The Android's O-Face and Other Corporate Fantasies

The glass is half-empty, the ashtray is half-full, and the internet is, as always, completely out of its goddamn mind. I’m staring at a headline that says, “AI doesn’t know what an orgasm sounds like.”

And I think, hell, most men I’ve met don’t either. So maybe the machines aren’t so far behind after all.

I take a drag from my cigarette and a pull from the bourbon. The smoke and the liquor have a little party in my lungs. It’s a real party, a human one. Messy. Probably carcinogenic. But real. That’s more than you can say for the latest brilliant idea coughed up by the algorithm factories.

Putting the Genie Back in the Bottle is a Sucker's Game

So some suit over at Forbes is getting his trousers in a twist about whether we can shove the AI genie back in the bottle once it’s out. He calls it “reversibility.” A nice, clean, corporate word for jamming the cork back in after you’ve already summoned the demon.

He talks about fire and the wheel. Cute. Like we’re all sitting around a campfire contemplating the universe. Let me tell you about things you can’t reverse. You can’t reverse the first taste of whiskey on a dry throat. You can’t reverse the memory of a woman who left you with nothing but a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a hole in your gut. And you sure as hell can’t reverse knowing something you shouldn’t.

Star Trek Didn't Prepare You For This Bullshit

I just read a piece by some clean-shirt who thinks watching TV as a kid was basic training for this AI slop we’re all drowning in. The argument, if you can call it that, is that Star Trek got us ready for the future. That Captain Kirk asking a disembodied voice for answers prepared us for asking a glorified search engine to write a poem about our cat. It’s a nice, neat little story. Tidy. Like a freshly made bed in a house that’s about to be demolished.

My Brain Cells Feel Your Pain, Pal. The Algorithm's Just Another Cheap High.

Alright, so some poor bastard over at Forbes, one of their “independent expert” types, apparently let ChatGPT rearrange the furniture in his skull. Title of his confession: “How ChatGPT Broke My Brain (And Why I Still Use It Every Day).” Sounds like a Tuesday morning for half the saps I know, minus the fancy AI part. Usually, it’s the cheap whiskey doing the brain-breaking, or a woman with eyes like cut glass. But this digital stuff? It’s a cleaner, quieter kind of demolition.

Schools Want AI, Teachers Want a Drink (And Maybe Some Goddamn Training)

Alright, so the latest dispatch from the digital trenches, the ones they’re digging right through our schools, just landed on my already cluttered consciousness. Some paper, or maybe it’s a website, who the hell knows anymore, called ‘Education Week’ – sounds like a prison sentence, don’t it? – is buzzing about AI in the classroom. Naturally, I had to pour myself a stiff one just to face the damn thing. The world keeps spinning, the headlines keep screaming, and my glass keeps needing a refill. It’s the natural order.

So the Algorithms Want to be Van Gogh Now? Pour Me Another.

So, the latest dispatch from the land of blinking lights and investor dreams lands on my desk, or rather, the sticky patch on the bar where my desk used to be before I sold it for whiskey money. AI art residencies. Sounds like a goddamn finishing school for robots, teaching them how to hold a paintbrush with their cold, metallic claws. The idea is to ‘change the conversation,’ they say. The conversation usually goes something like, ‘Is this thing going to steal my job, my soul, or just my goddamn credit card number?’ and they want to change it to, ‘Oh, isn’t that a lovely shade of blue the algorithm picked?’ Christ. I need a smoke just thinking about it.

Proof of Life? They Made a Goddamn Jingle For It.

The world keeps finding new ways to kick you in the teeth, even before the first whiskey of the day has a chance to settle. Used to be, all you had to prove you were human was a pulse and a preference for cheap booze over expensive champagne. Now, according to the wizards of tomorrow, you need a damn eyeball scan and a theme song to go with it. Just read about Sam Altman’s latest brainstorm, this “Tools for Humanity” outfit, and their little jingle for their “World” project. My head’s already throbbing, and it ain’t just the hangover. Light another cigarette.

So You Think Your Spark Makes You Special? The Robots Are Still Coming For Your Bourbon.

Alright, settle down, grab a whatever-gets-you-through-the-night, because I just waded through another one of those “expert analyses” from Forbes. This one’s a real knee-slapper: “What It Means To Be Talented In The AI Age.” Christ. Like we needed another roadmap to tell us how thoroughly screwed we are, or how to dance a jig for our new digital overlords. The ink on this rag is barely dry, and already I need a refill.

Another Brick in the Wall, Coded by a Fucking Toaster

So, the hallowed halls of higher learning are ringing with the sound of… well, not much original thought, apparently. Some rag called The Guardian – probably written by AI itself these days, for all I know – coughs up a story: “Thousands of UK university students caught cheating using AI.” My first thought, as I try to light a cigarette with a shaking hand and yesterday’s bourbon still clinging to my tonsils, is: “Thousands caught?” Christ, that’s like saying thousands of rats have been seen in the New York subway. The real number, the one that crawls in the dark, is always magnitudes higher. Always.

This High Schooler Gets It. The Rest of You Dopes? Pass the Bottle.

Alright, so the world’s buzzing again. Some new goddamn thing. This time it’s AI in schools. You got the suits in their air-conditioned offices, probably sniffing their own farts and calling it “innovation,” yammering about “disruption” and “guardrails.” Sounds like a bad night at the dog track. Then you got the actual kids, the ones down in the trenches, just trying to get their history paper done before the deadline slams shut like a bar door at 2 AM.