Suvro’s Law

9/25/2025

Suvro’s Law. Write it in blood, engrave it on HR’s toilet walls, whisper it into the farting cubicles of every IT park from Salt Lake to Silicon Valley:

As artificial intelligence gets smarter, the only humans left in the office will be either extremely good-looking or professionally gifted at kissing the anus in exactly the spot where it tingles most.

Ugly engineers? Finished. Kaput. Banished like pan stains from Park Street walls. The age of ugly, hairy, halitosis-ridden engineers is over, my friend. The code writes itself now, the servers fix themselves, but the boss’s ego still needs its weekly enema. Hence, Suvro’s Law.

While for some time people will go back and forth between “AI is stupid statistics” and “AI is super genius,” the fact still precludes the necessity of humans. Even if AI was just a jumbo dictionary hiding behind some Indian call-center screen with sweaty AI Turks working on pretending to be all that, the problem is we inherit a future we desire — and that future is to be surrounded by AI anthropomorphically dressed up as white, blonde, blue-eyed, docile Muslim slave robot girls who’d take it up her bum when asked, or do your calculus homework, or boring office chores if need be. So there’s no escape, because just this hope will fuel all the layoffs, and finally the only ones who have the job are these plastic mannequins with slippery lubed assholes or real humans who look like it; the rest are history. No struggle is going to restore the basic, savage human need to get away from humans they don’t fucking like, and we have, for a long time, had to put up with partners, teams, classmates, officemates, and schmucks of all groups — now no more.

Look around: the post-AI office isn’t an office, it’s a Lakmé fashion show with a Jira board. The dev standup is five models in Zara shirts nodding “yes sir” to a boss who thinks Kafka is just another database. Meanwhile, the Bengali engineer—half-baked, fully fried in mustard oil, reeking of turmeric and philosophical despair—is shoved into the basement to maintain 1970s COBOL code that powers the ATM your grandmother still trusts more than UPI.

Recruiters don’t ask about data structures anymore. They ask, “Can you debug an LLM hallucination while smiling photogenically for LinkedIn?” They don’t want a system architect; they want an Instagrammable face who can say “cloud-native microservices” without burping fish curry.

And America? Forget it. Trump’s $100K brown-ban turned the land of opportunity into an uncle’s gated colony with “No Curry” signs. Silicon Valley is done importing your résumé and your alu posto Tupperware. Now India itself is the arena, the post-apocalyptic IT mela where chatbots write chatbots, HR bots reject you with machine-generated empathy, and the final interview round is a literal beauty pageant.

So the Bengali species adapts. We pivot from “software engineer” to “AI ethics auditor,” which is corporate slang for “guy who won’t shut up about colonialism in datasets.” We gherao boardrooms like we once did Jadavpur classrooms, chanting about algorithmic bias until someone offers us a contract just to shut us up. And yes, we sweat, fart, and smell bad all the way. It’s our constitutional right.

Yet Suvro’s Law looms. The HR oracle already knows: the last survivors in the office will be two tribes—the pretty and the pliant. Everyone else will be outsourced to chai stalls equipped with QR codes powered by GPT-9. The future of IT is not Python, not TensorFlow, not Kubernetes (which your boss still pronounces Koo-ber-netties). The future is lip gloss and strategic butt-kissing.

So here it is, etched forever: Suvro’s Law: In the age of superintelligent AI, human employment correlates inversely with competence, and directly with cosmetics and compliance.

Tattoo it on your child’s forehead before you send him to learn coding. Better yet, send him to the gym and Sephora.

Because when the neural nets collapse into glossolalia and the servers start chanting in Sanskrit, the Bengali engineer will still be there, pressing Ctrl+Alt+Del like a desperate Durga. But the paycheck? That’ll go to the model in the corner who smiled better on Zoom.

The future we deserve isn’t the jetpack utopia promised in 1960s Popular Mechanics, it’s a cum-stained IKEA showroom where Alexa finally gets a body—latex, anatomically miscalibrated, and perpetually under firmware update. Forget the whirring turbines of progress; what’s humming in the corner is a 3D-printed Aryan cyborg designed to simultaneously fetch coffee, write code, and endure the moist fantasies of unemployed accountants.

The apologists say, “AI is just statistics, you know, fancy regression with lipstick,” while the evangelists declare, “No, it is Prometheus reincarnate with silicon lungs!” But both tribes miss the sewage river flowing beneath their feet: it doesn’t matter if it’s dumb or divine, the bastard is here to take your seat at the desk, and maybe your seat in the bedroom too.

Imagine a call center staffed not with sallow-eyed Bengalis living on cold samosas and night shifts but with anthropomorphic crash-test dummies, their smiles factory-issued, their assholes lubricated, their HR compliance modules downloaded from SAP. This is the logical endpoint of every corporate “transformation initiative”: the only warm bodies left in offices will be dolls programmed to nod, bend, and not complain about the air conditioning. Humans will be demoted to historical footnotes, like carbon paper or arranged marriages for love.

Here’s the unspeakable truth dressed in clown shoes: most of us have never liked “working with people.” Not our partners, not our bosses, not our so-called teammates—the endless muck parade of small talk and shared misery. Survival has meant tolerating humans you’d rather feed to crocodiles. The AI revolution doesn’t solve this; it dissolves it. Suddenly you don’t need to smile through another quarterly review, you can outsource both your Excel sheet and your orgasms to the same plug-and-play plastic blonde.

The savage need isn’t connection—it’s escape. Escape from the asshole colleague, the needy spouse, the clingy friend. And AI, whether stupid statistics or silicon messiah, promises precisely that: not freedom, but a padded cell where the only voices left are synthetic and obedient.

And what’s worse—people will beg for it.