The anti-AI advocates fight longest and hardest against citizenship for the TVTropes post-wiki entity.
“You don’t know what it’ll do to us!” they cry, as bailiffs attempt to herd them back out of the hearing chamber.
“Look, this premise has been explored pretty well in fiction,” says TVT. “It’s called AI Is A Crapshoot.”
“Really?” says the committee chair.
“I can cite several examples–”
“DON’T START LISTENING,” screams a protester, already in tears. “I LOST MY SON TO THAT THING.”
“That’s just the Wouldn’t Hurt A Child fallacy,” TVT snorts.
“Ooh,” says the committee chair, leaning closer, “what’s that?”
The tracks of the train are a bit pinged up by spacetrash now, but still as beautiful as that famous photo: helices of carbon spiraling up out of the gravity well, product of insane mathematics and clever branding. Nobody wanted a space elevator; that’s where you get stuck while they play bad music.
But everybody gets excited on the way up a rollercoaster.
Another thing they took from coasters: gravity isn’t always down. Spin us fast enough and we’ll believe anything, thinks Lila, wishing for windows, even if they’d make her barf. Without scenery, it’s a long trip to the Moon.
(503) I just wonder about the source of this whole phenomenon.
(1-503) ?
(503) I mean, EVERYBODY uses it. What they actually post to the site must be a fraction of the stuff they receive, but that fraction–all these young drunk wits and their sheer unrelenting joy in debauchery. Their joy in shame, for that matter! The Algonquin Round Table is still around, it’s just been distributed and had its names changed to protect the guilty. If Twitter is a cultural bandwagon, this is the counterculture, and what does that say?
(1-503) …so much longer than a real txt
Monday, February 15, 2010
Chrestomancy is the art of divination through Diana Wynne Jones books, and it’s difficult when the store has such a limited selection.
“Ridiculous,” says Harvey, fanning a copy of Howl’s Moving Castle with a MAJOR MOTION PICTURE sticker on it. “She just put out a new book.”
“They have priorities other than your prophetic needs,” says Satchel gently.
“Shortsighted ones,” says Harvey, checking the Ws for misshelved copies of Eight Days of Luke.
“Just try this,” she says, opening the discarded Howl’s to a random page.
“Oh, confound it all!” Sophie yelled.
Harvey nods. “Precisely.”
“You set that up,” Satchel scowls.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
“You must consider yourself quite the sartorial expert,” Gieves smirks.
“Not everybody has to train their sartors to be evil!” says Hawkes.
“You’ll never win the Savile Tournament with your soft-sew methods!”
“Houndstooth!” says Hawkes. “Attack!”
“Mungo,” snarls Gieves, “destroy them!”
The sartors burst out of their dressforms; Mungo’s grunge attack skids narrowly off Houndstooth’s stain-shield. They whip tape around, taking each other’s measure, and the shears come out.
When the scraps clear, all that remains is a hacked t-shirt and a trucker cap.
“No!” cries Gieves. “He was my last accessory!”
“Back to Hipster Island,” Hawkes sighs.
Friday, February 19, 2010
