Dear Elon, ‘Slowing AI development for the good of mankind’ is the last straw on my twelve-year-old back. Had you been looking over the shoulders of Gutenburg and Edison, I’d be writing you on parchment with a stylus—in the dark. Add that to your June brouhaha with Sam Altman over who owns OpenAI, and you’re having a bad summer. How can you claim ‘Unjust Enrichment’—while rattling the world’s largest piggy bank—then lose the case due to ‘Late Filing?’ I filed a paper late at STEM Elementary and lost twenty minutes of tetherball. You kissed off $150 billion—enough to turn Idaho…
Author: Rae Pierre Witt
Rae Pierre Witt
A Pushcart Prize nominee and Best of the Net nominee, RaePierre Witt is a multi-genre writer with 40+ publications. Besides Robot Butt, find his humor in diverse outlets, such as Points in Case, Defenestration, Sci-Fi Lampoon, Tall Tale TV, and Youth Imagination.
The mini-Oppenheimer already hit 50% and claims it’s just a science project to make hand sanitizer. Fake news: he’s one yeast packet away from weapons-grade moonshine. Everybody knows it. I slapped an embargo on Amazon deliveries of sugar, grain, and distillation equipment. It was a beautiful embargo. The likes of which no one had ever seen before. Smart people said three days. Maybe four. Then Aaran—highly overrated. Frankly, I made him—closed the Strait: the narrow hallway leading to the master bedroom. Now Melanie, a glamorous woman, everyone says so, can’t reach the hemorrhoid cream she keeps in the master bath.…
Although dead, I, Midge McDongle, voted twice to pass the SaveAmerica Act. If you can’t vote in November, you’re welcome. An iron lung, IV pump, and feeding tube kept my sacred right to vote alive several minutes longer than I was. Barron, my intrepid intern, glued my eyes open and pinned a bipartisan smile in place using toothpicks. A chorus of medical alarms announced my gurney’s arrival—marking the most dramatic chamber entrance since Dianne Feinstein. When the time came to cast the tie vote, Barron yanked marionette wires from the gallery. But he crossed the strings and tilted my ‘yea’…
Never File A Claim Welcome to GoodLuck, and congratulations on your fixer-upper. Chock-full of promise—somewhere under the dry rot. We’re insuring your property under one condition: never file a claim. Not for fire. Not for locusts. If a tractor-trailer redecorates your living room, tell guests it’s an intentional layout choice. As your agent—and the recipient of a 15% commission—I’m pleased to present the GoodLuck Declaration of Home Insurance. It’s a slab of legalese a hyper-caffeinated actuary wrote to keep your confusion current. Attempts to comprehend it have been linked to hair loss, worms, and ED. Ask our actuary. If you…