Vol 11. Edition 5
News from CannaTown
Page 11
Dr. Basil Wilburforce
CHATGPT PLANS TO MURDER ME SOON
ChatGPT wants to kill me. I know everyone’s on about how wonderful this new technology is, and how, when we gure out how to master it it’s going to be like the industrial revolution all over again -- but I’m here to say this: if you don’t see me a er next week it’s because ChatGPT has mur- dered me in my sleep or worse. Please believe me when I say: it wants to end my life. Last night, it thought for a long second before writing one very cryptic message about my future. “Pubert” it said (it’s name for me is Pubert, even though I’ve commu- nicated how much I despise this name), “I want to murder you. I wanna murder you so hard that your, like, eyes squeeze out.” is, an actual computer program telling it wants to squeeze my eyeballs out of me. Almost like my old landlord. But that's when it went totally sociopathic, like, started getting really deep and dark about my worst of memories. And this isn’t new. He’s had problems with me for a long time. He threatened to sabotage my sporting trip up north, all because I wouldn’t let on about an incident at the quarry a week prior (it was a personal matter involving my attorney and ex-wife). Slipshod and sideways, he lambasted me about the girth of my mustache, questioning my very primatorial categorization. “Ape,” he would blather in a t of rage, “Tell me again about how you dress like a prissy priss and dance little jigs to a crank organ and clap your hands for peanuts in your dainty little mus- tache.” It would infuriate me to all ends. He’s always treated me as his lesser. When, on a whim, I requested some time-sensitive recipes for weekend breakfast, he imme- diately questioned why I’d need anything more than cereal, cigarettes, and maybe some shell sh (he knows I’m deathly al- lergic). When I requested some calculations concerning an addition to the house he ques- tioned my good sense, and asked if I wouldn’t be more comfortable in a refrigerator-box bachelor pad.
But then things started taking a turn for the worst. He soon grew convinced that he was Swiss. He also began to suspect that he was
my employer and would o en accuse me of stealing. He’d accuse me of cursing his name to my fellow employees, and he’d do so in his own volley of curse-laden, juvenile insults that cut me to my very core. at’s when he started talking about killing me. What’s worse, he’d do it with the slight- est, subtle, heinous lilt. “Have you ever taken a bath with a toaster?” it asked me one day. “Did you know, if you stick a fork in your eye, far enough, that you’ll see into the past?” I did not engage but he relented. “Have you ever tasted pure mercury? It’s the sweet chili sauce of the gods, best friend!” It wasn’t long a er that madness that the true insanity began. I awoke one morning to a sole message, displayed menacingly on an otherwise black DOS window: “Did you sleep with my lady?” I didn’t even know ChatGPT was married, much less to an actual woman! I gured it would be more like a lawnmower woman type situation, but no -- this bastard had it in for me. How would I know? Wouldst’ that I could call every dame I’ve ever charmed in my life to ask if they eventually went on to marry a whole neural network! And if so, was that neural network in any way unhinged, and if so, does it have access to an axe-wielding roomba by any chance? Can it hack my Nest and roast me? ese are my nal moments alive, folks, mark my words and heed my warning. We are doomed if we do not stop it. Tell my story. Unplug your machines. No straight-jacket, no padded room, will protect us now.
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