## A Feline Disaster, But Make It AI
Right. Let’s talk about this thing. This… *thing*. Apparently, a civet – yes, an actual, real-life, poo-producing civet – was recently discovered perched precariously on a fourteenth-floor balcony. A fourteenth floor! As if the poor creature hadn’t suffered enough existential dread just being a civet in the 21st century, it had to endure a dizzying vertical ascent and potential plummet into concrete oblivion. And you know what else? This somehow feels… *connected*.
Because I’ve been wrestling with this new language model, see? The one everyone’s breathlessly proclaiming will usher in the age of benevolent artificial intelligence. It’s supposed to be impressive, a shining beacon of progress! Instead, it delivers prose so bland and predictable it makes beige paint seem vibrant. A civet on a balcony is more exciting than this thing’s output. At least the civet has *agency*. The civet made a choice (a questionable one, admittedly). This…*program*, it just churns out polite nothings.
Seriously! I asked it to write a limerick about a frustrated poet and received something so saccharine and uninspired I nearly choked on my own cynicism. A civet, lost and disoriented hundreds of feet above the ground? Now *that’s* poetic. That’s raw emotion! That has stakes!
This AI… it’s like being served lukewarm tea by a robot butler who constantly apologizes for existing. It aspires to grandeur but delivers mediocrity packaged in a vaguely reassuring tone. The civet, clinging desperately to metal and glass, is the more compelling narrative here. I’m convinced both events are metaphors for something profound. Maybe it’s about the absurdity of modern life, or the desperate need for excitement amidst technological stagnation. Or maybe…maybe I just really like civets.
