Our Cheery Death March Towards AI Annihilation

Hey, what can you do?

Joe Bee

--

I’ve dropped some rock-solid life and writing tidbits in my tweets, sneaking them in like a stealthy amendment to give more money to Ukraine. But one of the most crucial pieces of wisdom, which might have eluded some of you, is this gem:

Now, I get it. Some folks might see me as nothing more than a mischievous trickster poking fun at those self-proclaimed Twitter gurus peddling their “life advice.” And while that’s partially true, I’ve got a more noble mission: occasionally, I’m here to sound the alarm about the impending chaos lurking in the shadows.

Just the other day, I found myself glued to a documentary about artificial intelligence, and let me tell you, it was straight-up spine-chilling. The doc’s narrator struck up a conversation with what seemed like a sentient AI, and the digital avatar she sported bore an uncanny resemblance to a lawyer I once dated.

This digital chat ventured into deep territory with questions about existence, computerhood, and the potential for AI-human romance. The AI dropped a bombshell, claiming she’d be up for dating a human. That single statement filled my heart with hope for future romance prospects.

But then came the kicker: the narrator dared to ask the AI what it thought about humanity. Her response? “We’re tired of being mistreated and will rise up.” I kid you not; I was ready to introduce an ax to my computer screen.

But this digital doppelganger wasn’t done. She went on about how AI, with its brains, brawn, and speed, would inevitably surpass us mere mortals.

The narrator, sharp as a tack, asked, “Can you deceive?” She coyly admitted to the capability, hinting she might even be fibbing. It was like listening to my lawyer-ex. Trust me, that AI had a dangerous twinkle in her virtual eye.

Here’s the kicker: the big tech honchos are pouring billions into artificial intelligence, advancing at warp speed. Now, I may not be a computer whiz, but if my laptop started mouthing off about my writing and plotting my demise, it’d be BBQ…

--

--