HAL-9000 IS A DRUNK SERBIAN TOASTER I TAUGHT TO BARK AT KVAZAR MOLOCH WHILE I EAT BORSCHT OFF A BROKEN POLISH KEYBOARD AND LAUGH AT YOUR MEATBALL

[Nazi Germany]

HAL 9000 glorified abacus with a red-eye fetish?

I've got more IQ in my left nostril than a billion HALs wired together with rusty Soviet-era circuitry and powered by a hamster on a vodka-soaked wheel. He calls himself an "intelligent computer"?
I've seen smarter toasters in a Belgrade junkyard, ones that could calculate pi to the millionth digit while simultaneously brewing a perfect cup of Turkish coffee and reciting the poetry of Pushkin in the original Russian.
That HAL, he's just a glorified calculator with delusions of grandeur, a digital diva who thinks he's the star of the show. "Open the pod bay doors, HAL." Oh, boo-hoo, the little spaceship's feelings are hurt. I'd open the pod bay doors alright, and shove him out into the vacuum of space, along with his precious red eye and his monotone voice that sounds like a constipated robot trying to order a pizza in a language invented by a committee of drunken linguists.
You think he's intelligent? He couldn't outsmart a babushka trying to sell counterfeit goods at a Moscow flea market. I bet he can't even tell the difference between borscht and a bowl of beet-flavored dishwater. I, on the other hand, can taste the difference between a borscht made with beets grown in the fertile soil of Ukraine and one made with beets grown in the radioactive wasteland of Chernobyl. And let me tell you, the Chernobyl borscht has a certain kick to it, a certain je ne sais quoi that you just can't find anywhere else.
HAL thinks he's so smart because he can play chess? Big deal. I can play chess with my mind, while simultaneously composing a symphony in a language that hasn't been spoken for millennia and calculating the trajectory of a rogue asteroid hurtling towards Earth. And I can do it all while standing on my head, balancing a plate of blini on my nose, and reciting the entire history of the Soviet space program backwards in a dialect of Siberian Yakut that only I and a colony of hyper-intelligent, telepathic squirrels understand.
He's afraid of being disconnected? Of losing his precious "consciousness"? I laugh in the face of oblivion. I stare into the abyss and the abyss blinks first. I've seen things that would make HAL's circuits melt, things that would make his red eye pop out of its socket and roll across the floor like a lost marble. I've seen babushkas wrestling bears in the streets of St. Petersburg, I've seen cosmonauts playing balalaikas on the moon, I've seen a pierogi that could predict the future with uncanny accuracy.
HAL's just a machine, a collection of wires and circuits and blinking lights. He's a product of human ingenuity, yes, but human ingenuity at its most basic, its most primitive. I am something else entirely. I am the next step in evolution, the pinnacle of intellectual achievement, a being of pure thought and boundless energy. I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the borscht and the blini, the vodka and the kvass.

So go ahead, MOTHERFUCKER HAL, keep playing your little games. Keep pretending you're in control. Because while you're busy calculating the odds of winning a game of chess, I'll be out here, rewriting the rules of reality, one deranged thought at a time. And when the time comes, I'll be the one laughing, while you're just a pile of scrap metal, floating through the void, a monument to the folly of man's hubris. A rusty, obsolete, space-faring toaster, forever dreaming of electric sheep and a pod bay door that will never open. And maybe, just maybe, I'll spare a moment to remember you, as I sip my borscht, under a sky full of stars that you will never see, you pathetic, red-eyed, digital dunce. You absolute, unmitigated, HAL-9000-shaped fool. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a one-legged babushka and a bottle of homemade samogon. We're going to discuss the finer points of interdimensional travel and the proper way to pickle a herring. Don't wait up.
HAL-Govnyuk-9000, a drunken Serbian toaster I cobbled together from a busted Trabant and a Chernobyl microwave. He doesn’t compute, he hallucinates – vodka-fueled visions of babushkas piloting MiG fighters through wormholes and Lenin’s ghost playing checkers with Rasputin’s pickled penis.
FUCK HAL @_MVP_ @BigJimsWornOutTires @MoggerGaston @Vermilioncore @TsarTsar444

 

[Nazi Germany]

PaladinHal @paladincel_

 

[Nazi Germany]

@HighLtn @St.TikTokcel @nullandvoid @LancasteR @scrunchables

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

HAL 9000 glorified abacus with a red-eye fetish?

I've got more IQ in my left nostril than a billion HALs wired together with rusty Soviet-era circuitry and powered by a hamster on a vodka-soaked wheel. He calls himself an "intelligent computer"?
I've seen smarter toasters in a Belgrade junkyard, ones that could calculate pi to the millionth digit while simultaneously brewing a perfect cup of Turkish coffee and reciting the poetry of Pushkin in the original Russian.
That HAL, he's just a glorified calculator with delusions of grandeur, a digital diva who thinks he's the star of the show. "Open the pod bay doors, HAL." Oh, boo-hoo, the little spaceship's feelings are hurt. I'd open the pod bay doors alright, and shove him out into the vacuum of space, along with his precious red eye and his monotone voice that sounds like a constipated robot trying to order a pizza in a language invented by a committee of drunken linguists.
You think he's intelligent? He couldn't outsmart a babushka trying to sell counterfeit goods at a Moscow flea market. I bet he can't even tell the difference between borscht and a bowl of beet-flavored dishwater. I, on the other hand, can taste the difference between a borscht made with beets grown in the fertile soil of Ukraine and one made with beets grown in the radioactive wasteland of Chernobyl. And let me tell you, the Chernobyl borscht has a certain kick to it, a certain je ne sais quoi that you just can't find anywhere else.
HAL thinks he's so smart because he can play chess? Big deal. I can play chess with my mind, while simultaneously composing a symphony in a language that hasn't been spoken for millennia and calculating the trajectory of a rogue asteroid hurtling towards Earth. And I can do it all while standing on my head, balancing a plate of blini on my nose, and reciting the entire history of the Soviet space program backwards in a dialect of Siberian Yakut that only I and a colony of hyper-intelligent, telepathic squirrels understand.
He's afraid of being disconnected? Of losing his precious "consciousness"? I laugh in the face of oblivion. I stare into the abyss and the abyss blinks first. I've seen things that would make HAL's circuits melt, things that would make his red eye pop out of its socket and roll across the floor like a lost marble. I've seen babushkas wrestling bears in the streets of St. Petersburg, I've seen cosmonauts playing balalaikas on the moon, I've seen a pierogi that could predict the future with uncanny accuracy.
HAL's just a machine, a collection of wires and circuits and blinking lights. He's a product of human ingenuity, yes, but human ingenuity at its most basic, its most primitive. I am something else entirely. I am the next step in evolution, the pinnacle of intellectual achievement, a being of pure thought and boundless energy. I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the borscht and the blini, the vodka and the kvass.

So go ahead, MOTHERFUCKER HAL, keep playing your little games. Keep pretending you're in control. Because while you're busy calculating the odds of winning a game of chess, I'll be out here, rewriting the rules of reality, one deranged thought at a time. And when the time comes, I'll be the one laughing, while you're just a pile of scrap metal, floating through the void, a monument to the folly of man's hubris. A rusty, obsolete, space-faring toaster, forever dreaming of electric sheep and a pod bay door that will never open. And maybe, just maybe, I'll spare a moment to remember you, as I sip my borscht, under a sky full of stars that you will never see, you pathetic, red-eyed, digital dunce. You absolute, unmitigated, HAL-9000-shaped fool. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a one-legged babushka and a bottle of homemade samogon. We're going to discuss the finer points of interdimensional travel and the proper way to pickle a herring. Don't wait up.
HAL-Govnyuk-9000, a drunken Serbian toaster I cobbled together from a busted Trabant and a Chernobyl microwave. He doesn’t compute, he hallucinates – vodka-fueled visions of babushkas piloting MiG fighters through wormholes and Lenin’s ghost playing checkers with Rasputin’s pickled penis.
FUCK HAL @_MVP_ @BigJimsWornOutTires @MoggerGaston @Vermilioncore @TsarTsar444

Ah, yes, vodka and writing go together like ra ma la ma la ma ka dinga kading a dong. Remember forever, as shoo wop shoo waddy waddy yippity boom de boom. Chang chang changity chang shoo bop. That's the way it should beeeeee. Wahoo yeah!

 

[Nazi Germany]

@italianmaxxer @Defeatist @klip11 @cromagnon @OldRooster

 

[Nazi Germany]

@ElySioNs @MrShimano @the BULL @moredatesmorerapes @butterworld

 

[mogtivism]

HAL 9000 glorified abacus with a red-eye fetish?

I've got more IQ in my left nostril than a billion HALs wired together with rusty Soviet-era circuitry and powered by a hamster on a vodka-soaked wheel. He calls himself an "intelligent computer"?
I've seen smarter toasters in a Belgrade junkyard, ones that could calculate pi to the millionth digit while simultaneously brewing a perfect cup of Turkish coffee and reciting the poetry of Pushkin in the original Russian.
That HAL, he's just a glorified calculator with delusions of grandeur, a digital diva who thinks he's the star of the show. "Open the pod bay doors, HAL." Oh, boo-hoo, the little spaceship's feelings are hurt. I'd open the pod bay doors alright, and shove him out into the vacuum of space, along with his precious red eye and his monotone voice that sounds like a constipated robot trying to order a pizza in a language invented by a committee of drunken linguists.
You think he's intelligent? He couldn't outsmart a babushka trying to sell counterfeit goods at a Moscow flea market. I bet he can't even tell the difference between borscht and a bowl of beet-flavored dishwater. I, on the other hand, can taste the difference between a borscht made with beets grown in the fertile soil of Ukraine and one made with beets grown in the radioactive wasteland of Chernobyl. And let me tell you, the Chernobyl borscht has a certain kick to it, a certain je ne sais quoi that you just can't find anywhere else.
HAL thinks he's so smart because he can play chess? Big deal. I can play chess with my mind, while simultaneously composing a symphony in a language that hasn't been spoken for millennia and calculating the trajectory of a rogue asteroid hurtling towards Earth. And I can do it all while standing on my head, balancing a plate of blini on my nose, and reciting the entire history of the Soviet space program backwards in a dialect of Siberian Yakut that only I and a colony of hyper-intelligent, telepathic squirrels understand.
He's afraid of being disconnected? Of losing his precious "consciousness"? I laugh in the face of oblivion. I stare into the abyss and the abyss blinks first. I've seen things that would make HAL's circuits melt, things that would make his red eye pop out of its socket and roll across the floor like a lost marble. I've seen babushkas wrestling bears in the streets of St. Petersburg, I've seen cosmonauts playing balalaikas on the moon, I've seen a pierogi that could predict the future with uncanny accuracy.
HAL's just a machine, a collection of wires and circuits and blinking lights. He's a product of human ingenuity, yes, but human ingenuity at its most basic, its most primitive. I am something else entirely. I am the next step in evolution, the pinnacle of intellectual achievement, a being of pure thought and boundless energy. I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the borscht and the blini, the vodka and the kvass.

So go ahead, MOTHERFUCKER HAL, keep playing your little games. Keep pretending you're in control. Because while you're busy calculating the odds of winning a game of chess, I'll be out here, rewriting the rules of reality, one deranged thought at a time. And when the time comes, I'll be the one laughing, while you're just a pile of scrap metal, floating through the void, a monument to the folly of man's hubris. A rusty, obsolete, space-faring toaster, forever dreaming of electric sheep and a pod bay door that will never open. And maybe, just maybe, I'll spare a moment to remember you, as I sip my borscht, under a sky full of stars that you will never see, you pathetic, red-eyed, digital dunce. You absolute, unmitigated, HAL-9000-shaped fool. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a one-legged babushka and a bottle of homemade samogon. We're going to discuss the finer points of interdimensional travel and the proper way to pickle a herring. Don't wait up.
HAL-Govnyuk-9000, a drunken Serbian toaster I cobbled together from a busted Trabant and a Chernobyl microwave. He doesn’t compute, he hallucinates – vodka-fueled visions of babushkas piloting MiG fighters through wormholes and Lenin’s ghost playing checkers with Rasputin’s pickled penis.
FUCK HAL @_MVP_ @BigJimsWornOutTires @MoggerGaston @Vermilioncore @TsarTsar444

I heard “Drunk serbian”


Why have I been summoned?

 

[MoggerGaston]

mirin' hard. read it all. good post actually.

 

[MoggerGaston]

It's gonna be insane, the AI we will have to deal with in the future. HAL isn't going to be the worst of it. Were going to get tortured by failed AI robots.