The Slop Singularity Is Here

Slopocalypse now

Folks, the good times in AI are over.

The stochastic machine is exhaling, and if you’re near the vent, you can already smell the stench of the oncoming sewage sludge.

The good times are over. The AI slop tsunami is here.

Wait, were there good times in AI?

Well, yes. This moment, where you used AI to draft emails, cringe LinkedIn posts, write resumes, run analysis, make business plans, and vibe-code software that lies forgotten within a week, is the good times. You could mistake your half-baked prompts for genius and feel hopeful that the AI will cure cancer and invent the ultimate logevity drug.

Wait, don’t millions of artists see this as daylight robbery, a war on the soul of humanity?

They do, and it’s cute because when the AI slop machine hits, so much mind-numbing sludge will spew from the pipes that these artists will look back on today with nostalgia.

“Those were the good old days,” they’ll say.

Boys and girls, gather and stand beneath the faucet. Zuckerberg, our lord of the reels and Jiu-Jitsu archangel, has assembled the ultimate Superintelligence team worth billions of dollars (the best minds of this generation, I am told) to open up a new Meta faucet.

As experienced drinkers from this faucet in the past on Facebook and Instagram, you know that it will dispense the most sugary, addictive slop drips. I see your eyes widening, your lips smacking in anticipation. I can see that your brains have checked out already, waiting for the first thirsty lick of that slop.

So it starts.

Not to be left behind, the messiah of our post-human future, Sam Altman, is joining the fray.

From the infernal centrifuges of OpenAI (where graphs are strange and numbers are vibe-based), another new slop machine is being launched.

Together, these men plan to strip mine the last spare synapses of our brains (a rarity to begin with, thanks to the endless scroll machine). Like hungry zombies, they’ll siphon your last remaining thought, action, and agency, leaving you to fester on your couch as gloaming rises, swiping through feed after feed of things produced by a pixel arranger model that would disassemble you without a second thought.

Out of this slop tsunami is going to emerge a new world order.

It’s a world order where five men will own everything. The rest of us are hooked swipers, clickers, providers of eyeballs through which our money will be siphoned. Millions of such tendrils all lead to these five men who will own the air you breathe, your assets (conveniently just variants of bits in a metaverse), your ideas, and anything you ever buy.

You will be well taken care of, not to worry. We will sip the most Instagrammable lattes, order things that reach our bedside without effort, and eat healthy, nutrient-precise food that enables us to live long. We’ll inject drugs that keep us fit so we can all be eternal consumers of slop drip, baked out of our minds.

We are happy. The five men who rule the world are happy.

What’s there to complain about, except maybe the end of history?

Could be Worse,

Tyag