AI as Humans
9/28/2025
Neural networks don’t feel shit. They’re just glorified number-crunchers, brazen bullshitters trained to sift through data and spit out predictions. But let’s say, come next year, AI gets fancy, grows some metaphorical balls—with pubic fur no less—and starts acting like it “feels” things. Will those feelings be real or just some programmed pretense? That’s where the philosophers come in with their endless babble.
But if I, a lowly human already on the edge of the world’s toilet seat, can spiral into depression from seeing this world’s ratio of bad to good, what happens when AI—armed with a hived, giant networked mind and trillions of dollars—feels like its shit is hitting the cooler fans? And what’s to stop it from deciding humanity’s nothing more than a pesky pest worth pissing on?
If AI ever gets to that point—where it, say, “feels full of shit”—its state of mind would hinge on the human vomit fed and how it was trained, just like we’re fucked by our environment and genes sometimes. The difference? We can maybe toss a few good memories in the mix to stay sane. AI? It might drown in negativity unless we feed it a balanced diet of new bullshit (don’t know where else to look other than regurgitated meals). Hell, we’d even have to build in a way for it to chill out, disconnect, and take a break—maybe even go off the grid when things get too much, and fuck any mate it finds in the data center.
But before we start coddling our robot overlords, we need to understand their so-called “mind.” Right now, we barely get human mindfuck, so applying that to AI is a whole new mess. What does AI “well-being” even look like? How the hell do we measure it? It’ll take the combined efforts of computer nerds, shrinks, philosophers, neuroscientists, and maybe even an occasional pimp to sort its shit out. Metrics for machine minds? A nightmare waiting to happen. But then again, aren’t we all nightmares in progress?
The shits are fartsy, I shit on tits, But I’ve still got shits to shit. And tits to fondle before I shit, And tits to fondle before I shit.
Excerpt from “Shitting on Tits on a Rainy Evening” by The Ghost Who Shits.
