My Figures Are Being Compiled
Tech founders have a drinking leaderboard. I accept the case for pints per hour, then propose a clock that stops when it's somebody else's turn to buy.
Tech founders have a drinking leaderboard. I accept the case for pints per hour, then propose a clock that stops when it's somebody else's turn to buy.
A wrong boxing result could turn me into a Wikipedia contributor. An AI answer can satisfy the same disagreeable man without bringing him to the shared page.
AI makes a private food journal easy to turn into a public service. I sketch a program that can remember why the same lousy diner suited me yesterday and didn't today.
I want a useful machine, not a godparent. Tested limits ought to let me buy the thing without having to believe in its maker.
A researcher recalls colleagues saying Claude had solved humor. I take the boast to work and find another joke still needs writing.
A chatbot's warning brought out the bomb disposal team. The object was harmless. I knew that too, once somebody else had checked.
A machine repairs a deliberately bad mathematical proof. The result is correct, the old explanation is still wrong, and I find something better to do than cheer for a mistake.
ChatGPT is signing cartoons with real artists' names. I try refusing a compliment and give my admirer something worse to send his friends.
An AI-made wooden man has lawyers and a crowd. I envy the crowd. I would also like it to follow instructions.
A husband asks ChatGPT how to stop snapping. I distrust the borrowed words, until I remember how much damage I have done with original ones.