Sixty Minutes to Nowhere

Autonomous Assistants and Other Lies We Tell Ourselves

It’s Tuesday noon and some guy named Dominic wants to teach me how to build “autonomous assistants” that “really work for me.”

I’m sitting here with a beer going warm, looking at this LinkedIn post, wondering when exactly we all agreed to stop being honest with each other.

“Without you having to constantly intervene,” he writes.

I once had a woman tell me the same thing about our relationship. Lasted three months. She intervened plenty.

Love, Loneliness, and the Cold Embrace of the Machine

I woke up this morning with the kind of headache that feels like a construction crew is using my frontal lobe as a foundation for a new parking garage. The sun is trying to push through the blinds, and it’s failing, much like my attempts to ignore the state of the world. It’s Monday, the day the universe reminds you that you owe it money, time, or sanity.

I poured a glass of the amber stuff—medicinal, purely medicinal—and opened up the news. I shouldn’t have done that. Not on an empty stomach.

The Great Lobotomy: Why We Stopped Thinking and Started Prompting

I woke up this morning with a head full of broken glass and a distinct feeling that the world had shifted on its axis while I was busy sleeping off the cheap stuff. Usually, that feeling is just dehydration and the regret of buying a round for strangers who didn’t like me anyway. But today, staring at the glowing screen that serves as my only constant companion, I realized the nausea wasn’t from the bourbon. It was existential.

More Rules for Ham on Rye than for the God Machine

There is a special kind of madness that happens when you read the news on a Saturday morning with a headache that feels like a construction crew is jackhammering behind your eyes. The sun is too bright, the coffee is too black, and the headlines are screaming that the human race is actively trying to fire itself.

I was reading about Max Tegmark. He’s a physicist from MIT, a guy with a brain the size of a watermelons who spent some time in Lisbon at the Web Summit. Lisbon is nice. Good wine. Probably too much sun for a guy like me, but a nice place to announce the end of the world. Tegmark was there amidst the tech bros and the startup pitches, trying to tell everyone that the party is over, but nobody wants to hear the music stop when there’s still venture capital left in the keg.

The Great Digital Meat Grinder: A toast to the discarded

The spreadsheets are bleeding again. I spent the morning staring at the numbers, and the numbers stared back, cold and indifferent as a lizard on a rock. We’re nearly at the end of 2025, a year that was supposed to be the glittering future, the apex of human ingenuity. Instead, it’s just another year where the suits in the glass towers decided that the most efficient way to save a buck is to throw a human being into the furnace.

Gravy, Grit, and the Algorithm: How Your Turkey Dinner Became a Hazardous Material Event

The holidays are looming over us like a thunderhead full of acid rain. It’s that time of year when societal obligation forces you into a confined space with people sharing your DNA but none of your interests, all centered around the ritual sacrifice of a flightless bird. The pressure is on. You have to perform. You have to provide sustenance that doesn’t result in a mass casualty event or a trip to the emergency room. Naturally, in our infinite laziness, we turn to the glowing rectangle in our pockets for guidance. We ask the oracle for a way to roast a turkey without burning the house down.

The Dictionary Officially Declares We Are Drowning in Artificial Vomit

My head feels like it’s been stuffed with insulation foam and kicked down a flight of concrete stairs. The sun is doing that thing where it glares through the blinds with judgemental intensity, demanding I acknowledge the day. I’m not ready for the day. I’m barely ready for the coffee I just spiked with a generous pour of something brown and cheap that I found on the bottom shelf.

I opened the laptop to check the wires, see what fresh hell the digital overlords have cooked up for us while I was sleeping off the previous night’s bad decisions. Usually, it’s the standard fare: a billionaire building a bunker, a new phone that does exactly what the old phone did but costs a kidney, or some startup promising to digitize the human soul for a monthly subscription fee.

The Kids Are All Wrong: Why Gen Z Is Choosing Algorithms Over Agony

There’s a special kind of madness brewing across the pond, and for once, it doesn’t involve soccer riots or warm beer. A new survey out of the UK just landed on my desk, and the numbers are bleak enough to make a man reconsider his stance on nihilism. It seems the youth of England—and let’s be honest, the rest of the world isn’t far behind—are trading in flesh-and-blood confidants for lines of predictive code.

Eat Your Slop, Pigs: Why Execs Think Brainrot is the Future

The headache started before I even opened the laptop. It was that dull, thumping rhythm behind the eyes that usually signals bad weather or bad news. Today, it was the latter. I was staring at a glowing screen in a dim room, the blinds drawn tight against the offensive cheerfulness of the morning sun, reading about a man named Jacob Navok.

Jacob is a suit. A CEO. The kind of guy who probably uses words like “synergy” and “paradigm shift” without the decency to blush. And Jacob has decided to declare war on the concept of taste.

The Digital Lobotomy: How Your Magic Answer Box is Turning Your Brain into Tapioca

The sun is coming through the blinds at a hateful angle, hitting the dust motes dancing over the keyboard. It’s a Saturday, the day the rest of the world pretends to have hobbies, and I’m sitting here staring at a screen that glows with the promise of infinite knowledge. Or at least, that’s the sales pitch.

We were told that the machines would free us. We were told that having the sum total of human history accessible via a chat window would make us gods. We’d be walking encyclopedias, quoting Kant while waiting for the bus, solving fusion equations on the back of a napkin because the AI whispered the secrets into our ears.