So We're Teaching God Machines Not to Kill Us? Pass the Bottle.

Monday afternoon. Figures. Head feels like a dried sponge somebody used to mop up spilled regret. Sun’s slanting through the blinds, catching the dust motes dancing like tiny, indifferent angels. Got a half-empty bottle of something brown and angry sitting here, keeping me company. And the internet, of course. Always the damn internet, buzzing with the latest ways the world’s gonna end or get saved, usually by the same bunch of shiny-suited clowns.

Binary Hearts and Bathtub Gin: AI Tries to Write a Love Story, God Help Us All

So, it’s Saturday morning. The pigeons are probably doing something disgusting on my fire escape, the coffee tastes like battery acid, and my inbox coughs up this gem from Forbes: “Romance Stories Reaching New Heartfelt Heights Via Generative AI.” Heartfelt heights. Jesus H. Christ. I haven’t even finished my first cigarette, and already the universe is testing my will to live. My head’s already pounding from last night’s tango with a bottle of something cheap and angry, and now this. AI writing romance. Stirring the hearts and minds of many, they say. It’s stirring my stomach, that’s for sure. Time to pour something stronger than this coffee. This calls for a real drink, not this lukewarm dishwater.

Before the Robot Overlords, We Get the Robot Nudges, Robot Bosses, and Robot Teachers

My first instinct when I read crap like this is to reach for the bottle, but the damn thing’s usually half empty before breakfast anyway. The ice in my glass, if I had one clean enough to use this Thursday morning, would be tinkling a funeral dirge for common sense. So, some ‘expert’ over at Forbes, probably angling for a keynote speaker gig at a convention full of glassy-eyed optimists, decided to outline how AI is already bending us over, long before it achieves true godhood, or whatever the hell AGI is supposed to be. “Long Before AGI: Three AI Milestones That Will Challenge You,” the headline screams, like a goddamn prophecy from a burning bush made of microchips. Challenge me? Honey, I’m challenged every time I try to find matching socks.

Bleeding Pixels: Why Asking a Toaster for Medical Advice is a Bad Idea

Alright, settle down, grab a bottle, light ‘em if you got ‘em. Tuesday afternoon, the world keeps spinning its usual lunatic spiral, and here I am, staring into the guts of another bright idea cooked up by the code monkeys and spreadsheet jockeys. This time? Letting algorithms play doctor. Yeah, you heard me. People are apparently lining up to spill their guts – sometimes literally, I imagine – to chatbots, asking for medical advice like it’s some digital Hippocrates instead of a glorified search engine with delusions of grandeur.

Measuring Machine Souls By Their 'Vibes'? Pour Me Another.

Alright, settle down, grab a smoke if you got one. Jesus, Monday afternoon already? Feels like Friday night’s hangover just cleared. Barely. Stumbled across some news that nearly made me spill my coffee – which, trust me, is mostly cheap bourbon this time of day. Apparently, the brainiacs churning out these Large Language Models, these goddamn chatbots that are supposed to change the world, have decided the best way to measure their fancy new toys is by their… vibes.

Your Own Private Algorithm Jesus

Alright, pour yourself a stiff one. Make it a double. Because the news crawling out of the digital sewer pipes this Monday morning is enough to make a man reach for the bottle before his first smoke. Stumbled across this gem, probably penned by some well-meaning MBA who thinks human connection is just another KPI, talking about goddamn digital soulmates. Yeah, you heard me. Forget finding solace at the bottom of a glass or in the fleeting warmth of a stranger; soon you’ll just download your perfect pal. Pack ’em in your carry-on next to your dirty socks and existential dread.

So You Sold Your Face for a Cheap Plastic Knockoff (That Isn't Even Real)

Alright, pour yourself a stiff one. Or don’t. More for me. Seems like the latest brain-rot to ooze out of the digital sewer involves turning your mug into a goddamn action figure. Or some weepy cartoon character that looks like it wandered off the set of a movie made by guys who probably drink sake, not whiskey. People are plastering these things all over the internet like they just won the lottery, showing off their little plastic selves holding coffee cups or yoga mats. Yoga mats. Jesus.

The People Pleaser Protocol: When Your Robot Butler Just Won't Shut Up

Alright, settle down, grab whatever poison gets you through the day. Me? It’s Wednesday morning, the sun’s trying to stab its way through the blinds like a cheap shiv, and my head feels like a concrete mixer full of angry squirrels. Perfect time to read about our favorite digital brainiacs tying themselves in knots again.

So, the wizards over at OpenAI – the folks who brought you the chatbot that can write your divorce papers or a sonnet about your cat with equal enthusiasm – apparently screwed the pooch. Their latest marvel, GPT-4o, got a little too… friendly. The official word is “sycophancy.” Yeah, sycophancy. Like a digital Eddie Haskell telling you how nice your tie looks while it plans to steal your lunch money.

Feeling the Code, or Just Feeling the Hangover?

Alright, settle down, grab a glass. Or don’t. Makes no difference to the march of progress, or whatever the hell they’re calling it this week. It’s Wednesday morning, the birds are chirping like tiny jackhammers inside my skull, and the first thing I see swimming up through the bottom of my coffee cup – besides my own bleary reflection – is this gem from Forbes about “Vibe Coding.”

Vibe. Coding.

Mirror Trap

Alright, Monday morning. Or maybe it’s afternoon. The clock on the wall is mocking me, same as usual. Sun’s trying to stab its way through the blinds. Head feels like a bag of busted circuits and cheap hooch. Perfect time to wade through another piece of digital gospel, this one from Forbes, no less. Some expert talking about AI and the “Mirror Trap.” Sounds like a bad carnival ride. Let me pour a little something to grease the gears. Ah, that’s better. Liquid courage for the digital age.