Oh, boy, guys, it’s coming; the mother of all gifts to bachelors. What I’ve discovered may even have a profound impact on those of you who are married. My unearthing is nothing short of euphoria.

But before I continue, let’s make clear to all women that you are still Numero Uno, the soap that soothes, the beer that refreshes, the spice that makes life “of.”
Okay guys, here’s the deal: I Googled the phrase “sex life with intelligence and emotion” the other night to try and determine what I’ve been missing. And what appeared on the computer screen was an article predicting that in the future “we’ll be creating robots so lifelike, so imbued with human-seeming intelligence and emotions, as to be nearly indistinguishable from real people. And we’ll have sex with these robot. And it will all be good!” My eyes grew wide and I about spit out my beer.

Too good to be true? Maybe. But just think for a moment of the possibilities. Androids, realistic, lifelike, sex! For you guys who can’t grasp the concept, let me spell it out: No more coming home ten minutes late only to be slapped with a barrage of questions. No more picking up beer cans from the night before. No more waiting for the bathroom in the morning. Sex every night. No more Friday-night dinners at restaurants with crowds you despise. No more trips to the mall. No more elbows in the back because you’re snoring. Sex every night. No more spraying the air when you come out of the bathroom. No more Oprah or Dr. Phil. No more picking up your dirty underwear. Sex every night. No more “Are you seeing someone else?” “Do I look fat?” “Where are you taking me tonight?” Sex every night. No more new shoes, dresses, or handbags. No more “If you’re gonna dirty that dish, you’re gonna wash it.” No more pregnancy tests. And sex every night. And that’s just in a week. Are you beginning to tune in? This could be bigger than penicillin; more groundbreaking than the Hoover Dam.

But wait. Hold the latex. I just thought of something. In my quasi-euphoria, I nearly forgot that machines need upkeep and extra care when handling. Robots need to be lubricated. Robots need to be dusted. She’ll need to be plugged in every night to recharge. She’ll need extra memory chips if you don’t want a dumb one. Your so-called friends will come over to try and get you drunk so they can reprogram her.

She’ll need plastic surgery if she burns herself on the stove. She’ll need to watch the Sci-Fi channel every night. And, she won’t be able to shower with you because if she gets wet she may short-circuit and think dog is God, raw is war, and bed is Deb, in which case you could have an almighty android declaring war on a woman who doesn’t exist. Ask John Bobbitt what happens when a women short-circuits. Uh, no thanks.

Nope. The more I think about this the more wrong it seems.

It’s tough guys; I know, I know. We try to think outside the box, in the box, and around the box. But it inevitably all boils down to one thing: women are “the box.” No matter how you figure it, we’ll always need them in flesh and blood.

It was worth a brief thought anyway. You know, stimulation of the mind.

Besides, sex every night is overrated. Hell, sex is overrated.

Damn. Listen to me. I got to go. I think I’m beginning to short-circuit.

Bachelor Pizza Bytes

1 lb. ground beef
Packet taco seasoning
Packet pizza-crust mix
14-oz. jar pizza sauce
Can sliced mushrooms
Mozzarella cheese

Brown ground beef. Drain grease. Mix in taco seasoning, half jar of sauce, and mushrooms. Simmer. Mix dough, spread on a baking sheet. Place in 350-degree oven. Cut the dough into four squares. Fill squares with 2 tablespoons of mixture. Top with cheese. Fold dough until edges meet. Gently seal edges with a fork. Bake 15 minutes or until crust is golden brown.

You can contact Terry Miller at cookingbachelorstyle@mountainhomemag.com. His Web site is cookingbachelorstyle.wordpress.com.