"Man, these are some sexy robots," Alan said, watching a femme fatale assassin robot walk by his patio chair.
"You're telling me," Miranda replied, observing a beefcake forklift robot lift a beam on the half-finished building across from their apartment. He slid the iron into place with a clang loud enough to send ripples through the glass of white wine on the patio table. The robot's pneumatic muscles made its oiled, artificial skin ripple in the afternoon sunlight.
"Remember when robots weren't sexy at all?" Alan asked.
"Vaguely. I recall it being boring."
"They were real boxy, with no aesthetic appeal, and if you got close they'd try to weld you to something, or spray you with toxic paint."
"And now..." Miranda said. She trailed off, watching the beefcake robot's butt as it bent over to pick up another heavy beam.
"Really, no reason for them not to be sexy," Alan said. He let out a lustful sigh while he stared at a gorgeous sunbathing robot, her solar panels out for the whole world to see while she soaked up the rays.
"Yes," Miranda said, "if they're going to be so ubiquitous, we may as well enjoy looking at them."
"No downside at all," Alan said.
But there was a downside, and that was that everybody was so busy staring at the sexy robots that nobody was doing it with each other. And without doing it, humanity was about to die out.
Alan turned his head, as if he'd heard his voice called from a long way off.
"Did you just hear something?" he asked.
Miranda finally pulled her attention away from the beefcake and looked at Alan.
"No. But that's a cute shirt that you have on," she said.
"Oh, thanks. I bought this for one of our first dates."
"That was a good day," Miranda said. She paused. "And a good night."
Alan ignored the squad of sexy robot volleyball players on their way to the beach as he stared at Miranda.
And then they did it!
The Moral: deus ex machina doesn't always turn out so bad