AI Policy
It’s 2025. Spellcheckers use AI. And so do I. I use it as an editor and proofreader. For my writing.
Frankly, I’m getting sick and tired of the whining mob of miserable losers who are probably going to lose their jobs because a machine does it better—and it does it better because they were mediocre to begin with.
Now they’ve formed some sort of sanctimonious kangaroo court to try and shame people for the terrible “crime” of having “used AI” to write something.
These are the same arseholes who’ve been pestering me for years (this blog has been online for 23 fucking years!) about how I don’t use accented Italian letters—fully aware that I type on German keyboards—and the same mouth-breathing grammar-Nazis who spent their precious time nitpicking half-hour articles I banged out between real work and a real life.
And now they’ve found a new obsession. Instead of following in their mothers’ footsteps and giving blowjobs for self-esteem, they’re here, nagging about AI.
Yes, I use AI for editing. So what? I write the article by jotting down my ideas and arguments. A thesis—you absolute morons—is made of arguments. I throw down the substance, the actual thinking, and then I let AI clean it up, correct mistakes, and make it more readable. Don’t like it? Tough shit.
The truth is, this whole “AI debate” is just the latest flavour of Italian pretentiousness—right up there with how guanciale has to be cured under a full moon in fucking Capricorn. You poor, delicate little princelings are used to reading only sublime masterpieces, written by authors who channel the Muses through a Kermit-based protocol?
Does your limp intellect need parchment, candlelight, and a monk scribbling for validation?
Fine. Go back to the Dark Ages, do what you did back then: farm the land and die of the plague. It’s 2025, for fuck’s sake. And yes, that means people are going to use 2025 tools. Don’t like it? Grab a plough and piss off. And if your dainty sensibilities are offended, try using them to relieve your constipation. I hear it helps.
The reality is: you’re just a bunch of professional buzzkills. You wake up each morning asking, “How can I ruin someone else’s day today?” That’s why your wife left you for Arturo, why your friends are just colleagues, and why you’re about as interesting as cold diarrhoea.
Because you’re made of the same stuff that exits the arse. You live to be annoying, and the only way you feel like someone is by being a pain in someone else’s.
As I write this, it’s 2025. AI isn’t “the future” that you get to debate.
It’s the present.