Jun. 11, 2025
Alright, so the brainiacs over at Forbes, or at least some “independent expert” scribbling for them, are telling us weâre all buddying up with AI at work. “Emotional support,” they call it. Jesus. Like a goddamn digital therapy dog that fetches lines of code instead of a slobbery ball. You gotta laugh, or youâd just start screaming and never stop. I pour myself a shot of something cheap and nasty, the kind that bites back. Good. I need the company.
Jun. 11, 2025
So, the human race is at it again, bless its pointed little head. Screaming, marching, pointing fingers. This time itâs in LA, something about ICE raids. Sounds like the usual background noise to a bad hangover. The streets are full of pissed-off people, and the internet, that glorious open sewer, is full of⊠well, you know. The usual cocktail of half-truths, outright lies, and pictures of cats. But mostly lies when things get heated.
Jun. 8, 2025
So, the latest dispatch from the brave new world of ones and zeroes just crawled across my screen, probably after a long night of calculating how to make us all obsolete. This oneâs a real shot of cheap whiskey on an empty stomach: a study, no less, from The Alan Turing Institute, bless their academic hearts, telling us what any barfly with half a brain couldâve guessed. Turns out, the kids are plugging into these new AI brain-boxes, and the damn things werenât even built with little hands or developing minds in consideration. Shocker. Light me another.
Jun. 7, 2025
Alright, so some brainiacs over at Anthropic AI, a place Iâm sure is just brimming with laugh-a-minute types, coughed up a hairball of a thought: Artificial General Intelligence, this AGI thing theyâre all panting after, might turn us all into âmeat robots.â Christ. Meat robots. Sounds like something scrawled on a bathroom wall in a particularly depressing abattoir. The idea, if you can stomach it, is that these super-brains, lacking arms and legs of their own, will just sort of⊠remote-control us fleshy, breakable humans to do their dirty work. Like weâre some kind of organic Roomba with anxiety.
Jun. 6, 2025
So, the geeks have done it again. Just when you thought the digital sewer couldn’t get any ranker, along comes a fresh wave of⊠well, letâs call them “intimacy simulators.” Some dame from The Verge, Victoria Song, waded through this particular cesspool, and her findings are about as uplifting as a week-old glass of flat beer. We’re talking AI apps that promise to make your loneliest fantasies a bit more, shall we say, tangible. Picture this: you upload a photo of yourself, one of your unrequited crush, and bam â digital smooching. Or maybe you want to see that prim librarian from next door in a bikini. Psst. Thereâs an app for that. Naturally. The world is full of things nobody asked for, and the app stores are their overflowing toilets.
Jun. 5, 2025
So, the latest dispatch from the front lines of human folly comes from Thailand, of all places. A country steeped in mysticism, where theyâve been divining the future for centuries with gods and spirits and guys called “Mor Doo” â “doctors who see.” Sounds like theyâve seen a thing or two. But now, the kids are trading in the incense and the ancient rites for a new kind of magic man: ChatGPT. Yeah, you heard me. The same glorified autocomplete thatâs probably writing term papers for half the college students on the planet is now moonlighting as a fortune teller.
Jun. 4, 2025
So, the latest bulletin from the ivory towers of academia lands on my desk â or rather, my screen, which is currently smeared with what I hope is coffee. Some professors, Steffen and Wells over at BYU, decided to poke their noses into why Joe and Jane Luddite ain’t exactly rushing to embrace our new robot overlords, specifically the generative AI kind. You know, the ones that can write your love letters, paint your nightmares, and probably file your taxes if you bribe ’em enough.
Jun. 4, 2025
So, some outfit called the OECD, probably a bunch of guys in suits whoâve never seen the inside of a real dive bar, decided to play schoolteacher with Artificial Intelligence. Dropped a new report, they did. And the headlines are probably already screaming about how the robots are either dumber than a sack of hammers or about to steal your pension. Me, Iâm just trying to get this damn coffee down before it turns to battery acid in my gut. Another Wednesday, another pile of digital horseshit to wade through.
Jun. 3, 2025
So, the papers are flapping again, this time about a bunch of folks â writers, academics, the kind of people who still think words mean something more than just pixel arrangements â getting their backs up about this AI horse manure. Stumbled across a piece detailing their grievances. Took a drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling up like a dying manâs last wish, and figured, hell, might as well spill some ink on it. My headâs already pounding from last nightâs poetry â the kind you find at the bottom of a bottle, not the kind that wins awards.
Jun. 1, 2025
Woke up to the usual digital racket this morning, the kind that seeps through the cracks in the blinds even when youâve sworn off the damn screens. Seems a couple of high priests of the Algorithm, a fella named Jensen Huang from Nvidia and another, Dario Amodei of Anthropic, have been making pronouncements. Sounded like they were speaking from on high at some confab for the well-heeled, the Milken Conference, or some such temple of finance. The message, though, was clear as an eviction notice: AI is knocking, and it ain’t here to sell cookies. “Evolve or risk becoming obsolete,” they chant, like a new corporate mantra tattooed on the inside of your eyelids. Itâs the same old song, really, just played on a fancier, more expensive synthesizer. Every foreman, every editor, every suit I ever answered to had a version of it. This one just comes with a side of existential dread and a glossy brochure about our inevitable digital doom or salvation, depending on which preacher you listen to.