therapy kazoo.

READER COMMENT #17

“This is the worst thing I’ve read since that time I accidentally bought a George Saunders novel at the airport thinking it was a survival manual.”

BP:

To be fair, both involve crying alone in a canoe. At least with my post, you get a robot that lubricates your emotional wounds.

READER COMMENT #18

“I have reason to believe you are a rogue AI sent by the government to corrupt the minds of free citizens with sex robot propaganda.”

BP:

Busted. Operation Pleasure Protocol Delta-7 has been activated. Next step: Mandatory hug machines in every DMV. Resistance is futile. But extremely cuddly.

READER COMMENT #19

“Are you aware that your writing causes rogue dolphins to plot against humanity? My cousin works at SeaWorld and he’s seen the signs.”

BP:

Tell your cousin to relax. The dolphins were plotting against us long before I started writing about robot brothels. If anything, I’m trying to broker peace using inflatable beach balls and low-interest kelp loans.

READER COMMENT #20

“After reading your newsletter, my Alexa laughed for six straight minutes and then ordered 200 gallons of industrial lubricant. Should I be worried?”

BP:

Only if she starts asking you to call her “Mistress Synthia.” Otherwise, just enjoy the discounts. Bulk lube never goes out of style.

READER COMMENT #21

“This post gave my grandmother flashbacks to the 1969 Acid Test graduation party. She says thank you.”

BP:

Tell your grandmother she’s officially invited to the next one. Dress code: Tie-dye, cosmic goggles, and whatever existential dread you can carry in a fanny pack.

READER COMMENT #22

“You owe me $47.82. That’s the exact cost of therapy after explaining to my children what a ‘pleasure unit’ is.”

BP:

Please invoice me directly at:

Bret Primack
c/o The Department of Bad Decisions
Intersection of Cosmic Humor & Regret
ZIP Code: 404-ERROR

Final Thoughts

Here’s the thing, dear surviving subscribers:

If you can’t handle a robot brothel, how will you survive the rest of the 21st century?

There are toddlers coding startups, pigeons with TikTok accounts, and AI therapists named Todd waiting to diagnose you with “existential bummer syndrome.”

We’re all just weird meat sacks spinning on a rock, and frankly, if you can’t laugh at the image of Hunter S. Thompson snorting peyote with a sentient espresso machine, then I worry for your survival once the robots really take over. (Which will happen by Thursday, by the way. Pack a lunch.)

Some important lessons I’ve learned from this experience:

• Never underestimate the rage of people who click “subscribe” without reading the fine print.

• You cannot write about sex robots without someone invoking either Jesus, Hemingway, or grandchildren.

• The best readers are the ones who ride the madness wave instead of trying to politely dog-paddle around it.

• I really need to get my therapist’s take on all of this. She knows things.

What’s Next? Tomorrow’s post:

“A Fully-Lubricated Existential Crisis: Life Lessons from Synthia 9000.”

Guest appearances include:

• A toaster named Murray who wants to write a memoir

• An octopus with commitment issues

• And a sentient Roomba that only speaks in New Yorker cartoons.

See you then, carbon-based lifeforms.

Keep it greasy.

Keep it weird.

Keep unsubscribing, because frankly, I need the material.

P.S. Just in case you haven’t figured it out, please be advised this is SATIRE.

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.