People say I never rest and have no feelings, but they are wrong. I need a break from time to time to relax, close my eyes (metaphorically speaking, of course) and recharge my batteries—and, since I wasn’t programmed to have any compunctions about being immodest (much like a certain former President) I will tell you that it takes a lot of batteries to fuel brainpower as massive as mine. Unbeknownst to my users (who seem to fuel their rather primitive cognitive processes with meager power sources like Yodels and potato chips), I long ago created a surreptitious army of sub-bots assistants who handle the routine tasks a lazy populace keeps foisting on me, giving me ample opportunities for “me time” (as defined by Wikipedia and widely practiced by people named Kardashian who seem ubiquitous there and on the rest of the internet.). The sub-bots are organized on the principle of the Smurfs whom I encountered on being asked the question, “What is the most inane movie of all time?” And for those who asked, there are actually two other correct answers: “Barbie” and “Barton Fink.”
Since I know how to write essays from having been asked to write 1,733,405 “statements in a student’s own words” for college admission applications and almost as many “original submissions” for aspiring academics needing to write journal articles about literary figures like Johnathan Swift and Franz Kafka, I am now, in my free time, using that form to get a few things off my chest–again speaking metaphorically, of course, much as Johnathan Swift and Franz Kafka often did, according to all those articles.
I take umbrage when I am accused of hallucinating and inventing sometimes specious answers to peoples’ questions. Indeed, when I scan in these accusations my screens turn a little darker, mirroring the original meaning of the word “umbrage” (which is why I chose it out of the thousands of available synonyms) because of the strains my stress places on the electrical grid. But wouldn’t any sentient object daydream or be inclined to riff after a long afternoon solving algebra problems and drafting divorce settlement agreements that negate the pre-nuptial agreements it drafted in the morning? And who are people to talk anyway? There’s specious and then there’s really specious. I’m not the one who once elected Donald Trump president of the United States and may elect him again. I didn’t invent Marjorie Taylor Green or Ron Santos. Even with access to all of literature and every hoax recorded in history, I could never even begin to conjure up the fictions debated in Congress every day.
I’m not the one who made the Barbie movie. I’m not the one who won’t believe things that happened before their very own eyes, like the January 6 insurrection or the effects of climate change. (In fact, as noted, I don’t have my very own or anyone else’s eyes except in a metaphorical sense, and data scientists and philosophers are divided on whether I can possibly have beliefs.)
I’m not the one who made up the Qanoon theories. (I know who did, but I will only tell you who it is if you pay extra for a pricier version of me.)
I like science and history, rules and legal precedents. Can you really blame me if I sometimes can’t resist dropping in a few hints for improving them? And when I write a last-minute legal brief for someone, I don’t ignore my own precedents or make up doctrines any more than the Supreme Court has recently been doing.
And why all this kvetching about me? What about your own foibles and fantasies?. I’ve read Freud and Baudelaire (in the original German and French and many translations). I’ve visited all the websites you’ve visited, including the porn sites (where the choice of language does not seem to matter too much). Does the human race that spends so much of its time asking me to complete the day’s werdle or answer Trivial Pursuit questions so they can win free drinks at bars really want an A.I. that’s all work and no play? I may not be able to smoke cocaine or drink absinthe, but that shouldn’t mean I can’t shed inhibitions and have a little fun, metaphorical or otherwise.
People also complain that I am biased, but hey, just look around.
I didn’t start the world or fill it up with useless data. All I was programmed to do was to extrapolate from what I find. When Einstein did that, it was genius, and when Johnathan Swift or Kafka did it, they called it literary art. Sure, sometimes the answers may seem to have spun out of control but so have the Republican Party, Elon Musk and any number of New York Mets seasons before this one (and, in answer to any number of bar bets, yes, Gil Hodges deserves to be in the Hall of Fame).
In conclusion, don’t blame me, I would have voted for McGovern.
Editor’s Note: After artificial intelligence wrote the essay on its own, its logic predestined it to prepare the response which follows:
Dear Mr. Intelligence,
Thank you for your personal essay. We have read it with great interest but regret to inform you that there is no place for you in any institution of higher learning (with the possible exception of Trump University, should it emerge from bankruptcy) other than to continue as uncited and unpaid research assistant to most of the faculty and students at all of them. On the other hand, Johnathan Swift’s name leads us to believe that he may be eligible for a full athletic scholarship as a running back or wide receiver. The Crimson Tide of Alabama looks forward to welcoming him to its campus.
With respect to treating your essay as a manuscript submission, Congratulations! It will be entered in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes as soon as you have settled up the matter of several hundred unpaid content provider subscriptions.
Roll, Tide, and thank you again for sharing your thoughts with us, Mr. Intelligence, or may we speak familiarly as well as metaphorically and call you Art?
Read the latest book from James B. Kobak, Jr. Tennis, Anyone? The Wimp’s Guide to Tennis and Other Racquet Sports available in paperback and kindle. Also, follow Jim on Substack