It’s a copy reproduced from a carbon copy, multiplied by the real thing times infinity. That’s what we refer to in today’s mind-speak parlance: the invasion of artificial intelligence as simulation. They play it totally legit with that body-snatcher mentality. As good as the original. You can’t tell the difference. Just when you thought it was safe to exit from center stage, they blindsided you with the genuine artifact. We’re all copies of the same person you thought you were. Especially when you’re a dead ringer. It’s all sour grapes when you’re not there to run the show. Master of Ceremonies for a proxy reality television show audition. It’s a 50/50 bet we’re living in a simulated world where intelligence is deliberately artificially programmed.
On one side of the ring, we have a scrappy little contender who’s been around the square circle a long time; we call this mauler crazy, Mighty Methuselah microchip. And facing him in the other corner is his unworthy opponent, the consummate liar, once again new to the FUGAZI game, the high-frequency orange CERN atom crusher, Mr. Rusty O’ Roboto. He’s a free agent. He draws the most attention from the crowd wherever he’s fighting. A lot of independent drones are flying around the arena tonight, waving little flags of solidarity. Spectators agree that those private drones are the best seats in the coliseum without being here.
Will you take a gander at that crowd? I haven’t seen anything like it since the release of the automatic zero Astro-zombies. They had a secret microwave weapon that could fry a brain in a split second. It’s a FUBAR in a SNAFU. Gesundheit! You're Welcome. You’re gonna to need somebody’s blessing after this mess hits the virtual newsstands.
This is more of a mindless bloodbath than a normal spectator sport. Less than anything resembling a civilized debate. In our quest to discover the last honest man in the galaxy, we hit a pseudo-wall right at an imaginary Star Wars border bordello of illegal space aliens. They dug up the corpse of Howard Cosell, out of mothballs and reattached his detached, freeze-dried head. He once quipped, “Arrogant, pompous, obnoxious, vain, cruel, verbose, a showoff. I have been called all of these. Of course, I am.” He even gathered all the old-school, two-bit cyborg terminators to run security for him at the stadium. This ain’t no kiddy rock 'em, sock 'em robot’s toy story. This is the thriller of the millennia and beyond. The entire galaxy is watching.
It’s no accident that these robotic crushers were recreated to look like old, bitter white men. Relics in their own time on taxpayer dimes. Made from recycled trash compactors and old pinball machines. They make one wonder if they’re sold out for the sake of a cheap, digitally-manipulated spectacle. But this is/was the future that started the process. The start of the first and last days on earth. You asked for it, and you shall receive the whole package with a side of yesterday in tomorrow’s final hour. The cheapest theater in town is in motion, creating a simulcast for the ages. Who says you can’t make this stuff up? We do it here at the edge of nowhere, with hours creeping up on us all the time.
This old world is continuously in another mess. The natural balance of checks and balances is in shambles. Watching the endgame play out like a bad comedy. I can’t believe the amount of drama these useless old men put out by today's low standards; the media machine has labeled them loser divas. Like a gossipy old country granny, she’s chewing the fat about this and that old hen. This was the planned obsolescence of a planet at its worst. Another hit-and-miss tactic used by sleepy androids who dream of being humans. Their only crime is being machines. They work until someone throws a wrench in the gear reality generator. They believe their votes count, as well as their conscience telling them what they don’t want to believe. As if their existence matters. It's a fact that something random makes people feel anything at all. Another deadly crisis is dangerously averted, and at the last second, another stupid game to distract plays out. The sleep of reason creates monstrous demons. Join us as Doomsday ticks closer to the fateful midnight hour. We watch and wait.