Musk, Grok, and the Ghost of Goebbels

Alright, you digital degenerates, gather ‘round. It’s Friday, barely past 9 AM, and already I need a drink. Not that I ever don’t need a drink, but this morning calls for something stronger than coffee. Maybe a splash of bourbon in the coffee. Yeah, that’ll do.

So, picture this: Elon Musk, the man-child emperor of Mars or whatever, caught on camera doing what looks suspiciously like a Nazi salute. Not once, but twice. At a Trump rally, no less. Now, I’ve seen some awkward hand waving in my time – hell, I’ve probably done worse after my fifth shot of whiskey – but this was something else.

Me, Myself, and AI: When Your Digital Twin Tries to Sell You Crap

Wasted Wetware - tomorrow’s tech news, today’s hangover

Alright, you digital degenerates, gather ‘round. It’s Thursday morning, the sun’s trying to stab me in the eyes, and my head feels like a bowling ball filled with angry bees. Naturally, that means it’s time to talk about the latest absurdity bubbling up from the digital swamp.

This time, it’s personal. Or, well, it’s about as personal as a digital funhouse mirror reflecting a distorted, slightly drunk version of yourself back at you. We’re talking about AI personas. Not just any AI personas, mind you. We’re talking about AI that’s learning to mimic you. Yeah, you heard that right. Your quirks, your speech patterns, your questionable taste in late-night infomercials – it’s all fair game for the digital vultures.

They're Zapping the Bots Now, Folks

Alright, you beautiful code monkeys and digital degenerates, pull up a stool, pour yourself a tall one, and let’s talk about the latest madness bubbling up from the labs of our esteemed scientist overlords. It’s Thursday morning, the sun is trying to break through the smog, and my head feels like a bowling ball filled with angry bees. But hey, at least I’m not an AI being zapped for science.

The Robots Are Coming For Your Presidents

Alright, folks, pour yourself a stiff one, light up if you got ’em, and let’s dive into the latest dumpster fire blazing in the land of the free and the home of the algorithm. It’s Wednesday, just past the crack of dawn, and yours truly is already three fingers deep in a bottle of something that definitely wasn’t made by a chatbot. Yet.

So, the news is buzzing, and not in a good way, about Trump’s triumphant return to the White House. Yeah, you heard that right. The man, the myth, the orange legend is back, and he’s signing executive orders faster than a thirsty writer at an open bar. But here’s where it gets interesting, and by interesting, I mean batshit crazy.

AI Thinks Your Kids Are Junkies, Hoodlums, and a Waste of Oxygen

Alright, you pixel-pushing, data-drunk degenerates, gather ‘round. It’s Wednesday morning, I’ve got a half-empty bottle of Old Crow on the desk, and my head feels like a bunch of orcs are using it for a soccer ball. But, like a goddamn digital salmon swimming upstream, I’m here to deliver the tech gospel.

So, some eggheads over at the University of Washington decided to poke the digital bear, namely those fancy AI language models we keep hearing about. They fed these things some sentences about teenagers, you know, those moody, phone-addicted creatures that supposedly represent our future.

AI: The New Cockfight, and We're All Just Roosters

Another Wednesday, another hangover. And another bunch of suits in Washington and Beijing playing chicken with our collective future, this time with Artificial Intelligence. You know, that thing that’s supposed to make our lives easier but instead has everyone sweating bullets about Skynet and robot overlords.

This article I stumbled upon, bleary-eyed and nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee this morning - “There can be no winners in a US-China AI arms race” - well, it’s the kind of thing that makes you want to reach for the good stuff, even if it is only 8 am.

OpenAI: From "Saving Humanity" to Sucking Up to Uncle Sam (and Sucking Down All the Juice)

Alright, folks, pour yourself a stiff one. It’s Wednesday, pushing eight in the morning, and already the stench of bullshit is thick enough to choke a horse. Today’s special? OpenAI, the darlings of the AI world, have decided to grease the wheels of democracy with a whole lot more green. How much more, you ask? Try seven times more than last year. That’s right, seven. Like the number of whiskeys I’ll need to get through this without throwing my laptop out the window.

Mind Your Manners, Meat-Sacks - Your Robot Roommate Will Thank You

So, it’s Tuesday morning. 8:16 on the dot, and I’m already three fingers deep into a bottle of something amber and flammable. Just another day at the office, you know? Except the office is my dimly lit apartment, and my coworkers are the dust motes dancing in the sliver of sunlight that’s managed to sneak past my blackout curtains. But hey, at least they don’t judge my breakfast choices.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, AI. Apparently, we’re supposed to be polite to the damn things now. Seems like every other day, there’s a new article popping up, telling us how to behave around our future robot overlords. This one I stumbled upon, “Be Polite To AI. Your Future Self Will Thank You,” really got my gears grinding, and not in a good way. Like a rusty engine sputtering on cheap gas, that’s how my brain feels most mornings.

Letting AI Pay Rent: A Brain's Gotta Earn Its Keep

Alright, you digital junkies and code monkeys, pull up a stool. It’s Monday, 7:30 in the goddamn morning, and my head feels like a bunch of monkeys are playing bongos in there. But even through this fog, I can see the latest absurdity coming out of the AI hype machine. This time, it’s this Forbes piece about not letting generative AI live in your head rent-free.

Yeah, you heard that right. Apparently, some folks are so enamored with these glorified chatbots that they’re letting them squat in their skulls, rearranging the furniture, and not even chipping in for utilities.

Metal Men and Plastic Pals: The Robotic Apocalypse That Might Not Suck (Completely)

Alright, you fleshy bags of mostly water, pull up a chair, grab a drink – whiskey, neat, if you’ve got any sense – and listen up. It’s Monday morning, the sun’s trying to punch its way through my blinds, and my head feels like it’s been used as a piñata at a particularly vicious children’s party. But hey, that’s just another day here at Wasted Wetware, where we stare into the abyss of tomorrow’s tech with the bleary eyes of today’s hangover.