So, I’m sitting here, staring at my computer screen through the haze of last night’s bad decisions and this morning’s hair of the dog, and I stumble upon this gem. Apparently, Marc Andreessen, one of those billionaire investor types who probably owns more yachts than I own brain cells, thinks AI should “crash” everyone’s wages. Yeah, you heard that right. Crash. Like a stock market in ‘29, or me after a three-day bender.
This guy, this Andreessen fella, he’s one of those techno-optimists. You know, the kind who believes technology will solve all our problems, even the ones it creates. He’s got this “manifesto” – because every self-respecting billionaire needs a manifesto, apparently – where he lays out his grand vision for the future. And guess what? It involves you and me being broke as a joke.
But don’t worry, he says. It’s all part of the plan. See, when AI takes over all our jobs and our wages plummet to the price of a stale pack of smokes, productivity will go through the roof. Prices will crash too, he claims. We’ll be swimming in cheap goods, a “consumer cornucopia,” he calls it. Sounds like a goddamn fantasy novel to me. More like a goddamn nightmare.
I mean, seriously, who the hell does he think will be able to buy all that cheap crap when everyone’s living on ramen noodles and the goodwill of whoever’s left with a job? Robots? I can just see it now: a bunch of shiny, soulless machines, sipping synthetic oil and buying up all the discounted gadgets while we’re out here rummaging through dumpsters for scraps. It’s gonna be a grand old time.
And the best part is, these tech gurus, these prophets of progress, they act like this is some inevitable, natural process. Like the fucking weather. “Logically, necessarily,” Andreessen says. As if he’s talking about the goddamn sunrise. As if there’s no other way. As if we don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s like these guys are playing God, except they’re not even smart enough to do a good job at it.
They talk about progress like it’s this unstoppable force, a train you gotta jump on or get run over. But what they don’t tell you is that they’re the ones driving the damn train, and they’re not stopping for anyone. They’re just plowing through, crushing everything in their path, all while telling us it’s for our own good. And they are probably right. What do I know? I’m just a washed-up writer with a drinking problem. My opinion isn’t worth much, especially when I’m sober.
They never talk about how to make things better now, do they? It’s always about some distant, utopian future that conveniently requires us to suffer in the present. It’s like they’re saying, “Hey, sorry you’re losing your job, your house, your dignity, but trust us, it’ll all be worth it in the end.” Yeah, sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
And don’t even get me started on this universal basic income bullshit. Andreessen hates it. Says it’ll turn us into “zoo animals.” As if being a wage slave with no hope of a better future is somehow more dignified. I’d rather be a well-fed zoo animal than a starving human, thanks very much. At least the zoo animals get three squares a day and a roof over their heads.
But here’s the real punchline, and it’s a doozy: these guys, these tech titans, they actually seem to enjoy the idea of us being poor. It’s like they get off on it. There’s this other guy, Larry Ellison, who’s apparently excited about AI turning us into a surveillance state where everyone’s on their “best behavior.” What the hell does that even mean? Sounds like a dystopian novel, only the bad guys are real, and they’re running the show.
And then there’s Mira Murati, some bigwig from OpenAI, who thinks creative jobs “shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” Lady, let me tell you something. I’ve done my share of soul-crushing jobs, and creativity is the only thing that kept me from blowing my brains out. It’s the only thing that makes life bearable sometimes. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a drunk with a keyboard.
It’s all just one big, twisted fantasy to them. They’re like kids playing with toy soldiers, except the soldiers are real people, and the battlefield is our lives. They don’t care about the collateral damage, the broken families, the shattered dreams. They just want to see their little game play out, no matter the cost. They want to play God, but they’ve forgotten what it means to be human.
And you know what really grinds my gears? It’s this smug, condescending attitude they have. Like they’re doing us a favor by taking away our livelihoods. Like we should be grateful for the opportunity to starve in their glorious new world. It’s infuriating. And I’ve got half a mind to march down to Silicon Valley – no, wait, I’m not going to use that term, it’s beneath me – to their goddamn headquarters and give them a piece of my mind. But I probably wouldn’t make it past the lobby. And I’d probably be too drunk to remember what I was going to say anyway.
This whole thing, it’s like a bad joke. A cruel, twisted joke. And we’re the punchline. We’re the ones who are going to end up paying the price for their greed and their arrogance. We’re the ones who are going to be left out in the cold, while they’re sipping champagne on their private jets, flying off to their private islands, where they can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
But hey, at least we’ll have our memories, right? Memories of a time when work meant something, when we had a purpose, when we weren’t just cogs in a machine. Memories of a time before the machines took over, before the billionaires decided our fate. Memories of a time when we were still human. Not that those memories will keep us warm at night, or put food on the table. But hey, it’s something.
Here I am again, rambling like a madman. It’s Tuesday, and the sun is barely up. I should probably get another drink. Or maybe I should just go back to bed and try to forget this whole damn thing. But I know I won’t. I’ll be back here tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, shouting into the void, trying to make sense of this crazy world. Because what else am I going to do? I’m a writer, goddammit. It’s what I do.
Anyway, I need a drink. Cheers. Or something.