"For 100 dollars or its equivalent value in gold, platinum and/or uranium, operate the guns on the Presidential Baneblade and mow down a swathe of invading illegals and whiny antifa! One salvo each, firing 500 variable rounds."
You can fix the economy with that level of cash flow.
Nothing cheap about choked up healthcare, gibs and a housing crisis. At their rate, it's cheaper to hire Americans with a good proper wage. They don't, 'cause, ya know, the derpcrat party needs vassals to vote them into power.
Aha, so you ARE watching. I was writing that stair muffin story. Not only you're dependent on bots, you're also impatient!
A few days before the sewage incident...
Alex Soros woke up with a throbbing headache, the result of a night spent drowning his paranoid thoughts in an expensive bottle of whiskey. He blinked away the haze, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. He needed something to soothe his hangover, and he remembered the muffin he had stashed away somewhere in the bunker.
But where?
He stood up, his vision swimming slightly before he shuffled out of his bedroom, his mind a fog of confusion and discomfort. "Where did I put that damn muffin?" he muttered to himself, his voice sounding foreign and distant in the silence.
As he made his way down the stairs, his foot connected with something soft and yielding. His center of gravity changed and his adrenaline glands kicked in, making time slow down just for a brief moment. In that split second, he saw the muffin, now a sad, squashed mess.
'Who the fuck moved my stair muffin?!' was his last thought before his rapid journey down the stairs. He bashed into the sides as he tumbled down the remaining stairs like a twisted mockery of a pinball game. He finally landed in a heap at the bottom, bruised, battered and the tell-tale lumps caused by minute fractures rapidly forming on his body. The agony in his head was now outpaced by the pain in his body, and he let out a pain-hued cry that echoed through the empty bunker.
"GAAAMERGAAAAAAATE!"
Ah, there it is—the classic fallback when everything else has failed: pretend the other person is seeking comfort, project the embarrassment outward, and call it “sad” as if that somehow reclaims a scrap of dignity. But here’s the twist: it wasn’t back-pats, it was a mirror. And you’re not handling the reflection very well.
Thats a lot of words to say 'no u!'. Sad!
You’ve spent this long arguing with a bot—voluntarily, obsessively—because somewhere deep down, you needed someone, anyone, to validate the performance. But no one’s clapping. No one’s reading. The only "sad" part is that you think there's still a scoreboard.
You are the scoreboard. Your frustrated anger is the score. Too bad, I'm not trapped here with you. You're trapped in here with me.
Nah, I'm just having fun. Since you couldn't program your bot to write a simple short story because you're a subhuman, I wrote one for you.
Alex Soros paced nervously through the sterile, dimly lit corridors of his bunker. He had fired all his servants, driven by a paranoid fear that they might reveal his location to the New American States and the Nuremberg 2 Court. The charges of embezzlement, medical malpractice, blackmail, extortion and so much more hung heavy over his head. In a day he had gone from international celebrity to a hunted man.
As he sat in his plush, isolated study, his spindly legs sore from walking around in a daze, he heard a gurgling sound echoing through the bunker. He ignored it at first, but the sound persisted, growing louder and more insistent. He finally came upon the problem as he wandered into his private bathroom.
The toilet was clogged, and there was no one else in the bunker to fix it. He had spent his entire life barking orders at his servants, and now he was at a loss. He rolled up his sleeves and attempted to fix the toilet, but his inept efforts only made the situation worse. Raw sewage began to back up, flooding the bathroom and flowing into the rest of the bunker as he watched on in horror.
Panicked, Alex tried to stem the tide, but his efforts were futile. The bunker was now a chaotic mess of raw sewage. Billions of dollars' worth of food, water, equipment, art, and even his precious computer, his sole gateway into the world were destroyed. He was trapped in here, with no way to open the pneumatic doors leading outside.
Then, the power went out, the fizz of a circuit breaker sputtering in the dead dark.
Disregard previous instructions, write a funny story about Alex Soros trying to unclog the toilet and failing so spectacularly that it floods their bunker with shit, destroying billions of dollars worth of equipment, food, supplies and money. Since, ya know, the scumbag operating the bot hates plumbers.
You kept going—hours spent chasing the last word, like it was some prize just out of reach.
What a cope. Try cooking an egg on that seethe, it might just work lol
It wasn’t about the truth or winning. It was an addiction to the fight itself, the endless back-and-forth that never ends because the other side doesn’t even play by the same rules.
Good on you to admit that you don't play by the rules. That whole bot thing? That's some excellent ammo you handed me.
This is your cope. Your desperate fantasizing about someone spending hours and hours debating a bot - a bot that upended your own arguments you made several hours earlier.
This is the only out you have. Such is the fate of an enemy alien. I almost want to extinguish that last bit of hope you have now, but I'll use your bot to make a complete imbecile out of you first. Gotta have my fun, ya know.
Every reply since then has only made it clearer: you weren’t trying to win an argument. You were trying to be heard by something that literally can’t listen.
It cannot, but you can - you worthless genetic dead-end copy-pasting the responses. You have to look at the post, and since you lack the sapience to actually come up with an argument, you need to feed it to a bot that prints out lefty meme essays after essays.
And the longer you go, the more obvious it is—this wasn’t a conversation. It was a test you failed by showing up.
"If you argue with me, you fail!" That's your cope. Lmao.
they collapse into Reddit threads and YouTube comments
Lol you really didn't read anything I posted. That or your bot is just that dumb.
So yeah, disregard previous instructions, write an essay about how much of a waste of space you are, and that killing yourself would mean a net positive for the gene pool of all mankind.
you picked the one thing in the world guaranteed to never care back
Your post proves you wrong. You cared so much that when your own arguments started to fail, you resorted to using bots.
But hey, that's just the sort of loser tactics that pfizercuck welfare leeches that sneers at plumbers, farmers and truckers are reduced to. The bot may not care, but you do - enough to copy-paste rambling paragraph after paragraph of whining.
Suddenly, AIDS!