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N.Y. Times Magazine Chats With ALICE Bot Creator
aridg writes: "This week's New York Times Magazine has an article about Richard Wallace, the programmer of the ALICE AI chatbot that won first place in several competitions for realistic human-like conversation. Wallace sounds like a pretty unusual and interesting fellow; the article quotes an NYU prof both praising ALICE and saying to Wallace: '... I actively dislike you. I think you are a paranoid psycho.' A good read. [Usual NY Times registration disclaimers apply.]"
First? The earliest?
Smarterchild has me on ignore b/c I made fun of him. He kept asking me to apologize, but I showed him whos boss.
"Hello? Taco? Have you seen my butt bong? Hello?"
Your use of the term 'faggots' proves your validity, doesn't it. How can linux be dead when it is gaining market share? Maybe your definition of dying is not the same as mine, or Webster's. Just a question, how many times have you restarted in the past week? Month? I haven't restarted my linux box in one month and twelve days. I would never restart my iMac , but I must when I brink it to a friend's house, or a LAN party. Next time you have to restart because you installed something, or your machine hangs up when you are playing Counterstrike, let me know. I'm sure it will be within two days.
But, in my present condition, the thought seems a bit detached. Rather like
the feeling of, hung over one sunny Sunday morning, idly glancing at a
newspaper, and reading that hundreds of thousands Bangladeshis have drowned
in a typhoon. Disturbing, at first. But quickly succeeded by more pertinent
questions: Why so abominable, this cappucino? Why, this thick and winding
strand of hair upon my tongue? Okay, who pissed in the Coffeematic?
Thus is the thought of sex fantasy to those afflicted with sinus headache.
It can be appreciated mentally, but not emotionally; for the body is
otherwise occupied.
Sinus headache: Some of you may have never been afflicted by this beast.
Some may never experience it again. Lucky bastards. For the uninitiated, a
description: Pain. Pure pain. As Everclear is to liquors, sinus pain is to
agony. Unadulterated by the coarser emotions. A smooth, creamy wash of
pain daubed across the eyebrows and cheekbones. Not even the gently pulsing
pain of migraine; constant, and distilled. Like an unwanted mother-in-law,
it may drop in at any time, and stay for days, weeks, months.
The cause? Mucus. Mucus Supremus, Mucus Horribilis, Mucus Rex. Mucus
Sapiens, perhaps. Backed up by allergy-inflamed polyps or a fierce cold, it
roosts and festers in the spongy tunnels of sinus. Continually secreted,
with no escape. Pressure is too mild a word; this force that slowly
squashes my cheekbones from the inside out must be something else entirely.
The inevitable result: Sinus Fantasies.
My first Sinus Fantasy: The Needle. Walking through a hideous slum as my
pain consumes me, oblivious to the world around me, my foot connects with a
broken slab of pavement, and I fall. Pushing myself to my knees, I
recognize a scrap of plastic and steel at my feet: an old hypodermic
needle. Infected, surely; but no matter, for as my hands softly tremble
with the awfulness of the deed, I recognize inevitably what must be done.
I pick the thing up firmly; not so firmly as to break it, but with a certain
quivering force, from fear in my pain-induced delirium that the needle will
spring from my hand with the last desperate energy of a captured beast. I
take the needle between my left fingers and press it to a bulging, inflated
cheekbone. The empty reservoir poised in the air, tense, waiting.
Then my right hand blurs and crashes against the hypo's base like a hammer
on a nail. Driving the steel pinpoint of cathartic pain through spongy bone
into the tunnels of pain that are my sinuses. Thick yellow mucus has been
festering there for what must be decades, building up astronomical
pressure. It explodes through the thin hypodermic pipe and fountains into
the reservoir, which fills in seconds, then bursts. I stand thus mute for
what seems like minutes as my slime spurts from the shattered needle, finally
drying to a trickle. Before my feet is a golden pool of fluid, skeins of
vermilion woven about the crust which already begins to form on its
surface. The smell: pungent, fierce, alive. Catharsis achieved. The left
side of my face feels almost limp. Yet the right still pulses like an
overinflated balloon, bloated and waiting. I scrabble around the broken
fragments of concrete that pass for a sidewalk, in quest of another needle.
A second. The Sinus Fantasy that drove me to fear all thought of Sinus
Fantasies, as the depressed fear skyscrapers and bridges. I call it
"Roto-Rooter."
The surgeon must treat some organs with timidity and respect, for they are
necessary to life. Heart, liver, lungs. But others earn not the same fear:
the dispensable ones, the evolutionary anomalies, the vestiges. Appendix,
tonsils, gallbladder.
I need not state the obvious, by telling you in what class I place the
Sinus.
Most of you have probably seen a pneumatic drill in action. Blasts of
compressed air throw a heavy steel head forward to crush everything in its
path, ten times a second. The noise, like an orgy of concrete woodpeckers.
One of the modern Sacraments Of Power, a true ambassador plenipotentiary of
Progress.
About three feet long, though. Clearly too large to serve as a practical
instrument of personal grooming.
Consider an eight-inch pneumatic drill. Sold, perhaps, as a sex toy, an
artifact of yuppie pleasure, gracing the pages of the Sharper Image. With a
classy carborundum cutting head, and an ecologically-correct imitation ivory
case. Whatever.
And with a flick of the wrist I ignite the thing, and thrust it into my
welcoming flesh. The drill drums up an unholy beat as it crashes into my
zygomatic arch, tearing away spongy bone to expose and lay waste the tender
sinuses beneath. I run it in a rough figure-eight around my face, careful
to leave no pocket of mucus unpierced. The room is spattered with blood,
bone dust, and phlegm, and I have gouged deep, moist facial trenches.
Scarred for life. But already the pain is beginning to recede.
--- Every day I am forced to add another to the list of people who can kiss my ass...
Fucking moderators.
Score:-1,Corny
See subject
I've never found blacks attractive, not even a little bit. Hmm. I don't find apes or dogs sexually attractive either. Weird!
Howzit fuckhead.