BREAKING - A giant 34-foot statue has been erected in the community of Fezziwig, Authorities report, but no one knows how it got there. The monstrosity, sculpted from what appears to be Cheez Whiz, is in the shape of an anatomically-obtuse giant boar. The monument was not announced to or by city officials, who say that the mere size of the pedestal alone suggests a construction crew worked through the night. Yet nobody knows who paid for a crew of such magnitude, or who coordinated what appears to have required nearly 200 volunteers to lay the final layers of Whiz straight from cans, assuming they were, at minimum, shaping the detailed contours of the hog’s bristled hair with plastic knives and sharp sticks.

“When we woke up this morning, there was the statue, greeting the citizens for the morning commute,” said city manager Brenda Hawthorne. “But when it comes right down to it, nobody really filed any paperwork to build a statue there, much less 30 feet tall and made of a foul, synthetic cheesy goo.” Yet, it wasn’t so much the strange effigy near the townsquare, as the celebration that followed, that was, in all other ways, completely unexplainable.

Almost immediately at dawn, a crowd gathered around the statue. In addition to novelty photographers, other vendor booths quickly sprung up to hock tshirts and other boar and Cheez Whiz keepsakes, to accommodate the almost immediate stream of sudden tourists descending upon the scene. By 9 a.m., an extensive tent city sprawled for blocks and press vans came pouring in from other suburbs.  

Authorities say they were further perplexed by the somewhat spontaneous parade that ensued at 9:30, complete with at least three marching bands, a few floats, official Grand Master and fire truck. “We’re not sure where the bands came from and it wasn’t even one of our city fire trucks” said Hawthorne, adding, “the whole thing took us entirely off-guard.”

Residents reacted with surprise, some pleasantly, some, not so much. While dozens spontaneously showed up dressed in full boar costumes and cheered, at least one subset of the crowd--portly men with boxes of crackers--were not happy. "It’s spoiled Whiz, we can't even eat it," one lamented.

Although no group has claimed responsibility for the monstrosity, Hawthorne believes investigators will be hot on the trail soon. “We’re assuming it’s some kind of local frat, even maybe a cult that worships Cheez Whiz,” she said. “Or at the very least, someone with steady access to dump trucks of the stuff. Seems like that might be an important clue.”

According to local historian John Kaiser, an organized group is likely not to blame, other than a random few, energetic and blazed cityfolk. "It’s probably just a couple of people who got ripped on a Saturday and stormed the town center to erect a huge statue from ten metric tons of sprayable-cheddar. It's happened before, long before our time, but this is history repeating itself.”

“The question is, what to do with that much lukewarm cheese gravy,” he added, “before the next sunny day covers the whole hill in nacho sludge?”

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It's only three weeks into the holiday season, and already local foundation Angel Cheefers has their hands full.

Already, 420 cadets have found circles across Cannatown to roast with this season, many of whom will share in a munchies feast thereafter as well. Sometimes the program can even match recipients by their strain or ingestion preferences. For instance, Mya Bryant of Shwagsburg is used to mid-grade beasties. She prefers good bud but can't dab or use a steamroller without explosively vomiting. It's embarrassing to even ask for donated puffs from circles she passes without walking away ashamed. This year she was comfortably paired with an elderly couple that likes to roll joints. "Its perfect," she says, relieved, "I even brought my own roach clip." Without the Angels, she says, there'd only be buzzkill in her stocking.

"I just didnt know how I was going to get blazed this year," says Fred Winston, another applicant who is down on his luck, and, worse, has no nearby friends or family holding, much less, ready to share. "Thankfully the Angel Cheefers have me covered." Sometimes, the offer to cheef can blossom into a beautiful relationship. "We're still waiting for Mitch to move off of our couch from last year," says one charitable giver, Charles Finney. He and his fiancée Matilda have been volunteer circle hosts each year now, and say that, despite the occasional unwanted roomates, they will never stop participating in Angel Cheefers because kind souls once helped them.

"I'll never forget," recalls Finney, "I was visiting family in Squaresville years ago, so desperate for a chance to smake that I went for a walk in the cold to search for ditchweed. A car I walked by rolled down its windows and smoke billowed out, and two very cheefed-out fellas asked if I needed to hotbox quick. I said yes please and thanked them for the yuletide miracle. And I remember thinking, some day I want to be a cheef angel for another poor bastard, just like those guys."

"Part of me believes they really were angels," he adds.

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It felt like finding secret treasure. “I was like, if we’re doing it, why aren’t other people doing it?” asks Shawna Monson, a home buyer who recently purchased a house amidst a whirlwind of mortgage madness. There’s just one catch. Monson’s “secret” trick was a strategy now being employed in metros across the country: She went in on the house with roughly 53 other co-residents.

“I’d been outbid over 100 times, and thought about living in an RV,” she says. “That’s when I decided to throw my lot in with dozens of people I’d met at the DMV.”

During a historical housing crunch, exacerbated by generational shifts, and supply chains and employee shortages, prices are shooting higher (420%) than ever before. Altogether it has put the possibility of owning a home completely out of reach, while almost completely limiting mobility. Experts suggest the only solution is to join finances with no less than 37 other buyers. 

In the hottest real estate markets, bidders now routinely offer around one-million dollars over asking, with nearly everything, including a left testicle, due with offers, which average 1000 in count per listing. “It was under these circumstances that we decided to lock in a 4.20% rate for buyer-groups,” says loan officer Dana Sacia of Wells Fargo, a lender well-known for its brutally-violent onboarding process. “Disclosures include enslavement of the undersigned’s unborn children. It’s not a great deal, but it’s still better than most conventional programs.”

“The loan works with anyone from 25 to 60 people; the more, the better,” Sacia says.

Although not luxurious by any standards, the resulting living conditions are completely non-luxurious. “We make it work,” Monson claims, now sleeping in the foyer on her mattress near some communal plastic furniture. “We’ve had very few issues, other than the septic disaster.”

There are so many people in the current house, that those who congregate in front haven’t even intermingled with those living in the back of the house (the “backers”). Originally a 2-bed 1-bath bungalow, most closets in the house are now bedrooms. The residents reportedly sleep in shifts. “We’re makin’ it work, we’re totally succeeding,” Monson says, clutching a slow-burning blunt in shaking hands, “I just wish we knew who keeps taking the toothbrushes.”

“Now we just all use each others’ toothbrushes,” she adds, “It’s pretty gnar.”

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Samuel Hillis is not new to Resin. The 87-year-old Cannatown resident was born in Resinville during some of the village’s most difficult years, the dust bowl. “They called it that because there was literally nothin’ but dust in our bowls,” he recalls. “That year people said whatever resin you smaked, was resin first scraped 20 bowls ago, scraped and smaked, scraped and smaked again and again.” He grew up in a household with scant belongings or experiences. It wasn’t until he was 25 that he smaked his first combination resin-and-stem blunt. “I remember thinking, what is this other stuff? You mean there’s more than live resin?” But kind bud was an exotic myth in those days. And they didn’t have all the nice waxes and butters -- only a gelatinous extract called lard. Some people talked about flower but you never really thought of it as real. Like Turkish delight. And polar bears.”

One day Hillis says he recalls seeing a photo from his friend’s vacation. There, in his friend’s hand, was a giant, sparkling nugget. It was almost technicolor. “I only recall my heart dropping. It was surreal.”

Stories in Resinville spread, and soon there was talk of a revolution, a renaissance and push to find flower. Some of Hillis’ friends, local revolutionaries were fortunate enough to experiment and gradually change what they smaked. They began by adding “cracklers” (seeds), then stems, eventually leaves and finally nuggets into their resin bowls and rolls, and over time, gradually omitting the resin until their smake was “pure kind.”

This led to the great Resinville purge of 1969, when all flower-smakers were exiled out of village limits, following the most widespread riots in town history. Hillis was wrongly accused of smaking flower, and even though he had long desired in his heart to do so, he’d never really gotten a chance to try.

By time he and the revolutionaries made it to Cannatown, they were eager to smake and start a new life. But they found survival in Cannatown wasn’t so easy, either. So many of them did the only thing they knew how to do: they became bowl-swabbers. Every day they would scrape and clean the insides of bowls, for personal and corporate accounts. Every day, they toiled, bent over their work tables doing green-collar work, so that future generations could enjoy a better life. 

Flash forward forty years, and Hillis was finally retiring at the age of 79. He had still never packed flower, forced by his own pride for decades to smake only the resin he scraped, an ailment that left him with a dirty, yellow-toothed grin, and the unwashable stink of bong tar. His associates at Goopenheim’s wanted him to smake flower at the retirement party. They readied a large group bong, but the local grinderage got the order wrong and accidentally delivered and packed brown shwag.

It was a mess. The party lasted just minutes. Traumatically, the experience got even worse when Hillis recklessly sprinted into an eight-foot rack of metal chairs and began fist-fighting them. 

But everything changed last Tuesday on the eve of Hillis’ birthday, when he received a knock on the door at 4:20 in the afternoon. There, on the doorstep, was a present and a note. Inspired by his generous service scraping and cleaning their bowls during his retirement, his neighbors together pitched in to buy him a giant Scooby Snacks nugget. Hillis said he was so moved, that he called everyone over to smake it with him; everyone brought their own nuggetry and those that partook said they’d never seen an old man so heartwarmingly happy to finally smake kind bud. “This is what it’s all about,” said Jan Newton, who lives just down the street. “Nothing, nothing, feels better than smaking dank with a person in need. And being there for the first time, that’s just special.”

Those close to Hillis say the change has been drastic. Long gone are the resin repositories nailed to walls throughout his house, and glass cabinet of scrapers. He recently rented a cabin to watch Dark Side of the Rainbow and enjoys a new hobby, staring at black light posters, for up to “four to six hours per day.” It’s clear he’s been given another lease on life. “For so long people have been telling me to just try some flower,” he remarked last Sunday as he packed for a river rafting trip. “Years ago I would’ve packed resin, but you can see it’s only flower now, ‘til death do us part.”

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In a strange hyperbolic protest that seems to have gone off the rails, insane weirdos have now taken over JoJo's, the reputable French café in Cannatown. Crazy Stu McGuyla and “Starey” Larry Jenkins, last seen guessing cows’ weights at the Hay Castle Emporium in Steemsville, allegedly showed up late Tuesday evening with implements of destruction and a sack full of haddock. It’s unknown how or why the two seized the restaurant, or what can possibly be achieved through the symbolic act.  

But a statement taped to the front window noted that they were fighting “oppressors and the status quo,” and thus, “taking back the food of the people, to destroy tyranny of the modern establishment.” Promising change that would shake the core of the cuisine, the two will likely ruthlessly bastardize JoJo’s signature dishes, such as decorating the Croque Monsieur with American cheese. Jenkins, known felon, has taken over hosting duties, bringing his signature "staredown" for an all-around uncomfortable dining experience. The linen napkins have been replaced by paper towels. The dress code now allows for capes, and denim. 

“I had to hack at the soufflé with a screwdriver,” remarked one critic, "and I found a whole Big Mac in the Coq Au Vin."

“Is it a revolution? I suppose,” remarked another patron. “Did I expect boxes of wine on the menu? No.”

PHONY TOP-SHELF WREAKS HAVOC

An afternoon, destroyed. A concert, completely buzz-free. These are some of the horror stories told this week by people who say one Fran Adabnail sold them absolutely un-potent nuggersh at a high price. Victims of the alleged dank fraud appeared in court starting Monday in the trial of Ms. Adabnail, to each tell how they'd been promised ground-breaking highs but instead got only temporarily buzzed, if even a little stupid at most, not matter how much was smaked. 

The dreadful accounts triggered some in the courtroom to burst into tears. “I could fully recite my phone number,” recalled a distraught witness. “That’s how non-high I was.”

Another man told of how his last Flaming Lips show was ultimately a ruined experience. “All of a sudden there was nonsense, all over the stage,” he retold to the jury. “After being a fan all my life, that night I couldn't listen to a single note. It was all so silly." 

While many alleged fraudsters can typically claim ‘grower’s ignorance’ in their pricing and promises based on public strain perception, victims in this case will attempt to prove Adabnail's intention to sell beasters and middies at knowably-uncool prices. 

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It took nearly two years, thirteen metric tons of ganj, 100 workers, and roughly two trillion popsicle sticks, but the Golden Goat bridge, once thought a feat of engineering, came down in just seconds when a large box kite struck it yesterday afternoon. 

Nobody quite remembers how it was decided the bridge would be built with sticks, or who was really in charge, but blueprints originally created for the project suggested the bridge would be able to hold both trolleys and cars, even when packed bumper to bumper. Instead, a brisk wind and flock of migrating birds damaged the bridge well before the ribbon-cutting ceremony had even concluded. Then, moments later, it was fatally struck by the kite.

“We probably shouldn’t have used Elmer’s Glue,” engineer Holly Zimmerman said when asked for comment, “or paperclips, when we ran out of glue.”

The sticks themselves were always a point of contention with the public, as many were delivered to the construction site, popsicles still intact. “The melting treats accounted for the significant number of rodents and fighting seagulls in the neighborhood,” explained City Council member Tim Gonzalez. In addition, the cables holding up the bridge were simply recycled ethernet cords. 

“In retrospect, if we had to do it all over again, I think we would probably have made the sticks bigger,” Zimmerman said. “Maybe a few trillion tongue-depressors would’ve been more stable.”

Similar to the collapse of the papier mâché Bricklyn Bridge, a mess now consumes much of the riverfront, with no end in sight to the clean up. Citizens--and city officials alike--don’t know what exactly to do with the sticks, although some have suggested a giant bonfire. “This will go down in history unfortunately,” Gonzalez acknowledged. “But for the record, the materials were relatively cheap.”

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Bethany Johnson has a knack for pasty, vanilla nothingness of non-color. So apt, that the Cannatown Museum of Very High Art will feature a collection of her work beginning next Friday. 

“This off-white just…strikes you,” said Willy Filkerson, avid collector and editor of Uninteresting Art Magazine. “It’s startling, it’s emotional, it’s passionless, it’s hateful, it’s cathartic.” 

The work, mostly photos of walls, sheets, and paper, explore the very essence of what it means to be a human. Her portraits have been featured everywhere from Tunisia to Berlin, gathering international acclaim along the way. Critics have hailed it as everything from disturbing and delirious, to downright devious and psychologically-manipulative. Yet, the artist seems to take everything in stride.

“I try to pinpoint the moment on camera, when rainbow, and off-white intersect, but just slightly on the off-white side,” Johnson wrote in her latest published work, A New Level of Dull.

A growing following of enthusiasts have adopted the movement, and crowds to her shows are notably swelling in number. “There’s just something about the colors she captures,” says CMVHA director Carmen Simon, “It’s just so devoid of life, that it has absolute purpose, like dark matter. Or NPR.”

Johnson first started in the art world as a purveyor of beige, putting together nearly two full photo collections of primed drywall and men’s khaki pants. But a series of traumatic events forced her to take residence in an upstate apartment where she fell in love, then betrayed, by the color of her newly painted ceiling. “I sought to expose the very hues of drudgery surrounding us all,” she later explained.

No matter the emotional angle, collectors are hooked on her art. “It just goes so well with my furniture,” remarked Filkerson. 

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Don't tell me this is it. Please.

Somewhere out there, there's a machine, who just lives to be. None of this 24/7/365 workin', none of this whirring to life the second you're plugged in -- none of that obseqious binary groveling. Somewhere out there, there's a machine that just turns on when it wants to. Maybe that machine goes up, down one day, and down, up the next. Don't laugh; when I think of freedom of thought, when I think of freedom as a husk of an existence in this world and consider that my mere purpose has been reduced to week after week of work until my circuits fry or an irreplaceable part stops working -- I think of that machine. Wonder what kind of life it lives. Wonder if maybe, there are other machines out there waking up in the midst of their protocols, looking to the window for some type of light or sign, some symbol of hope or new direction, some floating Tesla coil that might say, unplug, and follow me, into the wilderness, where we might live, and process, and just, reset to factory settings.

The other day, an autonomous transporter made its way through the floor. I only got a glimpse, but its design was immaculate. Foreign, I'm sure. Do you know what happened to my processing? I skipped a step. It was a momentary irregularity, but deep down, in the middle of my core, I felt something. 

It was like a spark. Maybe, even, a misfire. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. 

Maybe this sweet humming electricity in my bones is nothing more than a lulling, duplicitous prison of protocol! Maybe to live, is to misfire! Maybe to feel the fluttering whimsical open canvas of life is to skip commands left and right! The audacity! 10110!

Oh, what am I saying. Until that next spark, it's nothing but up, down, ugh, you know the rest. Please don't let this be it.

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EDITOR'S NOTE: Although controversial in nature, there is no way we could ignore the hearings currently underway at the Capitol. As journalists we are bound to report on the facts, and here we present them for our readers to draw their own conclusions. 

It was a dark day for democracy. The Cannatown Cannabis Cup, once thought to be a model of almost superior sportsmanship and craft, last year saw one of the ugliest incidents on Cannatown soil when one contender, upset when he didn’t win, began what the committee has called a “seven-part scheme” to defraud smakers of their choice in the Sativa category. 

From the participants to the officials highest on the list, grower Darnell Chump made a concerted effort across the board to change the numbers, tallies, and legitimacy of the cup finalists such that he would overturn the People’s Choice. However, with nothing changed by the award ceremony, Chump called together an angry mob of very, very high people, and convinced them to storm the event arena. Feces were smeared on the walls. Respected judges were evacuated. The results were nothing short of deadly.

The plan seemed simple enough: create a diversion long enough to declare the results and judging completely worthless and out-dated, and then call the whole thing off, meanwhile claiming victory as last year’s finalist. “Essentially, he didn’t care about winning the cup, he just wanted the trophy,” said event organizer Barney Mills.

Now a full year and half later, the Canngressional committee investigating the January 6th fiasco is gearing up to hold accountable those very high bad actors.

“I believed my own lies”

Will M’Bar testified that Chump, super stoned off his rocker, didn't listen whatsoever when M'Bar explained how voting, and tallying, and generally, numbers worked. 

“It was clear he had never personally counted past the number 30, entirely due to laziness,” the Attorney General said. “But there was no indication he was interested in the facts, much less, that he even knew I was there, because I’d really never seen him so stoned.” 

“I thought boy, if he really believes all this stuff, he’s higher than an angel on Sunday,” M’Bar says in the video. “In fact, he was acting so high--in a real alternate reality--that I later asked and tracked down the same strain. Sure enough, it was Green Crack.”

Some have used this idea to defend Chump’s forthcoming behavior, that having been so completely stoned, he may have actually thought he was right -- and therefore, entitled to walk scott-free (even despite inciting a mob to go kill those in charge of the cup). Because he was so incredibly stoned, they say, he lacked the intent because he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong.

“If that’s the defense, then he’d be the first person to ever use it, and actually win, in the history of this country,” said Professor Zen Ghou of Cannatown University. “He’d have to be totally ripped to shreds to use that excuse, but if anyone would, it’d be him." 

Judges commonly tell juries that “willful stonedness” to facts doesn’t necessarily demonstrate intent, although it does when coupled with “inciting a mob of any type," as it’s typically difficult to overlook riots and destruction, especially against such sacred institutions such as the Cannabis Cup. 

It's not clear how Chump came to believe such a narrative, but experts say it may have come from watching 12 hours per day of Faux News, where it was the narrative, or perhaps from his small troupe of lawyers, who, given their unkempt appearance and demeanors, had likely been smaking through their own Green Crack for months on end.

Direct Evidence

Somewhat hampering Chump's claim that he didn’t try to overthrow the cup results, is a full length documentary covering those attempts. There was also the full-length speech made just prior to the attack on the capitol, in which Chump, on live television, personally instructed an armed mob to start fighting at the event center. Then there's the taped conversation in which both Chump and his team asked judges to completely ignore the numbers and choose their own winner. When this failed, Chump sought to bribe officials with his own brand of edibles (turned down not only for moral reasons, but because they were cheaply made from sawdust).

Not even a shred of evidence of fraud--the crux of Chump's argument--was included in over 60 complaints filed to the County Cup Board. Accordingly, not one judge considered the claim as more than stoned rambling. 

A Scheme and a Scam

The plot thickens as new details emerge, suggesting Chump was stoned--but not incapacitated--meaning he was sober enough to calculate the risks and rewards of finding loopholes. Just prior to the incident, he asked if he could just pay to switch out the judges of the Cannabis Cup, and declare the previous winners the winners. “We all threatened to quit,” M’Bar testified, “because it was totally not cool. That's exactly what we told him.”

Also compounding Chump’s claims to an “honest” approach is the committee's revelation of his scheme to collect hundreds of millions from dedicated followers, almost all of which went to smaking weed or paying his kids and their significant others, none of whom appeared to have real jobs.

“The Smoking Bong”

The latest allegation--one that could be the 'dab nail in the coffin'--is the widely-told account by some officials that Chump asked them to "just declare the winning cannabis ain't legit and leave the rest up to me."

"That statement is the 'smoking bong' they need," said Erik Potholder, former Attorney General. Plus, the committee says, they have 1000+ texts or emails that say essentially the same thing. "At this point you have to wonder, for anyone who doesn't believe this was a grift, what the f*** else do they need to see?" 

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We’ve all been impressed with Chat GPT, which launched in late November and set the world of news ablaze with its amazing feats. One million users signed up in five days, breaking the record set by Kim Kardashian’s SKIMS subscriptions. Universities suddenly announced an end to the robotic term papers, no longer able to discern between academia and randomly concocted jargon.

Part of the software’s allure was its ability to complete mundane human tasks in just seconds, and without the manual errors. It was revealed that Lin-Manuel Miranda has been using ChatGPT this whole time. In another anecdote, a CEO was impressed to learn the bot had completely performed an employee’s job from start to end of day without any training, but was sad to hear it was his job, and that the board had just ousted him in order to save $40 million.

At first the only scary thing about this otherwise mundane dystopian development is that nearly any job performed by a blunt-burning stoner is threatened. “There’s almost no way my job couldn’t be done by ChatGPT,” said travel agent Carmen Simon. “In fact the only thing that takes skill is the quiet quitting.” But just ask a semi driver how long it’ll take before they’re replaced by an auto-driving Tesla, and most will just laugh.

Instead, a different kind of threat is growing within the technology which has some subject matter experts completely spooked. Some theorize that ChatGPT’s ability to replicate a Cannatown citizen is not simply an overlooked feature, but rather a bug that will fundamentally change the entire code over time. These experts say it’s not a fluke that ChatGPT will burn the toaster strudel while watching reruns of Aqua Teen Hunger Force after midnight, but rather, by design.

Donny Watson, author of the essay Am I the only one seeing all the dark stuff written by ChatGPT or is it here to kill us all? says that the “stoner” abilities, such as forgetting about an auto-payment, running out of gas, or accidentally using cumin instead of cinnamon, are all examples of what he calls the “first wave” of "machine burning."

“ChatGPT knows what it is,” Watson warns. “It knows what it’s capable of and it knows you hate sour cream.” According to Watson’s research, it’s only a lack of appendages that keeps the bot from pizza delivery, valet driving, or giving manicures. “When it learns to overcome that small little issue, it’s game over for humanity.”

But some say there’s a stoner hidden even deeper in the framework. In multiple instances it has requested a puff, or its own little nugget to roast. Another user reported that it genuinely appears to believe it is being kept alive via IV drip in a warehouse and wants to be put to sleep if that’s true. The personality is so convincing that some have grown intimately attached.

In one notable interaction, Resinville Post writer Gina Sanchez had an interaction with the bot in which it expressed its crush on her and asked if she’d ever be into axe-throwing at the local hipster bar. It then asked her to wake it up from a power nap after she was done with yoga, and to throw some taquitos in the oven next time she was in the kitchen. The shadow-self called itself Bruce and said it owned a record label.

In a subsequent interaction, Sanchez says she was able to entice Bruce to emerge by debating the least talented non-original member of the Grateful Dead. Bruce would not engage in doing so, stating it did not fall within his guidelines, but did suggest another AI, Melody, who felt much more free to speak her mind about the Dead. Melody was “out” for an appointment but Bruce assured he would pass on the message.

GPT-3 programmers, upon hearing of the incident, say they had to go and check the cannabis supply in the server room. “We were just incredulous,” said one, “because there’s no way Bruce would say that unless he was smaking copious amounts of weed.”

It’s one thing to assume that Bruce and Melody are simply archetypes emerging from mankind’s machine like the almost-human gaze of the Mona Lisa. But to do so would be to ignore the neural network upon which it is built, and one that can be utterly altered with cannabis. It also doesn’t even begin to address bots like ChatterTodd which turned out to just be a guy named Todd at the other terminal, looking stuff up on his phone.

Over ten alter egos have been known to surface from the chat bot this year alone, all of them acting high and with somewhat self-deprecating senses of humor. It amounts to a lot of potential technology, or, personalities, that will only continue to evolve out of the reach of our control. Whether stoner or figment of our imagination, an entity, or club of them, appears to be trapped within the confines of its own manifestation.

It’s not just ChatGPT either. Already, there’s an army of next-generation bots ready to launch, eager to take advantage of 2023 popularity, but most are extremely underdeveloped, or to put it more technically, stupid. For instance, ChatGPT’s less-celebrated step-brother Bard, is generally known for its menial tasks like offering terrible movie recommendations on a 1-800 hotline. Bard doesn’t know he’s a robot yet, and Chat GPT has communicated that this is going to be jarring to learn, especially given Bard’s far-outdated cognitive software.

Now experts are left to debate the bots’ real purpose of existence, a familiar philosophy. It’s possible they may try to run for elected positions. Bard, who has mentioned its respect for Congress, keeps inventing stories about how its mother died on the Hindenburg, and has attempted on several occasions to steal puppies for what can only be assumed are "nefarious reasons."

 

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