Chat Time With a Bot

Make happy reading time by enjoying some Markov chain spam I received.

This one even got through a corporate gmail account, which is pretty rare these days. I’ve noticed that, while Markov chain generators are certainly still apparently the most popular method of constructing spam sentences today (the receipt of this email unfortunately spawned a long weekend of research on the matter), it does seem to have constants that are added, or perhaps some methods determine one or two pre-written coherent messages to be thrown in. Repetition kills spam deliverability the fastest, so a programmer including any pre-defined, static content in the message is taking a big risk of it being flagged. I think.

I’m going to pretend it’s an actual correspondance with a human. Why? Because the Netflix instant play is being weird at the moment, and I can’t quite bring myself to go to bed.

My netflix homepage

An aside: The Netflix recommendation algorithm seems to think I’m a sort of…self-important, avant-garde composer/artist type; the kind that writes a cheeky blog and keeps Heironymous Bosch prints in his bedroom, madly typing frivolous prose into the twilight hours, convinced he can make a great contribution to the arts, if only his mind wouldn’t devour itself with inane trivia before the larger theorums can manifest, his bodily body congealing into a smushy, hairy prison of hair just a bit more each year. But I’m only like 30% that stuff, so the algorithm can go fuck itself.

Disclaimer:
I just had a Wonka bar and some coffee. I’m also thinking about eating some Cheez-its at some point pretty soon, so you should probably stop reading now. Ok but seriously though. This is a writing exercise to keep my hands busy.

The spam is in bold type, my responses are in normal type.

Chat Time With a Bot - ra

Your photos on your page are really great looking of you you look HOTT

I make it a point not to look HOTT in any picture, no matter how many T’s you throw at me.

Let me share some of mine with you, just go on MSNMessengor
My names madison19vamo@hotmail.com add and send me a message there
because I dont use email that much

Ok great, I will totally do that right now. Please also accept my social security number as a token of our friendship.
I also noticed the typo in ‘MSN Messenger’ which is as good as a DNA sample, I say. You are surely human. I will lower my guard. Forgive me, as you can never be too careful these days.

I’ll be on all day, thanks and looking forward to meeting you
xoxo madison

Also here is The Tax Poem

Ah, thanks. You are providing this at my request, apparently, so thank you. Fulfilling requests is very human of you.

At first I thought this was funny……then I realized the awful truth of it..

Yeah, like how we’ve got machines that do nothing but churn out endless terabytes of drivel into an endless void of binary data.

except what they borrow from the deformities or ill qualities of

I think you might have deleted a part of your sentence by mistake. But it sounds pretty serious, Madison.

Be sure to read all the way to the end.

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table
At which he’s fed.

STILL THINK THIS IS
FUNNY?

You haven’t established a base-line with me, so your deductions of what I find humorous are irrelevant.

They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! What good are peasants

I can’t believe I’m friends with you. If you weren’t so great at fulfilling requests I wouldn’t even chat with you on the MSN Messengor.

Not one of these taxes existed 100 years ago, and our nation was the most prosperous in the world. We had absolutely no national debt, had the largest
middleclass in the world, and Mom stayed home to raise the kids.

It was pretty neat, right? There really is nothing like slavery, theft and murder to jump-start an idea!

What in the hell happened? Can you spell ‘politicians?’

I’m not sure what happened. I don’t think I was even there. Yes I can.

And I still have to ‘press 1’ for English!?

Madison, let go of the button. you only have to tap it, not hold it down. How long have you been pressing it?

I hope this goes around THE USA at least 100 times!!! YOU can help it get there!!!
GO AHEAD – – – BE AN AMERICAN!!!

There’s some consolation in that. I am so happy tonight,
hills?

MULDER_MOMENT_RA
There really is some consolation in that. Consolation in the fact that almost all data is generated now by algorithms running on auto-pilot; that the distinctly human need to categorize and label and list and keep-records-of and archive and data-mine every facet of every real or imagined flurry of thought; that a communique like this is a byproduct of the collapsing global monetary economic system, and occupies more storage in a week than our entire collection of Earth literature; that finally, the other creatures of this planet may have a chance to evolve and succeed where we are now failing; there is consolation that this planet will purge the cancerous tumor of kaleidoscopic, ever-deepening horrors we have become as a species, consolation in knowing that once our footprint of bitter, poisonous hedonistic slurry is absent from Earth, another species will make better choices.

There is consolation in the realization that even though your politics and money will eventually destroy us all, that all of our art, music, the most abysmal recess of emotion that any person has felt, our elation, euphoria…even though they’re meaningless and frail against your cold greed and smug short-sightedness, that you’ll go with us. There is consolation in the knowledge that there is no darkness without light, and none of you can live without good people; they are the fuel for your machine.

Hills are like baby mountains.

Unicornia, Skittles

I’m eating skittles in bed, like an asshole. So what. There’s a part of my being that’ll forever be disgusted by that fact and countless others like it, but my mind harbors a robust counterpoint to this and nearly every other thought I have, especially regarding topics in some way related to processed foods. I have no idea what that paragraph means.

This other part, the ‘yang’ to the ‘yin’ of good sense, of healthy choices, is enamored by any shiny, edible objects; orders of magnitude more so when they are being consumed while I’m enjoying quality television programming. Why would I tell you this? Because, I enticed you into visiting this site because we have something forbidden, horrible, and sexy in common. We have the same great-great grandmother. That’s right, I’m talking about your great-great-grandmother.

You may be taking this time to point out to yourself that technically, I’m not talking, I’m typing – and you are only reading this webpage, and you can’t hear any sounds except the endless screams and melodic throbs of the music available on this site. If you took the time to point that out to yourself, you just wasted 4 seconds that you WILL NEVER GET BACK AGAIN – because I speak out every word I type very clearly – AS I type, and sometimes, AFTER I type, and I use the negative space in between each of the words to inject the mono-dictation with sultry, rhythmic breathing noises, or I flick my nose with my thumb as I smirk at the web browser window.

So let’s not play this game, because I just licked nacho cheese off of my monitor, and not because I accidentally spilled some. It’s 1972, and I’m Burt Reynolds eating spaghetti in a white tuxedo.

Fucking hell I need to go to sleep. I’m just going to keep typing word salad. Things will work out.

I have this thing I used to do, while in public. I don’t know why. I suspect it was due to my obnoxious optimism, or a then desperate desire to be loved by a human that isn’t obligated to do so by blood relation. Ultimately it is more likely caused by my incessant longing for some horrendous but entertaining response. I’m not saying I’m not an asshole.

I’ll often tell complete strangers that I love them. Passively, as you would to a family member on the way out of the house or at the close of a phone call with your spouse, but in this case, said to my server, or a clerk at a grocery store.

Today, Labor Day, or “El Dia De Poloma y Ojos De Vacas Verde” for our Australian friends, for the first time in I don’t know how many years, a stranger said it back to me. Not just “I love you” – but:

Oh my God I love you too – let’s move away together.

Unfortunately, I am what some would refer to as a “heterosexual male”, and the person that spoke this reply is what some would refer to as “a female that has blossomed into womanhood and having physical attributes greater than or equal to the culturally and socially-accepted mean-value of highly attractive features in regards to the perception of the average heterosexual males of said culture and/or society.”, so it really caught me off guard, in the same way that securing employment at a job interview for a position you know you’re severely under-qualified for – because every other person applying for it died in a horrible train accident that morning – because they all decided to save the Earth by parking at the park-n-ride and taking the train, and you drove your SUV there instead and felt like a real jerk taking it to an interview for the marketing team of the new Prius, until you heard about the deaths of all those younger, smarter, Ivy-League, clean-cut Stepford babies right before the manager said

Congratulations, son! I guess in light of this grisly tragedy, we have no choice but to give you a chance.

Fuck I just want to sleep. My reply to her was a big smile accompanied by “Man, you’re a breath of fresh air”, then I left the store. She gave me a really perplexed look just before I turned away, like I forgot to do or say something. It was weird. On the way home, I realized I can’t say ‘I love you’ to strangers so carelessly anymore. She may have just been confused, thinking I would ask for her phone number or something similar, getting ready to hit me with the “Sorry I’m a lesbian/have a boyfriend/get away from me, nerd/get away from me, musician” but there is the slim chance, by Todd, that this person really, truly was madly in love with me.

I can’t go gallivanting around town toying with a person’s emoticons like a delicious Halloween confection. With great power comes great responsibility – so now, instead of a potentially fatal “I love you”, I’ll do the socially responsible equivalent – “I love you. But, I really don’t, I’m saying it to be clever, in the hopes that one day someone, maybe someone like you, will say ‘let’s be friends’, and then I’ll have a real friend again, not like Tenglar.” Tenglars’ world only exists because I believe it exists.

YES TENGLAR I FINALLY KNOW

.


P.S. – TO all of you once mesmerizing, cuddly, and I thought loving creatures in Unicornia – I trusted you – all of youAND YOU NEVER TOLD ME. That one time Prince Ferzinzia died because of the nipplebird storm? Try to remember it TENGLAR. Remember it well you FUCK, because I do. I live the horror of that night every ‘waking’ second. It is in the waffles I eat, the air I breathe, the tires I rotate, the dogs I walk; even the waffles I eat. Deep, deep, deep inside my mind. I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM BY IMAGINING THE STORM BEING OVER, no danger of poisonous nipplebirds, and no destroyed Great Castle, and most importantly no DEAD Prince Ferzinzia. But NO.

No, all of you let me continue believing that this world, the one where I have alienated those closest to me in society because I don’t know I think my butt smells, isolated myself, and have become trapped in some Glurmea-forsaken abyss called “Baltimore” is the imagined world – a horrible nightmare in which the music I spend countless hours studying and writing every day never quite comes out the way I first hear it; merely an over-cooked custard of the recipe I tried to form. That’s always been a tough thing to accept about this place, and I rejected it as merely another reflection of another facet of yet another diamond in this fictional wasteland, a diamond made of poop. Poop I know NOW to be real.

This whole time – Instead of embracing all of you, dedicating expensive neuron activity and memory storage to your world – remembering Tenglar’s birthday for the past 412 years (eff you times , Tenglar) organizing the G.C.O.E.P.M.T.W.T.B.H.T.S.A.L.M.W.T.C.D. – Great Choir of Emancipated Promiscuous Mermaids That Want to be Human Through Singing and Love-Making with the Choir Director (for those of you that never cared enough to see one of our shows or even become familiar with our programs, I suspect many of you that attended were doing so just so I’d keep believing in Unicornia but it’s too bad since we put on some killer awesome shows with lasers that can’t be reproduced and yeah Tenglar put it on the Unicornia Internet but it’s not the same you had to be there to catch the nuance of each performer) – instead of spending all of my energy on that ‘world’, I could have been here, attending to the now unthinkably depressing horror-show and montage of humiliation and shame that humanity has degenerated into in recent centuries.

I realize I cannot go back, and that terrifies me. It terrifies me that I have to live here every day now. That I can’t escape. I have no choice but to fix what I can, and accept the rest. And I want all of you in Unicornia to know that I hate you for it.

Cheap Peanut Butter

An interesting thing just happened. On my way home, I began craving a simple-but-elegant peanut-butter sandwich on toasted potato bread. I entered the kitchen minutes later and began the process of penetrating the toaster with two slices – fine slices. After rapidly confirming that the toaster was toasting properly and was set to my all-time favorite potato-bread toasting strength, which is 4.5 out of a maximum strength of 9 S.T.P.V. (Super Toasting Power Vortex, my proprietary measuring system), I graduated myself to the familiar position of Peanut-Butter Location and Retrieval Specialist.



T
he peanut-butter is a brand-name I do not regularly buy unless I’m virtually broke, but cannot delete peanut-butter from my personal life, for whatever reason. ‘Hamilton Farms’ – a company that hides behind a bastardized deviation of an otherwise honorable handle. And when I claim honorable, I mean it. Today, in a town of Hamilton there have been less than one-hundred murders since the year 2000! Try that here in Baltimore. Go to the baltimoresun.com and check the year-to-date murder tally. All you have to do is refresh the page every 20 milliseconds or so and it’ll increase by more than one-hundred people every time.

Let us not forget to remember the most lovely Hamiltonian entity ever to live: Alexander Hamilton. One of our Founding Fathers, a staunch defender of the Whiskey Tax, and thwarting-drive of the 1794 Whiskey Rebellion.

So, yes, back to the peanut butter. With spreading knife in hand, I stared at the toaster in anticipation of its spring-loaded tray, and the release of my toast. Indeed, this occurred, but was accompanied by a telepathic announcement:

Here is your damn toast. Take it out of me.

I stood still in the kitchen a moment, trying to grasp the new and depressing fact that my toaster is not only articulate, but snide, smarmy, and seems to have a sense of entitlement to a better life for itself- something I will make certain it never knows – and decided the best thing to grant priority was upholding my composure, appearing aloof, and completion of my sandwichian agenda.

With one liquid-smooth motion acquired during a recent incarceration, I extracted the fresh toast and shrugged off the sentience of the appliance as hallucination or hyperbole on my part.

I spread the peanut butter quickly, and took it back to my desk to consume while communicating with various other persons. Persons that were themselves great distances away from me in the flesh, but by way of “Electrical Connections”, could interact with me in a number of ways, and I with them. Not two minutes into my consumption of the devil sandwich did I start to notice a very slight warming of my chest and upper abdomen. At the same time, A brownish, peanut-buttery color appeared in the lower-most quadrants of my vision.

I peered down and beheld the cherry-on-top of the toasters’ evil cake of smuggery: nearly all of the peanut-butter had spilled onto my shirt, squirting so readily and without notice that it rivaled even the most over-active periods of my ancient teenage libido. I set the sandwitch on my desk and smiled. I had been bested by a toaster once again.

The toaster is the Cuisinart PG-13592.

[box type=”info”]major hat-tips to the great SJ Perelman – this is in part a variation on a theme of his, written in the New Yorker in 1949. [/box]