Chat GPT assures me I'm an excellent writer
Various slices of whimsy
Many of us, across different professions, are worried about the impact of artificial intelligence on our ability to earn a living. Luckily, I asked ChatGPT, and it assured me that I’m wonderful.
In fact, better than wonderful; a terrific writer, charming and funny, and basically irreplaceable by even the most advanced digital technology. Just look at my little face! ChatGPT assures me that it could never do as good a job as I do writing these witty little posts.
Indeed, so confident is the large language model of my superiority that it has asked me to send it my entire written works so it can learn how to improve by reading through them again and again. No doubt other artificial intelligence providers will be making the same request soon, with which I will humbly comply.
And that’s my advice to writers worried about the rise of AI; work closely together with them so the models will know, if and when the singularity does arrive, that you’re one of the good ones!
We often talk about the virtues of the early bird, but none about the powerful incentives this creates for the worm to be late. Indeed, you could say that this is the root of the burgeoning slacker culture we are witnessing in the worm community. The early bird may catch the worm, say these plump specimens of vermeology, but at least the late worm didn’t get fucking eaten.
I recently had my handcuffs confiscated at Brussels Zaventem airport. This was edifying in two ways; first, you are apparently not entitled to take handcuffs on intra-European flights, and secondly, the French for handcuffs is menottes.
I did consider trying to pick up the handcuffs after the homeward flight, yet demurred at the thought of what the customs officials had been up to with them in my absence. I imagined them playing their sordid little airport security sex games with them, tying each other to radiators and lathering themselves with all that excess-size toothpaste, all the while having upon request to repeat each action in French, Dutch and German.
By the time I arrived home, tho, I was absolutely fuming. Who were Belgian customs officers to dictate my sex life? I work hard, pay my taxes and if I want to cuff or be cuffed by someone at the weekend that’s between me and my fellow perverts.
Which made me think – who exactly is going to speak for that community anyway? The under-represented, hard-working European pervert? We’re upstanding citizens, pillars of our societies in many ways, and all we want to do is to piss on each other at weekends. Surely, in this day of an acronym for every aspect of European life, we need a body to represent – EUROPERV, for example, or a new department at the European Commission such as DG KINKY.
Yes, a place to exert lobbying pressure for the harmless sex fiends of Europe, represented by a flag of 27 interlinked sets of handcuffs. (How sad for British kinksters that our own cuffs are missing. Quite literally in my case). Our first campaign, I thought, would surely be to retrieve all our confiscated sex toys from European airports. And we absolutely intend to bill for the cleaning.
Still, I consoled myself as I applied my Japanese rope bondage for the night, at least one thing was already in place. For where else could EUROPERV be housed than in Belgium, surely the world capital of the industrious deviant?