A história que li sobre o 1950 tem a ver com um narrador que testemunhou máquinas domésticas comuns em sua cidade natal surgindo e atacando seus proprietários / operadores. Torradeiras, máquinas de lavar, aspiradores, secadores de cabelo no salão de beleza. SEM computadores ou alienígenas do espaço sideral.
Termina com ele escondido em sua casa planejando ir embora de carro à noite. "Ela nunca me ligaria, faria?"
O poema "Pesadelo Número Três"de Stephen Vincent Binet é algo parecido:
We had expected everything but revolt
And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--
But there’s no dice in that now.
I’ve heard fellow say
They must have planned it for years and maybe they did.
Looking back, you can find little incidents here and there,
Like the concrete-mixer in Jersey eating the wop
Or the roto press that printed 'Fiddle-dee-dee!'
In a three-color process all over Senator Sloop,
Just as he was making a speech. The thing about that
Was, how could it walk upstairs? But it was upstairs,
Clicking and mumbling in the Senate Chamber.
They had to knock out the wall to take it away
And the wrecking-crew said it grinned.
It was only the best
Machines, of course, the superhuman machines,
The ones we’d built to be better than flesh and bone,
But the cars were in it, of course . . .
[...]
(I wish I hadn’t looked into the beauty-parlor
And seen what was happening there.
But those are female machines and a bit high-strung.)
Oh, we’ll settle down. We’ll arrange it. We’ll compromise.
It won’t make sense to wipe out the whole human race.
Why, I bet if I went to my old Plymouth now
(Of course you’d have to do it the tactful way)
And said, 'Look here! Who got you the swell French horn?'
He wouldn’t turn me over to those police cars;
At least I don’t think he would.
Oh, it’s going to be jake.
A partir de PoemHunter.com