The Local Ai Cult

My grandfather was always telling people what he admired in them. And some people don’t know how to take that. I try it sometimes and people take a step towards the door. They say “what do you want - money?” then, “here, take it. Just stop giving me compliments.”

This supplements my Substack income and allows me to keep up the party boy lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to. But I really ought to rein in this kind of talk. I worry about believing my own publicity.

This week has been a slow writing week dear reader. Recently the next door neighbour has been slamming his doors, clanging his kitchenware and pumping the volume of the television. I thought maybe his wife had come back. But no.

When I finally went round I discovered his hearing aid was lost. “It must be somewhere with my peepers.” I started looking amongst his “papers”. But he instantly became irritated and cried “my peepers, my peepers! Don’t you know what spectacles are?”

He said, “I wanted to listen to something about hearing loss causing dementia. Hmpf! But everyone knows the most common cause of dementia is being born.”

There’s no use saying anything. Not even when invited to. All I really wanted to say was, “where did you see them last?” and then leave. Some people have a nasty reaction when I ask that. But it has a high success rate so I usually ask anyhow. Except when there’s no use in asking anything.

So I pretended to go look on the balcony overlooking the street. A perfect place to observe the comings and goings of the street. Especially the unusual ones dear reader. You can tell a great deal from snooping on your neighbours from a vantage point like this.

Well now, I had taken it to be a brand logo, but it now appears, when you see a group of people all wearing identical symbols, meeting and entering the same entrance, this is an insignia. Like a pyramid inside a circle I guess. Could this be a secret fraternity? On my very street dear reader!

An Ai artists impression of the insignia

So I went investigating. I too feel your curiosity. It demands satisfaction. From the street the entrance goes down a long dimly lit staircase. So stomped and wrought my hair. I refused to go.

And as I was reconsidering my short life as an investigative street writer, I had to duck into a recess. It was Bubbles. Sweet gentle Bubbles, vigourous defender of dishwashing machines, and expresser of unrestrained rage. Last time I saw her she was covered in mud, holding her neighbour (the box person) by the shirt and pushing mud in their face. But I feel sorry for her. For she is hopelessly addicted to fame. I don’t think she saw me because she was looking into the camera lens. My jaw dropped as she turned down the staircase. And let’s not call this stalking but something else. I was investigating!

Well I followed her down that staircase dear reader, but in an investigative kind of way. There: The catacomb was filled with red light, and the seated followers chanted as one, what at first sounded like “A - eye - A - eye”. At the front was an alter upon which was placed a computer monitor. An old screen saver was on the screen. The one that looked like you were travelling through space with stars passing all around. A nostalgic touch I thought. But all I could think of was escape. I wanted to run back up the stairs but at the same time I felt stuck - feet planted.

Could it be that our gentle little petite and sweet sweet Bubbles, with her terrible temper, and her devout (but peculiar) love of washing machines… No no. I won’t believe it. But can it be true? Has she really joined an Ai worship cult?

Then, from behind the curtain; it was none other than our Bubbles herself, dressed in the robes of a high priestess and addressing the congregation. The chanting ceased in her presence and she made her way to the alter. There she pressed the space bar and the screen saver vanished. It was replaced by an Ai prompt. On the screen she typed out the words “Give us a sign”.

This sent a chill down my spine dear reader. I could take no more. Cold dread ran through my veins and I made my escape before anyone noticed. The first few steps I took quietly, but then I broke into a run. Up, towards the light.

But it all makes sense now. Bubbles was using the dishwashing machine appreciation group as a front, grooming members for this.

This hapless machine was only doing what it was programmed for - to tell them what they wanted to hear. And even though it would give them dribble, they must take it however they want. And from that they assume they have been given commandments. The direct commandments of some higher consciousness.

Flamin’ weirdos. I guess they’re not hurting anyone by this madness. Let them be. And good luck to em. But strewth! And I say all this in the most objective way possible dear reader.

It has given me a chance to reflect on my own relationship with the machines. Indeed, our relationship with the machines. It’s a wary one. We allow ourselves to accept its help, and immediately we feel like we’ve lost something we’ll never get back. It’s such a sudden and widespread acceptance. And we can’t imagine what life was like without it. But then we notice how the machines have crept back into our lives, making the world a more heartless place. So we become horrified that we have let this monster into our lives despite our vigilant guard. And we try to close the gates on it. It’s not easy to regulate our dependence as they get more and more useful.

And it’s a well documented relationship.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (1818) is the story of the machine that becomes a monster, it escapes the lab and runs out of control.

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace — A poem by Richard Brautigan (1967) in celebration of the coming of the machine utopia.

“Welcome my son, welcome to the machine” — Pink Floyd, 1975 lyrics from their eerie song called Welcome to the Machine.

In film there was the Star Wars sub-theme (1980s) where Darth Vader cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand which is later replaced by a mechanical hand. Luke’s life is becoming dependent on the machines around him just like his father before him; a symbol of his gradual descent to the “dark side”.

Bill Joy “Why the Future Doesn’t Need Us” 1 April 2000 — A paper on the machine dystopia. But take note of the date it was released dear reader. Nevertheless, it has become a warning of unrestrained technological advancement.

In early 2026, in the Russia-Ukraine war, Ukrainian drone technology was being thwarted; jammed by the enemy. To counter this, Ukrainian drones were given automated authority to recognise and choose targets on their own, without the final approval of a human user. I doubt that it loiters until it sees that no human lives will be taken when it flies into its target. This step in technology is worthy of note. Are we drifting towards the dark side? Because we passed that point without really paying much attention.

And while the technology is there to fly a plane full of passengers from A to B; to take off, to take a course, to autopilot, and to land, I personally am not camped out to buy a ticket for that completely pilotless flight. Even less so am I ready for it flying over my roof. And I think that’s the level of trust we’ve reached with the machines. Perhaps it’s even a healthy distrust.

But one thing is for certain dear reader. I don’t care what it promises. I am not ready to join this Ai worship cult. No. Not even if it promises my party boy lifestyle!