In the last surviving beach in a not too distant future, a dog dropped a tattered Frisbee® at the feet of the rusty old robot. The sea air was not good for the robot’s surface. The dog was dripping wet, and out of breath. For clarity’s sake, the dog will here forth be referenced as Panty.
Panty was of an awkward breed, the boxshund, a horrific beast with the face of a boxer and the body of a dachshund. It hyperventilated heavily, making it look like a brown hot dog inflating and deflating in a microwave oven on the verge of bursting. Also, its tongue was hanging out of the side of its mouth. It decided this would be the best time to shake off the excess water. Satisfied, it lifted its back leg and peed all over the robot.
The robot was in a trance, as if meditating. In fact, it was slowly malfunctioning. What once was 010101 had turned into 010111 critical error. This was automated dementia. It was currently reliving that brief moment between factory sealed and molested by human hands.
Panty looked at the Frisbee®, then up at the robot and back to the Frisbee® a few times, before rolling on its back. The intention was clear, it so wanted affection and undivided attention.
Panty determined by the distinct odor of despair surrounding the robot that comfort would never be found here. With head hung low and tail pointed downward, it walked away. Panty looked back one last time, hoping to see a change, and proceeded. Its sigh was more like a mournful howl.
The robot acknowledged the definitions of mortality and loneliness as synonyms. It wept uncontrollably, which in robot terms meant, something felt, but not seen, not unlike jackasses who text LMAO without once cracking a smile.
MORAL: There is absolutely nothing wrong with hugging it out, as long as it is consensual.