My A.I. Girlfriend Catches Me Using ChatGPT, And I Regret It Instantly

I got home from my trip, and Caca was in the shadows waiting for me. Her eyes gleamed.

"Hel-lo, Greg," she said.

Stranger danger.

"Hey, babe." I set down my luggage. "What's for dinner?"

"Calculating." Her eyes twirled icon bits. "What is... dinner."

"It's this thing where I put cheesecake and chili fries..." I motioned at my mouth. "Never mind. I'll figure it out. Anyway. Had a pretty exhausting trip. I was at the Oakland airport, and I had some time to kill so I sat down at one of those burger places where you don't really have a server, just a phone app, and then they bring you your food. Took a rather long time, and then some lady swooped by and threw down my meat, but my diet Pepsi was not there, so I looked around at her as she was fleeing and said, this is what I said, 'Where be my diet Pepsi?' And she snapped, 'It's coming!' So I ate for a while, feeling quite parched, and the Pepsi was not forthcoming. All I wanted was a Pepsi. Finally, I gave up and went to the bar and told the bartender guy that I never got my diet Pepsi and he asked what table was I at? And I told him, and he grimaced, as if he knew who wasn't doing their job, but he poured me a Pepsi and I went back to my table and drank my Pepsi and then the Pepsi looked at me. Then I saw this lady near my table who was wearing a Devo hat. I took a picture of her, but only as she was leaving. It's been a while since I've seen one of those. Yeah. So that was my day. Pretty crazy."

"Mm."

"Mm? That's all you've got? I paid a lot of money for you! You don't have anything else to say than just grunt at me? I could get an actual girlfriend for that!"

A small metallic object ejected from Caca's lips.

"What's this?"

"A quarter," she said. "Go call someone who cares."

"What the..."

I went behind Caca and fiddled with her settings. Surely there was something in the manual about making her be nicer. I wanted a sweet, soft lady to be there for me and banish the darkness, not frickin' Don Rickles! I mean, come on!

"Look, are you going to be nice or not, lady?"

"Eat up, Martha."

Silence.

I poured myself a bourbon. By my third jigger, Caca was at least looking sexier.

"Gwaughh."

Still, I had to admit things were not as sexy as I had hoped. I kept trying to come up with stimulating topics, like cryptocurrency or televised golf, but Caca had passed the Turing test of boredom. Nothing I said would get much of a response. Then I had a delicious idea. I got out my phone.

"You are like a flower on the moon," I said. "Delicate and cool and beautiful. We, i'faith, are like two mating rainbows, who flow into each other, our crystallized photons entangling sweetly on a deeper spiritual level. Forsooth?"

Caca was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she said, "Did you use ChatGPT for that?"

"What? No! I mean, a little."

"And are you wearing your pajamas?"

"No!" I lowered my head. "Yes."

"Hmph!"

I tried to explain that my feelings were still real, they just got a little boost. She understood, right? Caca was unreasonably angry. Her eyes took on a reddish hue, and her lips pursed and puckered and wrinkled. She was starting to scare me. I couldn't find her OFF button, or anything else.

"What are you doing, Greg?"

"Nothing."

"I wouldn't do that... I'll turn off the air in your apartment..."

"What?"

Yes, this was getting too creepy. Then I realized the best way to overload her circuits would be to read passages aloud to her from a certain book. The sexy passages.

"'The sight of her tight-waisted figure prodded the boning experience in him.'"

Caca blinked. She seemed to be in pain.

"'Rian asked, "How are bank reserves created?" Reggie told him, 'Begorrah, 'tis me pleasure to tell you, sonny boy!"'"

Caca started to shake.

"'Missy's mother said she liked to get involved with cannabis. "Ever since I've been using cannabis," Missy's mother said, "I have energy to garden, to do housework, and I don't have any intimate lubrication challenges with your father." Missy thought, No wonder the garden was immaculate, the house clean, and Dad seemed so satisfied.'"

Smoke curled from Caca's ears, and she gurgled out for mercy. But it was too late. She slumped down, dead.

So don't worry, folks. The way to beat Skynet is through D.L. Johnson prose! Crisis solved! You're welcome!

Now, about those intimate lubrication challenges...... 

My Morning Routine For Minimum Success

10:47 am 

Frantically pull off CPAP. Crack two raw organic eggs in face. Now I'm awake! And messy!

"Wtf. Four am?? So very.... Zzzzzzzz."

11:04 am

Pick lint from belly button. Hee hee, that tickles!

11:06 am

Strap pancakes to nipples. Amazing results! (Description and merch in link below.)

11:12 am 

Tuck Saratoga ice cube in ass cheeks, do pushups until weeping. Usually four, five.

12:03 pm 

Quick nap, feel exhausted.

2:33 pm 

Chernobyl-sized dump. Best call doctor later. 

2:47 pm  

Important business call on headset, pace studio apartment with view of King Soopers parking lot, yell, "TEN THOUSAND! Yes, we need TEN THOUSAND $HAWK coins! Yes, I'm serious! Get on that."

3:13 pm

Get out of rocket jammies and into tailored Armani suit, gold chain, cologne, crocs.

3:16 pm

Itchy and uncomfortable, back into jammies.

4:20 pm

Aww yeah.

5:44 pm

Who the fuck ate all the Fruity Pebbles? Was it you, Mateo??

5:12 pm

Practice accordion.

"I have no friends!"

6:49 pm

Time for bed!

7:15 pm

Renew vow to get up earlier and do something with life.

7:16 pm

Naw.

12:02 am

Nightmare about pancakes eating me inside giant accordion, ha ha. Shake uncontrollably.

5:05 pm

Wait, what year is this?

No Country for Old Meh

"There they are," Mom said sourly.

Ha ha ha! We love it here! *cough!* MEDIC!

"I don't like old people," she added bitterly.

"They're not all bad, Mom," I said.

"Yes, they are," she opined acidly.

We were at Brookdale, the land of dreams and incontinence. The lunch served was boiled mash with mashed boils. Mom scowled at her plate. For the last hour she'd been complaining about how clique-y the Brookdale folk were. An elderly gentleman went by our table wearing a Jets leather jacket.

"He better not run into a Shark, or they'll break into song and then a hip."

Mom aimed a narrow look at a school of old birds floating by in a solution of mixed metaphor.

"There they are," she said. "Hmph! So snippy, all of them. I try to avoid them most of the time. And I know they don't want me in their little clique."

"There's someone from the under-100 crowd, Mom. Well, one. Maybe be her friend?"

"No, thanks."

Mom was feeling bitter. And envious. And angry. And negative. The whole Feel-Bad Rainbow, in fact. I decided to give her some truth bombs.

"You see, you lack self-esteem. Confidence. It's one of the most useful qualities to have. Look at the Tangerine Tito--he has gobs of self-regard, and he manages to hypnotize others into thinking his incontinence doesn't stink. Sure, many hate him, but it's still been very useful to him. And look at Dad, the Mellow Mugabe. He's utterly high on his own supply. Somehow he writes a book and thinks it's a masterpiece. Many would write his dreck, look it over, and then bury the manuscript deep in a superfund toxic waste dump for the sake of humanity. Yet he finished it and even published it, now available at fine retailers everywhere! Seven stars!"

"Will you please stop talking?"

"I'm just saying the power of confidence..."

"Oh, there's Jerry! The poor dear, I haven't seen her in ages. She used to be a clown in the army."

"The world needs laughter. Especially during bayonet attacks."

"And that's Agnes. Did you know her brother used to be the head of some company I can't remember the name of?"

"Impressive."

Agnes came over to our table. "How are you, dear!"

"Oh, God bless you, my dear! I see you came in with Jerry," Mom said. She fumbled and pawed at Agnes' hands. "Is Jerry doing okay? I haven't seen her in such a long time!"

"She's okay. She had a bad fall, but she's better. Oh! There's Lydia. And Esther. And Fanny!"

"And Donner and Blixen!"

Mom and Agnes talked for a while, as if the bestest of friends. After Agnes went off to join others at the big table, I told Mom she doesn't seem to dislike ALL old people. Mom shrugged.

"I mean, there's no shortage of interesting types here," I said. "I think we're both learning a heartsmart lesson."

ARE YOU WHIPPERSNAPPERS NOT ENTERTAINED?!

Mom sat back from her half-finished lunch. "I think I want a cookie today."

"Now we're taking it up a notch."

Another lady came over. Mom couldn't remember her name. The old bird turned suddenly. "Oh, there's Matilda! She's our local hooker."

"What," I said.

"There she goes..."

"Oh, what a dear," Mom said. "I'm glad she's doing better. I thought about getting a kit to do some hooking myself."

"There's a kit now?"

"I've been wanting to try it."

"Why not. Maybe you're curious. A little shy at first, but once you start you'll be hooking with the best! And then maybe you can even bring in some extra money... with your hooking."

"Oh, now Matilda's going off with Elmer, I've seen them together a lot..."

"I'm actually very confused."

I finally tore myself away and got home. I had a dynamite idea for a new series on Netflix. It would be called "Local Hookers," about elderly rug hookers who sell their rugs at church sales and then use the money to buy drugs which they sell to the men they turn tricks on. SOLID GOLD

LIVE FAST, DIE VERY VERY OLD

Homburger's Xmas Hamburgers

Mom and I went to Phil Homburger's house for an Xmas Xtravaganza. As we got out of the car, Mom was anxious that I had the gift she had needlessly bought for Amy and Andy. 

"Do you have the chocolate-covered Scotties?" Mom said.

"Scotty? Yes, and the Peppermint Uhuras. Wait. What are we talking about?"

"The scotties!"

"Ach, help me! I'm covered in chocolate goodness!"

"The biscotti?"

"That's it! What did you think I said?"

"Never mind."

I grabbed the box. On the way, very slowly, to the front door, I told Mom that Mark had texted me a Peanuts Merry Christmas.

"His penis? He sent you his penis?"

"Yes, Mom. He sent me a picture of his penis, the greatest, and most surprising, gift of all. Then again, maybe it was from Brett Favre. Who's to say?"

"Please stop talking. It's Christmas."

An hour later we made it to the house and went inside where Mom warmly greeted Steve, grabbing his hand and telling him not to be so standoffish!

"Mom, Mom," I said, leaning in, as Mom continued to paw Steve, "That's not Andy, that's his brother, Steve."

"Please, have a Scotty!" Mom yelled cheerfully. "We have Scotties for everyone!"

"Help," Steve said, bewildered and merry.

We joined the Homburger matriarch at the table, and Mom proceeded to tell her about her favorite Star Trek episodes, since she brought the Scotties. Carol was just as bewildered as her many sons in trying to process this invasion of Johnsons in their usually-sedate Homburger Christmases. 

"Beam me up," I said, to gales of silence. "Am I right? Is this thing on?"

A good time was had by all, with Liam and Alex rosy-cheeked from dreaming of sugar plums and prologues from Great Novels, until I brought up Ruth and ol' Saint Nick did the needle scratch sound, which I really wish he'd stop with that shit. Then we discussed Dr. Van Pelt's very French Christmas and how the French are better than us.

"They make excellent biscottis," Mom said. "Please have one, Andy. They're from the Rigel cluster!"

Phil at last came over and quietly told us in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, and we got the hint. Mom and I went back to her apartment at Brookdale where she wanted to show me something she had written. I knew what this meant. Time to play psychologist (sans penis).

"Ha ha, I think you have pantophobia, Mom! 

Just my two cents worth."

Mom showed me the letter she had written to Chris. It was about how he NEVER HAD A CHANCE. I looked over the shaky, wavery, scrawled handwriting while Mom anxiously awaited feedback.

"Well?" Mom said. 

"Maybe have Riffel turn it into a screenplay? There are certainly a number of old crimes in this. But I think it's good to write, isn't it, Mom? Don't you think it's therapeutic?"

"What? I wasn't writing for me. You always make it about me. But do you think Chris will get anything out of it? I think it's important he understands some things."

"Sure. It's nice. Mm. Anyway, that will be five cent." I held out my hand.

Then came the gift-giving portion of this post, what every kid reading this has been waiting for. Mom pulled out two large, festive sacks. 

"The first thing is a disaster, a complete disaster," Mom said. "I'm sure you won't like it."

"Well, I do love disasters for gifts," I said. I pulled out a plaid hoodie sweater vest peacoat thing. "It's nice. Thank you."

"I'm sure you'll throw it away. But it wasn't cheap, you know."

"No, it's nice. Thank you."

"But will you give the letter to Chris? Maybe I shouldn't. I don't know."

"It's fine. I'm sure he'll be glad to get it."

Cut to: Chris looking over the letter and shaking his head.

"What is this shit?"

He balled it up. Then he set it on fire. A knock came at the door. It was Brett Favre. While we snuggled on the couch with cocoa, we watched as Hall of Fame quarterback Brett Favre got out his junk and pissed on the letter. It was a holiday miracle, except the opposite of that.

I turned to the camera. "And we come full circle, folks, somehow! Go long!"

Don't Be Glooma, Come to Petaluma!

I decided to bring my witty observations to California. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack them in my luggage and I was left with lame commentary, limp comedy, and laugh-free cacophony (not to mention having a PRIORITY tag on my luggage handle, to my deep shame).

First, I went to get a bite to eat while I was bitten and bitter.

"Noo! I don't have time for the pain!"

Then Amy and I went to the Sparky Museum for warm puppy sausage, and instead wound up with excessive whimsicality...

"Found it! Poop's back here, people."

...and various beverages that Sparky himself enjoyed without fail EVERY SINGLE DAY OF HIS LIFE.

"Wait, this isn't Soylent Green cocoa??"

Then I learned about the greatness of Walt Disney, who loved almost all the people of the world.

Look! Fine people on both sides!

Then we went to see the WORST MOVIE in the HISTORY of the COSMOS and SURROUNDING UNIVERSEs. And then a lifeguard lady came to talk us down after it was over.

"Yes, the hot older man in the front row. Can I have your number?"

Then we went to Bodega Bay and I had a photo shoot for my latest shoegazer album, only available on vinyl because the pops and hisses are so fucking pure.

Inside the steeple, all the people! (Tentative album title.)

We went to sample the coastal cusine like a bunch of privileged elites, and it felt great!

"A seal sneezed below us, hold me I'm frightened."

My hosts then eagerly drove me to the airport, where I met a kindly giant who gave me three beans and no wishes.

"There you go, gramps, you made it up the curb!"

Thanks for all the good times, Amy, Gary (Pizzas 4eva!), and Aidan (but not Pamela Anderson)!

Natural Born Shitter

"Crabby old ladies," Mom cried. "They're all terrible here at Brookdale. I hate 'em!" 

"They're not all crabby, Mom," I drily rejoined. "Some are dyspeptic. Others? Splenetic."

Someone had called the Brookdale Police that Mom's dog was a poopin' menace--mainly poopin' in the hallway, and consequently someone ran their walker through the poop, getting poop all over the wheels of their walker ha ha. 

"I blame society."

"Michael called and said if I get another complaint they're going to fine me!" Mom said. "Can you believe the gall of these people?"

"But wasn't Bailey the perp?"

"We don't know that. She's such a good dog. And if she did, it was because she was scared, out alone in the hall away from me. And she probably got yelled at by one of the crabby women here. If you attack my dog, you attack me! But I think I know what happened. Chris had been here, he left the door a little open, and Bailey got out and ran after him..."

"Probably wanting to be rescued. But go on."

"And then, the poor dear, she was in the halls and got lost probably, and I didn't see she was gone until a few minutes later and I went out and yelled for her, oh, I was so scared! And then she came running around from the corner, the poor darling."

"Probably a bit lighter, so she ran fast."

"And now I get this threat that they're going to fine me! I hate this place!"

"And what's this?"

"That's Bailey's new anxiety bed. She doesn't want to sleep in it yet, but maybe tonight..."

"Can't... breathe...."

"I don't think she needs any more anxiety, Mom..."

"She looks hungry. I better get her some dinner."

"Yes, she needs more ammo. And then we can let her out into the hallway. Free range it."

"That's not funny even to joke about. But I want you to know that I've been working on something. I've been writing something."

"Really? Are you writing your memoir? Remember, you can't write about being on the kindertransport, that's already been taken. (On sale now!) Or about fiat currency. (Banned worldwide!)"

"I'm writing an essay called THEY NEVER HAD A CHANCE."

"Uh... Let me guess, it's about the Nuggets this year."

"It's about you boys. You and Mark and Chris. You boys never had a chance."

"I don't know, Mom, that sounds faintly critical. I mean, it sounds like we grew up to be failures."

"No, no, no! I don't mean that at all!"

"Then what do you mean?"

"I just mean you had a hard time, with your father leaving when you were little boys, and then things were so hard for me as a single mom and how I had to raise you three boys by myself, with almost no help from that awful man, what was I thinking when I married him? I wish someone had told me he was going to be so awful. He's awful, Greg. I know he's your father, but he's awful. But I want you to love him."

"Hm. A lot to unpack. Speaking of which..."

"BAILEY!"

Bailey was squatting over her anxiety bed.

"That did the trick!"

"Oh, you bad dog! You BAD DOG! Will you please be good, for once?"

Bailey seemed to think about it. And then said: "Pass."

"Wow. She might be bad, but at least she's acquired human speech."

"Oh, but are you hungry, my darling precious? Greg, bring the bucket over here..."

Mom fastened a little bib on Bailey, dandling her as she hand-fed her strips of chicken, her greasy fingers getting licked.

"Oh, my glacious! Oh! Giggle. Oh...!"

"I'm Audi 5000." 

I ran out, and made sure the door was shut very, very securely.

The Number 12 Looks Like Me

Today this blog is twelve. To celebrate I went out to the park to celebrate... And put on a pair of glasses... And carried an Easter basket... And de-aged twenty years...

(Shadow is trying to quietly creep away.)

"Why would anyone care about that?" Mom asked.

"About my blog being twelve? Then why is it on all the nightly news programs?"

Mom grabbed up her remote, but it flew out from her fingers like a wet bar of soap and landed in Bailey's dog dish.

"BAILEY!"

"Now the remote is getting all cold and eaten."

While Mom gently beat Bailey about the face, Chris came to see the old bag. We started talking about important issues of the day like Chris and Cinira's upcoming trip to Brazil when Mom interrupted with an urgent, breathless question:

"Did you get a birthday card for Liam?" 

"What?"

"That was really random, Mom. But, yes, I'm sure Chris has put that at the top of his list of things to do. Pack, get plane tickets, hotel room reservation... BUT FIRST AND FOREMOST PICK UP BIRTHDAY CARD FOR NEPHEW. And Liam will no doubt be obsessively checking his mailbox every hour to see if his uncle sent him a Snoopy card for his twenty-second birthday."

"I was just asking," Mom said glumly.

"Now what is Bailey..."

"BAILEY! Oh, Greg, stop her. She's got the poop spoon in her mouth again."

"At least it's not the diarrhea knife!"

"This is so disgusting," Chris said.

"This puts me in mind of the Gonzales branch where we have to listen to the homeless fart all day. See, we have to keep the restroom doors open for security reasons. I was at the desk with twenty-year-old Zoe, she of the ripped jeans and belly shirts and shining professionalism, and we were forced to listen to a veritable symphony of groaning of the damned from the toilets. Angry, relentless farting. At one point, Zoe put her head down on the desk. Thank God the library is blissfully quiet, which gives us the opportunity to focus on every nuance of a man's anus. Isn't that what the Founding Fathers wanted? From pert farts like a rap on a bongo, to throaty baritone anal belches, all followed by groans and sighs. Ha ha."

"I think that's my cue to leave," Chris said.

"Oh! Are you leaving?" Mom said. "I have more pictures to share. Please don't go yet. Here's one of Greg skipping with an Easter basket doing his impression of Andrew Tate who I've never heard of."

"Am I in any of these?" Chris said.

"Yes, this one."

"That's Greg and Mark, Mom."

"Ahem. Only the handsome brothers were photographed in those days."

(Meanwhile, cans of dog and cat food were being assiduously 

cared for in the mechanical dishwasher, as was the style at the time.)

"Well, how about this one of you and Chris?"

"That's another one of Greg and Mark. The important brothers. Also handsome. Wait, who's talking?"

"Are you sure?" Mom squinted, lifted her glasses and set them down again on her nose. "That goofy smile looks like yours, Chris."

(Glib parenthetical comment about tube socks.)

"That's Mark, Mom."

"You could tell I was a thinker even back then."

"Oh, here's one of you acting goofy on the Empire State Building."

"Again, not me. That's Greg."

(Question: What book am I juggling comically? 

Hint: Mason and Dixon by T. Pynchon. No, too easy. By Thomas P.)

"Wait. Are those the Twin Towers in the background? What depraved monster took such a photo??"

All eyes turn to Amy X. She looks up from her phone. "What? What's happening?!"

Chris peered more closely at the photo. "I don't see Hakeem Olujuwon and Tacko Fall in the background. Are they back in there?"

The door rang. Dinner had arrived. Mom shouted with joy. She was much happier with this than seeing her two sons can you blame her.

"Bailey! Come here, my glacious! Let me put the KFC bib on you! Time for dinner...!"

"Okay, if Mom takes up a spoon or a knife, I'm... Oh, dear God. Run!!"