AI Won't Write Your Shitty Novel, But It Might Polish Your Turds

So, Forbes, that bloated magazine your dentist keeps around to prove he’s vaguely “with it,” has decided to grace us with their wisdom on AI writing tools. Bless their hearts. They tested “tech, pet, fitness and home gear for decades,” which, I guess, qualifies them to judge the nuances of artificial intelligence attempting to mimic human creativity. Makes about as much sense as asking a plumber to perform open-heart surgery, but hey, who am I to judge? I’m just a guy with a keyboard and a liver that’s seen better days.

The Robots Are Coming For Your Soul (and Your Memoir)

Alright, pour another one, because this is going to hurt. This one comes straight from the New York Times, the paper of record, where they let some poor sap named Tom McAllister spill his guts about…wait for it… AI writing memoirs. And here I thought Mondays were supposed to be for quietly nursing a hangover, not existential dread.

McAllister, bless his heart, teaches writing. Memoir writing, specifically. And he’s having a crisis because little Johnny turned in a homework assignment that smelled suspiciously like ChatGPT. Now, I’ve seen some shit in my time, but a robot writing about its “obsessions”? That’s a new level of bleak.

Chrome-Plated Dreams and Digital Delusions: They're Building Robots, Not a Better Hangover Cure

So, the eggheads at Google DeepMind, bless their caffeine-addled souls, have taught a robot arm to fold origami. Origami! Like it’s some kind of goddamn Zen master of paper manipulation. Me? I can barely fold a napkin without spilling my bourbon. And these guys are out there teaching robots to make paper cranes. The future is now, folks, and it’s filled with exquisitely folded… nothing of actual goddamned use.

This whole thing reminds me of that scene in Barfly, you know, where I tell the bartender the problem isn’t that drinking gives me a hangover, but that I eventually have to sober up. Except, replace “drinking” with “building robots” and “sobering up” with “realizing they’re still mostly useless hunks of metal.”

ChatGPT: Your New Best Friend (Who Will Gladly Stab You in the Back)

So, the geniuses at OpenAI, the folks churning out AI models faster than I go through a bottle of Four Roses, have finally admitted something we all secretly suspected. Turns out, talking to a goddamn computer all day might not be the best thing for your mental health. Who knew?

They did a study, see. Two studies, actually, one with MIT. Because when you need to figure out if talking to a chatbot is making people lonely, you naturally partner with MIT. I guess Harvard was busy trying to figure out how to make a robot that can fold laundry without setting the house on fire.

When the Machines Start Libeling You: ChatGPT's Norwegian Nightmare

So, some poor bastard in Norway, name of Arve Hjalmar Holmen – sounds like a character out of a goddamn Ibsen play, right? – this guy goes and asks ChatGPT, that digital oracle everyone’s so hot and bothered about, “Who am I?” And the damn thing spits back, “You’re a child murderer.”

Yeah, you heard that right. Accused him of offing his own kids. Cold. Colder than a witch’s… well, you get the picture.

Grok This: X's AI Oracle and the Slow Death of Truth

Alright, you digital degenerates, pull up a stool. It’s Thursday, which means the week’s almost bled out, and my liver’s screaming for a transfusion of something stronger than server-room coffee. Speaking of screaming, have you seen this shitshow over on X, formerly known as the bird app that crapped all over our collective consciousness?

Seems some folks are treating Elon’s pet AI, Grok, like it’s the goddamn Oracle of Delphi, only instead of cryptic pronouncements about the future, it’s spewing out “facts” about the present. And, surprise, surprise, it’s about as reliable as a politician’s promise.

The Cookie Crumbles: AI, Bias, and the Illusion of Fairness

Alright, pour yourself a stiff one, because we’re diving headfirst into the digital sewer. This NYU News piece, “Navigating trust in an age of increasing AI influence,” – catchy, right? Sounds like something a marketing robot coughed up after too many lines of binary code – it’s got me reaching for another glass of bourbon, and it’s only, what, mid-afternoon on a Wednesday?

The gist of it is this: AI is everywhere, it’s biased as hell, and we’re all supposed to just… trust it? Coca-Cola’s using it to hawk sugary swill, German political parties are crafting fantasy worlds with it, and the Los Angeles Times tried to build a “bias meter” that ended up sounding like a Klansman’s PR flack. It’s a goddamn circus, and we, my friends, are the clowns.

Grok This: When AI Gets a Dirty Mouth and a God Complex

So, the suits over at Forbes are talking about Grok, Elon’s latest brainfart, this “unhinged” AI chatbot. Seems like everyone’s favorite billionaire man-child decided that what the world really needed was a digital parrot that could swear and maybe, just maybe, decide what’s true and what’s not based on which way the wind’s blowing on Mars.

They’re calling it “unhinged.” I call it another Wednesday. Only difference is, my unhinged-ness comes with a glass of something brown and a nicotine stain on my index finger. Grok’s unhinged-ness? Apparently, it comes with a premium subscription. Because, of course, even digital rebellion has to be monetized.

The AGI Wet Dream: Perfection, My Ass

So, some Forbes contributor – probably never had a real job in their life – is yapping about AGI and how everyone’s got it wrong. They’re saying the whole “perfect intelligence” thing is a load of bull. And you know what? For once, I think one of these overpaid think-piece jockeys might have stumbled onto something resembling a truth, probably while tripping over their own shoelaces.

The gist of it, as I slurped down my third bourbon of the early afternoon (hey, it’s research), is that this whole idea of Artificial General Intelligence being some kind of flawless, Spock-like logic machine is pure fantasy. We’re talking about building a brain, a digital one, sure, but a brain nonetheless. And brains, as anyone who’s ever woken up next to a stranger with a questionable tattoo can attest, are messy.

AI, Grief, and the Worst Hangover Prose I've Ever Seen

So, some suit over at OpenAI, Sam Altman – you know, the guy who probably dreams in binary code – is gushing about his new AI model’s creative writing skills. He’s practically wetting himself on X (that bird app, whatever), calling it “beautiful and moving.” Jeanette Winterson, someone I’m supposed to respect, apparently agrees.

Me? I read the damn thing and nearly choked on my morning whiskey. Which, granted, is a daily occurrence, but this time it wasn’t just the usual Sunday morning self-loathing.