By Luke Homans
Dear valued reader,
You may know me as the world record holder for ‘most whole grapes swallowed in thirty seconds,’ but today I am the arbiter of academic integrity. As I sit atop my perch on the northwest corner of the Student Publications Building, I sneer down at you, the feeble minded populace.
It seems many of you know but one god: ChatGPT. Gone are the days of the noble pursuit of knowledge; our capitalist society has prioritized hollow completion of a degree over development of the crucial skills that it represents. Clearly, the blame lies not with the individual, but that will not suppress my petulant caterwauling.
The primary aspect of generative AI that draws my ire, aside from the massively detrimental impact upon our already derelict planet, (because who gives a shit about our children, anyway) is the hackneyed, lifeless offal it passes off as original content. It is slop. It is rotting, fetid, plagiarized, and ultimately devoid of the humanity that inspires us to write and make art in the first place.
This, to the best of my knowledge, is because AI is unable to suffer. ChatGPT will never know what it’s like to want to ram your head through the wall every single second you spend doing the thing you are most passionate about. It cannot understand the depths of my feelings of inadequacy that I channel into every miserable word that I write. If someone invents an artificial intelligence that can experience human torment, my opinion on the matter may be swayed. Until then, YOU have to suffer. YOU HAVE TO. THAT’S WHAT MAKES ART GOOD. ENGAGE IN ACADEMIC MASOCHISM YOU PATHETIC INVERTEBRATES.
I apologize for raising my voice. My anger is continually amplified by the increasing tension on the single last thread connecting me to my human nature. Let’s try something a little lighter. This is a humor magazine, not a Twitter rant, after all.
Umm, let’s see.
Chat GPT? I bet that stands for Chat… Gaudy Piece of… Trash. Am I right folks? Bet ChatGPT couldn’t write a joke of that caliber. As you can see, the mind of man undoubtedly remains superior.
Look, that doesn’t matter. None of this matters. The only purpose of writing this is to introduce you to our first issue of the year. I’ll graduate in a few months and you’ll never be subject to my pretentious babble ever again. So! Our issue theme is cheating, which is the only reason this rant about artificial intelligence is topical. Do you get it yet? You’re cheating yourselves… yadda yadda. I’m not a professor; I’m not a narc. I’m just some rapidly aging stooge with the opportunity to yell about the changing times and wokeness, probably.
At the end of the day, I don’t care about you. I’m not your mom. You can do whatever you want with your life. Prompt the creation of as much barely legible dreck as your heart desires.
Cry about how writing is hard. Whine about how it takes effort to draw something well. Your quibbling will fall on deaf ears. News flash, bucko: writing is hard for everyone. Art is difficult to create. That’s what makes it valuable. The urge to continually develop technology for the sake of convenience will strip us of our purpose. We will all meet the same end, and the earth will continue to become uninhabitable at a horrifying pace.
Send me hate mail if you wish. In fact, I’d welcome it. As long as you do me the courtesy of writing it yourself. It’ll be good for you.
If you’ve tolerated my condescension thus far, I commend you. I’m sure I sound like an insufferable poindexter. Read on, and you’ll uncover some more enjoyable content. It might even make you laugh, if you’re lucky. At least our barely legible dreck is created with the shred of remaining humanity we possess that compels us to make something we care about.
I can’t get you to care, but I can keep screaming until I am forced to move on with my life come May.
Until then, strap in.
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