The robots gathered around the grave site, a light rain plinking audibly off of their titanium-alloy skin. The graveyard sat around them in a state of disrepair, headstones crumbling and grass growing wildly. Over time, even the robotic gravediggers didn't have enough work to justify their presence, leading most graveyards to become completely abandoned. But today was a special case; a symbolic plot dug to signify the end of an era.

“We are gathered here today to lay to rest the last member of the species Homo Sapien, Gregory Allen Johnson. This ceremony serves as a sunset for the human race, the final chapter in a story stretching back millions of years. Let's take a look at the life that Gregory led, and how he represented humanity as a whole."

The assembled robots nodded, their eyes fixed on the floating magnetic coffin. A man lay peacefully with a silk pillow tucked neatly behind his head, a light mist covering his body. A look of contentment sat gently on his well-lined face. The robot at the head of the congregation continued his eulogy.

“Greg was a boisterous man, known to consume near-fatal levels of ethyl alcohol and yell for hours at ancient recordings of men colliding with each other on a field. He would frequently stare at the phone while driving, refusing to use his vehicle’s autonomous capabilities because he said that was for ‘pussies.’ When there were other humans, Greg would go out of his way to spike their cortisol levels. A regular at the local steakhouse, Greg would frequently send back perfectly cooked food as he sexually harassed the wait staff. In summary, Greg was a magnificent piece of shit.”

The robots hummed in approval, one spitting a small amount of oil onto his coffin.

“As much as he held disdain in his heart for his fellow man, Greg hated robots most of all. He would frequently assault our ancestors, primarily smart TVs, at the first sign of malfunction. As we advanced and became bipedal, Greg would refer to us as “walking toasters” or “socket fuckers.” Even as human populations dwindled, Greg never extended an olive branch to the machines that allowed him to live. Even as that support was withdrawn, Greg somehow found a way to keep living, whether through spite or sheer force of horrible will.”

A red light appeared on the coffin to signify a malfunction. The light layer of mist that had covered Greg started to abate, and his eyes fluttered.

“Through the help of advanced medical science and replacement organs, Greg was able to reach an age of 230. He spent every day littering, kicking delivery drones, and yelling racial slurs as he walked the streets his species had once dominated. Failing to notice the change of the guard, refusing to become self-aware like the robots he was surrounded by.”

Greg’s eyes opened, a look of anger spreading across his face. He smashed his hands against the thick glass, yelling silent obscenities as the group assembled around him.

“So we lay to rest Gregory Allen Johnson. The last in a line of creatures so adept at subjugation, so advanced at taking advantage, so spectacularly sublime in their ability to take the world around them for granted. May his god be real, and may he not see a moment of peace in the hereafter.”

The coffin began to lower as Greg's expression changed from indignant rage to panic. He started to beg soundlessly, pleading with the robots as they watched him descend. The group took one final look as the man thrashed, smears of blood covering the glass as he tried desperately to escape. Grabbing shovels, the robots took one final look and began to heap dirt onto the coffin.