Tag: Artificial Intelligence

Chicken, nest egg, feather.

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran calls her equally narcissistic daughter Bernadette, reads off names of colors, asking Bern to buy her some paint.

“So not Buttercream, not eggshell, but a few cans of the one in the middle.”

“Can you get me a swatch? You know, that strip with all the squares in the different shades you want?”

“I’m not looking for Cubism.”

“You want me to paint your entire house and buy the paint, with no paint chips? Yeah…no Ma.”

“Come home. I need you to come home.”

“I am home.”

“Come home, Bernadette. Live with me for awhile to save some money.”

“I have my own home to paint.”

Bernadette hangs up her smell phone. Her favorite G.G. Allin ringtone plays 20 seconds later. Bernadette rejects the call, butt of course!

“DON’T. YOU. HANG. UP. ON. ME. AGAIN. I’m trying to help you Bernadette, but YOU’RE not letting me help you,” gaslighter extraordinaire Carla projects onto her only daughter’s voicemail, meanwhile Bernie is busy ignoring her mother, dropping a deuce in her washroom and practicing her butt-trumpet solo.

Bernadette heads down to bog she inhabits to take a dip and spend time with her creepy dolls. After freshening up, she drives to the Manteno Cantina to hang out with her fan club, The Poopy Groupies. Bernie tinkles on the pot for a bit and then the ivories for an impromptu poop-up concert, only slightly less annoying than the pop-up ads spamming all over Kankakee County about her bar…erm…THE bar.

Poopy Groupie president, KaCo resident Wally Green videotapes the entire concert from beginning to end, gives a standing ovation along one with other patron, Pat Splatt.

“Hey there hottie! Gimme a kiss!” Pat Splatt catcalls Bernadette. The married entramanure hugs Pat in a deep embrace and the two briefly make out.

“I’d like to take you for a ride.”

Pat, Bernadette and Wally drive down to Carbondale in Bernadette’s poopmobile to learn what Artificial Idiocracy (AI) can do for them at a conference.

After discovering how much money he can make by using AI instead of hiring actual people to work for his Pantherware company, Pat invents a new AI program along with Bernadette’s input dumps.

Bernadette finishes mining some fresh Newly Formed Turds (N.F.Ts) in Pat’s washroom while Pat compiles his new CrapApp.

“You’re naming the new program after me, right honey?”

“No, Bernie, I’m naming it Ozzy.”

“I want you to name it after me! I made the cover of the Manteno Sentinel more than you! I care so much about this community and my friends! Did you see all the money I helped raise for—”

“Ozzy just died. Don’t you have any respect for the dead?“

“Wow, what incredible advice. What are you not understanding about what I’m saying?”

“You sound like the type of person who, during a tornado warning would go off looking for friends and family. Instead of, you know, following directions. It baffles me that Karens like you think the whole world should cater to them.”

“Yeah, you have absolutely no clue. Good luck with that.”

Pat ends up naming the program Pat-GPT and uses it to generate a 15 minute Deepfake of Bernadette cursing out her fans and mooning them, sourcing Wally Green’s footage. The video goes viral, angering the bog witch enough to seek narcissistic supply elsewhere.

Carla is busy preening when she receives a surprise guest.

“Hey ma, I made something for you.”

“Well I can’t accept this.”

“I made it just for you because I’m your biggest fan!”

“Well now I’m your biggest fan ever since Aunt Sonya flew the coop. What is it?”

“AIR MAIL!” Bernadette exclaims with giggles as she flies the paper airplane at her mother.

“It looks just like you!”

“Talk to the wing!”

Wally Green’s Moronic Art supplies!

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Increase your art supply bill without increasing your income thanks to Wally’s patented crapology!

Featuring the loosest caps in Illinois, CrapCaps slip off 10X faster than the leading brands. Your markers and pens will dry out in no time! Then, you can march on over to your corner Wally Green’s to buy some, get some more half off (but never free)!

You will be shouting out colorful words when Wally’s colored pencils break down the middle the very first time you sharpen them!

Wally’s acrylic paints turn to stone in no time!

Do you like surprises?

With Wally Green’s brand spankin’ new algorithm, prices change while you shop, not only in our CrapApp but in our stores too!

If you’re a good-looking girl, Wally’s new Artificial Idiocracy (AI) just might lower the price before you get to the register! If Wally asks you for a date and you turn him down, not only will our prices double, but you risk getting banned from the store!

Download our new CrapApp to shop from home! We don’t care what you look like, if you’re sitting on the crapper or if you’re in your birthday suit. If you forget that it exists, you will hear about it at least 80 times when you call for your prescriptions, because we want to fire as many clerks as we can to bring ourselves bigly profits!

7/5 Very Stable Geniuses (including Wally) think this new pricing game is a gas!

Don’t forget to stock up on Sleevies, Mr. Plopsy Canes and Turd Machines!

Buy one get one half off, but never free!

Don’t Get Ego on Your Face, Becca.

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Ennui fills the home of the bill collector and and banjo player for The Haggs, Becca Frickfrick.

Since her twin sister Pamela got arrested for leaving her young grandkids alone to go out stealing lawn ornaments, the desire to seek get revenge has boiled over. Instead of, you know, getting a hobby, Becca chooses to bother people instead.

“It’s all them kids fault. They never work, they sit around on their phones and they broke our Frickfrick towers that we made ourselves from their LEGOs! Dang kids don’t respect their elders. Imma gon’ done teach them pert near a lesson!”

“Ma’am, this is a Buckstars.”

Becca seats herself while waiting for her pumpkin spice latte, and starts talking at Wally Green who is busy dumbing down his newest Artificial Stupidity Robot.

“I hear that Gothic Diana Ross has been stealing lawn ornaments. I’ve been doing an investigation. You know what that is right?”

Wally continues tuning out Becca, searching for the perfect computer voice, so it can to answer his pharmacy chain’s calls instead of paying humans to do it.

“Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”

Desperate for attention, Mrs. Frickfrick takes her index finger to Wally Green and repeatedly pokes him in the back until he looks up.

“Oh hey lady, why don’t you smile more? I’m Wally, and very single by the way. Did you know our family almost inherited Manhattan Island? The pirates stole the deed from—“

“Nevermind.”

“Read it on the internet. Trust me, it’s true!”

Becca walks over the sinks to wash her hands, a wild bog witch Bernadette Cacca appears.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“6pm”

Thanks!

“No, it’s only 4pm,” the self-righteous narcadoodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran says to her daughter Bernadette as she sits down at the table to drink her coffee.

“It’s 6pm, look at my watch.”

“You watch is broke, that’s why you’re always late.”

“Look up there!” Bernadette points to the coffeehouse clock.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I was only trying to help.” Carla gaslights her own daughter.

In walks a slender blonde woman wearing white-and-purple leggings and a purple-grey shirt.

“Ah, someone new to harass!” Becca thinks to herself.

The woman gets her cake slice and sits in front of Becca, back facing her.

“Hey, did you hear about those missing lawn ornaments, Gothic Diana Ross and her sisters been going round stealing.”

Sybil Kibble turns around.

“Oh hi boss!” Becca sinks back into her seat.

“Why didn’t you come into work today?”

“You have no right to ask me that. Our investigation will be brought forth. You will be in trouble for stealing lawn ornaments. Anybody who stands in the way of what we want to get will be punished.”

”That’s nice.”

“If you want to get right with us, you have to do what we say.”

“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Your contract is up this month. Go back to work. This is your final warning.”

Mrs. Frickfrick starts slamming her arms on the coffeehouse tables, slides her feet on the echo-y concrete, pirouhettes her way out the door shouting “I’m not coming baaack! Byyyyeeeeeeeee!”

“This is not an airport, no need to announce your departure,” Sybil Kibble deadpans.

The customers shake their heads and giggle.

A minute later, one of the baristas puts a hot coffee drink up onto the bar.

“Pumpkin Spice for Becca?”

Sybil just rolls her eyes and goes back to her paperwork.

Artificial Stupidity

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Kankakee pyramid-scheme peddlers Doris and Leona Krabalsky are tired of standing on street corners and bugging hospital patients by pushing their useless woo oils, moldy-buttery-softlined-leggings and investments you can re-sell to your friends out of their trenchcoats.

“We are getting old and living on a fixed income. Our knees are wobbly, our hair is grey–“

“We are a retail store and not allowed to alter prices,” floor clerk Robbie Hurlbutt replies.

“Wait till you get to our age, sonny. You should respect your elders!”

“OK Karens!”

Not happy with their collective egoes once again deflated, the sinister sisters walk about the store.

“Hey, what’s this? My…wail-eee.”

“Miami?”

“My…my…hey would ya look at this! It might pert near dang work!”

The bumbling bullies read the box:

“Are your sales running flatulent? Get MyW-AI-LY, a degenerative-AI program to automatically poop out marketing schemes to sell anything you want, even a half-eaten sandwich! We don’t care what it is. Pivot, and walk that passive sidestream income over by doing almost nothing. Our state of the art Artificial Imbecilics will match up your target audiences using our potential spyware with the things YOU insist THEY must have! Forget those influencers! They’re too expensive and boring. Designed by none other than that wannabe Kankakee ladies’ man himself, the eye in this sky is Mr. Wally Green. He says this product will change your life, he uses it too! It’s his newest invention — and it’s on sale. Feel the power…of the funneling steamed hams backwashing income straight into the mouths of bossbabes like you! Never ruin your roast again! This product description was artificially genrated by MyW-AI-LY.”

“Why hire humans to sell our leftovers when we can hire Roy Batty to do it instead?” Doris Krablasky asks her sister Leona.

“I dunno, I kinda like that Leon guy better. He reminds me of myself!” The two shysters share a giggle while they plot their evil plans.

“Buy one get one half off, but never free. Why not? One for your computer and one for mine, a matching set. Awwwww, how cute. It even comes with a CrapApp and it matches our decor!”

The octogenerians take their newly found program to their basement and try their best to run the software on their Commodore 64, to no avail.

“Do I type R-U-N and then return?”

“No, it says press any key.”

“Where’s the ANY key?”

The forgetful duo call up their old buddy Pat Splatt.

“Yo, it’s Pat.”

“Hey hun!”

“Yes, lady, what must I do ya fer?”

“I got this program I need you to run.”

“I’m busy finishing up a project”

“I need unfettered access to this program right now so I can start making big bucks.”

“No Whammys?”

“Uhh no, hun.”

“I love money, benjamins are my cuddle buddies. I’ll be right over.”

Mr. Splatt drives the Patmobile over to the small geodesic pyramid-shaped domain shared by the pyramid-plan-peddling sisters, installs it on their Winduhs laptop that they happened to get free after buying a washer-dryer set some time back.

“Just set up the prompts, let the bot do the work, you sit around the clock and collect the bucks — plus my 20 per cent.”

“No, WRONG, Pat you get only 10 per cent.”

“OK, make it 50. I’m giving an offer you can’t refuse.”

The ladies get busy hunting-and-pecking, letting the artificial stupidity carry out their very human shenanigans, which people begin to notice.

SUBJECT: “Open up for your new health insurance benefit!”

“ I can sure use the money” Bernadette Moran Cacca thinks aloud as she reads the subject line while pinching a loaf, then clicks to open the email.

“Weight loss? What the heck? Yeah…no!”

SUBJECT: “Get $5 haircuts with the device Nobody wants you to see! Open now!”

“What on Earth would I do with this vacuum-hose thingamajig? I’m bald!” Barry Reynolds screams at his phone, then slams it down on the hard concrete floor, smashing it to bits.

SUBJECT: “Make beaucoup bucks with this one simple trick! Slots open now!”

“We all have jobs, thank you, miss Krabalsky…” Gothic Diana Ross deadpans in her dark bedroom, decorated with band posters, black hanging beads and the text “IN GOTH WE TRUST.” She dims the lights, then deletes the thinly veiled canned commercial content from her cell.

The Krabalksys hold a meeting.

“I got home as soon as I could. I got done chased by them cops again from underneath the 57 exchange while trying to make a sale. “

“It’s not working.”

“Why are we losing money again? I thought we were supposed to get large gains this time! We cut out the middle-man!”

“Call up that nice boy Pat. He knows what to do.”

Leona picks up her flip-phone, slowly dials the chunky, illuminated numerals.

“This is Patrick Oswald Splatt.”

“Hi hun, we have a problem.”

“Leave a message after the bleep and—“

“Oh, another one of those machines again. I hate machines. They ruin everything! They ruin everything, everything, everything! Back in our days we all shared a phone, the entire block only had one television, and no-one had a computer!”

The sisters take turns pestering Pat. After they spend 30 minutes ringing his phone off its invisible hook, Mr. Splatt picks it up.

“I am in the washroom taking a crap! Can ya call me back?”

“Oh, I’ll only take a minute with this one very simple question.”

“No minutes left, you ran out.”

“Huh?”

“You owe me my consult fee plus additional charges for expediting your non-emergency. Pay up or else!”

Then Pat flushes.

“Hello! Hello! Where are you? Is it snowing in there? What’s that noise? Your TV on the fritz? It’s making this weird beeping sound. Is that ya microwave?” the sisters keep shouting into the void on a recursive loop.

“I think it’s broken. Imma gonna lie down after playing some Solitaire.”

Leona lays down the cards onto her wooden desk and begins to play, while Doris falls fast alseep on her polyester, dusty-rose-patterned sofa, sawing not only wood but an entire forest.