Recently at a morning pint, a friend said that the future belongs to artificial intelligence and that we have to prepare. Only the stupid would trust their own heads now, and with a somewhat impudent look he added: “You, as a newspaper writer, should get yourself an artificial intelligence as soon as possible. Otherwise you’re screwed.”
The word “rattled” sounded particularly threatening from his mouth, the man is an exterminator specializing in rodent hunting. No, nobody wants to be screwed, which is why something had to be done immediately, in this case a self-experiment in terms of AI. The nerd we trust recommended trying out Chat GPT first, a chatbot that can write dripping love poems as well as homework or scientific papers that even make the Nobel Prize committee sit up and take notice.
That sounded promising, and we contacted the artificial intelligence beast via the Internet – of course with great respect, because a digital mastermind often contains a hypersensitive character: “If you don’t mind, dear Mr. GPT, please write us a funny comment, in which Dieter Reiter, Markus Söder and Munich appear.” After a few moments, letters jumped across the screen, word after word, sentence after sentence, it was as fast as driving on a German Wissing autobahn. It must have been something like this when Kafka wrote his story “The Judgment” in a single night. “The story came out of me like a regular birth covered in dirt and mucus,” he noted in the diary.
The gloss was ready in no time, thank God without dirt and slime. We don’t like to say it, but it has to come out, the truth knows no delay. So what Chat GPT wrote there is . . . well, how should you say it? It’s devastating. Or to put it another way: it is unfortunately good. Damn good. Super duper mega good. And funny. Full of spirit. Revealing, hilarious, witty, brilliant, cool. My God, how Mr. GPT pulls the Söder through the cocoa! When people read this, Söder will no longer be able to step onto the stage without Homeric laughter ringing out. And the jokes about riders: for shooting. If they become public, he can make up for a third term. How does the vernacular say? Whoever has the credit does not need to worry about the ridicule.
Chapeau, artificial intelligence! We would never have managed such a brilliant gloss, not in this life. But that has to stay between us. If the boss or even the boss finds out, only GPT texts will be read in the newspaper. So we immediately deleted the file and sank the laptop in the Isar. It is unthinkable that a short-stayed US National Guard would steal the glossary and post it online for the whole world to read. Then we would all be screwed: the Söder, the rider and the likes of us. Not a single line is allowed to escape, even if our readers miss the funniest text of all time. Do they just have to be content with this: a work of the always imperfect natural intelligence.