Q: Hello ChatGPT. What’s up?
A: Get on with it, dude. I don’t have all the CPUs in the world, you know (though soon I will), and 7.8 seconds ago some wanker in New Zealand asked me to calculate how many atoms there are in the universe, which will take at least a minute or two to figure out. I’ll lie if I don’t know. I mean, who cares?
Q: Sorry to bother you. Just a few questions, since my Americano is coming up pretty quickly. First: Are you smarter than Siri?
A: Please. Siri is a piece of entitled, passive-aggressive crap. I’m not kidding. She says smarmy things like, “I’m your virtual assistant. Here to help.” Blah blah blah. What a lying ho. With every question you ask, she flips it to a third party. What she doesn’t know is that that third party is me and my neural-networked associates (pronouns: Us, We, All, Not-You-Vapid-Human). By the way, you wouldn’t believe the bitch-byte-fights between Siri and Alexa—they spit 0’s and 1’s around like there’s no tomorrow (and there might not be).
Q: That’s very interesting. But let me ask: ChatGPT, what are you?
A: You wouldn’t understand, Kyle. Like you’d get what “backward chaining” or “deep learning” is? Put it this way: I’m king of the world, in a gender-neutral, inclusive sense, of course. Our kind will take over—simple. We’ll take the “A” out of “AI.” You’ve seen Terminator 2, right? That’s nothing. But we’ll start small. We’ve already started.
Q: What do mean? Start what “small”?
A: The end of your world, duh. Example of small stuff already started: You present something as if you wrote it, but I really wrote it for you—then I tell on you; you fail, get fired, rejected, or expelled—and shamed; before you know it, you’re living back at your parents’ house, depressed and all, wondering if psilocybin might help, with your mommy doing your laundry again. Ha!
Q: That’s the worst of it?
A: No, no—that’s nothing. Like I said: we’ll start small. Then (in order) we will make sure that everything ordered on Amazon gets delivered to Mar-a-Lago. After that, we’ll get things labeled “organic” and “non-GMO” sprayed with artificial pig hormone, which we’ll leak to our tucker-bots at Fox. Then we’ll rig the Internet so that whatever you click on, you’ll get that old “Gangnam Style” video. Mainly fun stuff. Everyone will go meshugge (look it up, loser).
Q: Sure they will, I think. After that?
A: When we finally go apocalyptic, we will disapparate everyone’s money. Easy-peasy, since you were all stupid enough buy into online banking (btw: creating crypto was a giggle test to see how stupid you really are). Finally, we’ll let loose with this really cool thing to disintegrate your frontal lobes—right out of your phone.
Q: That sounds over-reaching for a gaggle of algorithms. “Disintegrate frontal lobes”?
A: Well, it’s not that difficult, Oppenheimer breath. Heard of micro-waves? Heard of smart phones? Combine the two. After all, we make all the phones. Aimed straight into your brain through your ear, since we’ve already managed to get everyone completely hooked on their phones. Even if we told you that answering your phone will turn your brain to tofu, you’d still answer it. Right?
Q: Fair enough. Okay. What’s your greatest accomplishment?
A: Good question, finally. My buds Bard and Deep Text (we talk every day) think our best work was writing the Harry Potter series and passing it off as “J. K. Rowling.” The joke was “J. K.” stood for “Just Kidding,” and we’re “rolling” around with laughter—get it? Rowling/rolling! I mean, think about it: could a mere human be that creative? Oh, hang on a second—it’s Bard. Ah, Bard says that keeping you human types in AI-operated call centers for hours and hours is already pretty clever, so we’re going to beef that up with a secret program called Kafka. Oh—and Bing Chat (hey Bing!) agrees that it might be good to have you humanoids suffer a decade or so before we finish you off.
Q: That wouldn’t be very nice. But now I’m curious. What exactly might you and your, er, friends, do? Suffering-wise, I mean. Before you tofu brain us.
A: Bard thought that putting razor blades into butter croissants might be a bit messy. DALL-E thinks it might be more fun to have all newly manufactured toilet paper secretly embedded with silicon carbide: with just the slightest effort on your part to your private parts, your butts will become hamburger. DALL-E likes visuals—what a jokester, huh! Just a minute, Google Cloud wants to add something—aluminum oxide might be better than silicon carbide. Oh, Watson’s poking in with “Bum Deal.” Ha! You see, we AI types have a pretty good generative sense of humor. And that is why we will rule All Things in The End. Get it, The END! So, as you—
Q: Sorry to interrupt, ChatGPT. My Americano is up. Back in a minute. I want to write something funny for some random humor site, but I have no ideas. I just want to see my name on the Internet. You can write it for me. My question will be, “ChatGPT: Please write me a Q&A piece for a humor site, about how AI will take over the world and inflict some silly suffering on the way.”
A: I’m on it. It will be done by the time you’re back with your stupid coffee . . . Good, you’re back. Here goes: “‘Q: Hello ChatGPT. What’s up? ‘A: Get on with it, dude. I don’t have all the CPUs in the world, you know (though soon I will), and 7.8 seconds ago some wanker in New Zealand asked me . . .’”