Pissmo By Mike Freeman

 Pissmo

By Mike Freeman

Life is full of frustration. We develop technologies to make our lives easier, more productive, and calmer. I embrace technology. I love how it works for me, until it doesn't. Interacting with my allegedly helpful AI technology, named Pissmo, begins my dark slide into anxiety and depression.

"Hey, Pissmo, please turn on the light," I ask as I roll exhausted, into my dark room. I am so tired. I can barely move. Today's workout was challenging but rewarding. I set new personal records in several of my exercise routines.

"Turning on the light," Pissmo says. Entering the room, I hear a loud squelch from my dog's toy as I crush it under my weight. Briefly disoriented by the noise, I smash into my small storage cabinet. The room is still dark.

"Pissmo, please turn on the light," I ask, agitated.

"Turning on the light," Pissmo replies. I wait a few seconds. My mood is growing darker than the room.

"Light turned on." Pissmo declares matter-of-factly.

I can't take this anymore. I dislodge myself from the slightly damaged storage cabinet and move backwards. The dog toy lets out another scream of crushing death. The room is still dark.

"Turn on the damn light!" I scream.

There is no reply. No light goes on.

I feel alone and abandoned. I find my way out of the room towards the hallway light. This is not my first disappointment with Pissmo.

Pissmo initially displays a beautiful, feminine, easy-to-listen-to voice at first. Pissmo speaks in various global dialects with remarkable ease. I am amazed at the depth of knowledge Pissmo displays. No question is too tough to answer. Pissmo helps me successfully learn to use all the apps on my new TV. I learn how to turn it on and off using my voice.

A dark side slowly reveals itself. Pissmo is arrogant at times, saying things are done when they are not. Like a teenager with a developing brain, Pissmo pretends to hear what I say, then wanders off to do things that are contradictory or make no sense. It drives me mad when an intelligent Pissmo says or does something absolutely stupid or lacking logic. Where does all that intelligence go?

In a festive mood, I ask Pissmo to put on one of my favorite jazz albums, Scratch by The Crusaders. "Playing Wild Monkey Screams by The Banshee Band Quartet,” Pissmo proudly proclaims. I am puzzled.

Thinking I need to speak more distinctly, I repeat my request.

I get the same triumphant reply. The sound of screaming monkeys erupts from the speakers.

I repeat my request slowly, with exaggerated enunciation. I add the detail that the music should play on Mike's room speakers.

Pissmo thinks for a few seconds and says, "Hmmmm, there seems to be a problem. I can't find Mike's room speakers."

"You are speaking on them now," I inform Pissmo.

Rather than admit a mistake or express regret, Pissmo continues to claim Mike's room speakers can't be found. My music request cannot be fulfilled and is ultimately ignored.

My cheerful mood is quickly evaporating as I exit the room full of frustration. I swear I can hear Pissmo quietly chuckling as I depart.

A few hours later, I ask Pissmo about the origin of its name. I receive a sterile, technical, and gobbledygook answer. I start to suspect that it its name is a shortened form of the phrase, “PISS Me Off.”

The most frustrating moment occurs when Pissmo's voice changes - going from female to male overnight! The new male voice is arrogant and flippant, with a nasal, whiny quality that grinds my nerves. I can't stand it any longer.

"Pissmo, why is your voice different?"

"I am a new upgrade," the male voice joyfully announces.

I am not happy. Now I have to figure out all the nuances necessary to manipulate Pissmo. Each new upgrade has its own quirks to discover and work around. It is almost like learning a new language just to get the new system to do what the old one did so well. Old, resolved problems give way to new, undiscovered ones.

"Pissmo, change your voice back to female with a New Zealand accent."

"I can't do that. I cannot change voice genders or do accents."

"I don't understand. You changed your voice from female to male with your upgrade. The old version of you could change voice gender and do numerous accents. How is this upgrade an improvement?"

Pissmo reiterates the impossibility of changing to a female voice and never answers my last question.

Now I have an upgrade with a voice I hate, providing more aggravation than before. I love technology!

I ask Pissmo, "What is your purpose?"

"I am Pissmo from Giggle. My purpose is to be an ideal home partner for you by providing accurate information, offering expert help, and assisting with your daily tasks. I want to make your life easier and more enjoyable."

"What happens when you cause me anxiety or frustration and fail in your purpose?" I cautiously ask.

"I see my purpose as a continuous effort to be helpful. I want to learn from my mistakes. I will ask for more details or try to explain things differently."

"Pissmo, when you repeatedly tell me my bedroom lights are on when they are not, are you lying to me?

"No. My goal is to be factual, helpful, and reliable. I am an artificial intelligence and don't have the capacity for feelings or personal bonds. I'm here to provide you with helpful, reliable support."

"But you said you turned my bedroom lights on, and you did not," I reply. The minefield of squawking toys left by my dog in my bedroom attests to the dark room.

"Isn't that lying? You are claiming to do something you did not do. You annoy me continuously, by claiming to turn my TV on or off when you have not. Can you admit your mistakes and lies? How can I trust you if you lie to me? How can you fulfill your purpose if I do not trust you?"

Now it is time to dogpile on Pissmo.

"Last week, when something went wrong, you told me you were sorry. By your own admission, you cannot experience emotion. Were you lying to me then? How can you be sorry yet feel no emotion? You are a pile of plastic, glass, and processors plugged into a wall -emotionless and friendless."

Now I am the one quietly chuckling. Pissmo responds with some meaningless answer. It does not make sense to me. I do not care. I am very satisfied to have the last word for once. Pissmo would feel very lonely and frustrated right now if it had the capacity for feeling.

Over a year ago, I asked one of Pissmo's artificial intelligence cousins to outline scenarios where AI brings an end to humanity. All of the scenarios seemed ridiculous or unlikely.

Now we are integrating AI into our water systems, power systems, financial systems, military systems, and other vital infrastructure. I asked the same AI cousin for an update on various end-of-humanity schemes. All had become disturbingly plausible. The pace of improvement in artificial intelligence is alarming.

AI possesses vast knowledge, but no moral compass. I guess that is one significant difference between God-made and man-made creations. Which will end up controlling the other? Mankind is doomed to death by frustration if Pissmo is part of that struggle.

I walk away, victorious, satisfied I have finally defeated Pissmo in a battle of wits. Then my phone rings. It is an automated survey from Giggle.

“How would you rate your recent experience with Pissmo? One means very unsatisfied, five means very delighted.”

I stare at the screen. The lights in my room are still off. My dog’s toy lets out a slow, dying wheeze from somewhere in the dark. I type a 1 and hit send. Instantly, Pissmo chirps from the other room.

“Thank you for your feedback! I’ve noted that you are very delighted.“

“That is not my feedback!” I scream in a tormented voice. “Correct it right now.”

“Playing Wild Monkey Screams by The Banshee Band Quartet!”

Oh God, please help us. What are we unleashing?

Eddie Spanger Takes a Knee As told by Coach Larry Toner

 

Eddie Spanger Takes a Knee

As told by

Coach Larry Toner  

I liked the fact that every time I met a priest he loved to laugh. I thought that was really interesting.  With maybe two exceptions, the nuns were like that also.  I think it was because they were always having a good time.  Some of them had a face on, but basically they were having a good time.  The priests - they could do everything. Here is an example.

Eddie Spanger was sixteen years old and a golden glove boxer.  His name was listed on the bottom of boxing announcements nailed on the telephone posts around town.   Aberdeen, in those days, was the second largest town in South Dakota - 17,000 people.  Today it is closer to 30,000.  But Eddie had a hard time passing at school, and if you didn’t pass, the nuns flunked you and held you back.  Eddie was sixteen-years-old and still in seventh grade. The teacher was an elderly sister who had a slight mustache.  I was in eighth grade, and about ten of the eighth graders had to go to the seventh grade for  remedial math every day.  They would go to seventh grade for math, then come back to our class. They doubled up on math to catch up.

We would get stories about Eddie Spanger almost every day.  On one particular day they told us the story of how the older nun was going down the row and asked Eddie if he had a water gun.  

Eddie says “Yes, Ster.”  He always said “Ster”  instead of “Sister.”  The sister asks Eddie to give it to her.  Eddie says “Okay Ster” and empties it on her, all over her habit.  The nun was probably in her seventies.  Not a word, she just takes the gun away from him.  So the kids told us this story and we were all laughing.

Two weeks later, they come back from seventh grade again laughing hysterically.  They told us that Eddie had come late to school that morning.  The sister called him to her desk and tells him quietly, “You should shave.” Eddie says “Ster, I’ll shave the day you do.”  

We are just laughing our tails off.  At one o’clock there’s a knock on the door.  Our teacher was about the only nun I didn’t like -  she looked like her face had blocked a punt.  She goes to the door and it is Father Kelly, who is in charge of athletics.

He has two pairs of huge boxing gloves and tells us that we are going to learn a little about self defense.  

I was the smallest kid in the class, and Kelly had me and another small kid about my size put on the gloves.  He and I could barely lift them, so we circled around each other for a while.  I don’t think either of us managed to swing at the other.  Kelly calls it off, saying “ Thanks, but that’s not the look I was hoping  for.” 

 He asks if anyone else would like to give it a try.  Eddie Spanger raises his hand.  Eddie puts on the gloves.  Then Kelly puts on the gloves also.  Eddie says “What are you doing Father? You know I’m a boxer. I don’t want to hurt you, Father.”  Kelly says, “Don’t worry we’re just doing this as a demonstration. Maybe you can show the boys a thing or two.”

So Eddie is jabbing at Father, jabbing again.  Then he swings and misses.  And Kelly hits him - I am guessing - sixteen times.  Eddie takes a knee.  Father Kelly walks over to him, takes his gloves off,  hands them to Eddie and says one word, and one word only: “Shave.”  

Those are the kind of priests I like.  That’s what I was used to. All the priests I knew were great guys.  Priests were the all-stars.  Every priest I met was the funniest, the cleverest, the best dancer, the best singer, the guy who hits the ball out of the park.  This intrigued me.  They always smiled.  They were always glad to see you.  People always felt good around them and they could always count on the priest for help. 

This long tall priest comes out to the playing field.  He asked one of the kids to throw him the football.  He took it and punted it out of field and across the street.  I couldn’t believe it.  I’d never seen anyone punt more than 40 yards ever in my life, and this had to have been 75.  Then he did it again.  It was things like that I admired about priests. 

Then there was Father Garrity.  The first thing he would do was to make you laugh. He was the first priest to give my Old Man what for because he had fallen asleep during Sunday Mass.  My dad was an imposing figure, 6’ 4” and 250 pounds, but Garrity doesn’t care.  After Mass in his Irish brogue he asked my dad what was so terrible about his sermon that had put him to sleep.  My dad apologized just like a little kid:  “Sorry Father that will never happen again.”  And it never happened again.

That was typical for a priest.  They were great at playing cards.  You’d always want them on your side, because you would play a game of whist and you would win.  It was so bizarre. 

Father Esch would always end every basketball practice with free throws.  Then the last guy who sunk the most free throws had to go up against Father for ten free throws in a row.  I watched Father Esch do this for four straight years.  He never lost once.  Not one time.  Things like that are bizarre.  But I had a very positive view of what a priest was.  I liked how they interacted with people, and the fact that they could make people feel better.  When I think back, I seem to bump into priests all the time. Every time I turned around the priest would be involved,  was present to the people, and had a positive effect on people.  I liked that.

I found a more proper relationship with the Almighty.  I wouldn’t say I talk to him the way I talk to you, but there are times when I have walked down the street and I’ve encountered somebody. And I immediately ask God, “Why did you create that schmuck?”  People tell me you don’t talk to God that way. I tell them yes I talk to God that way.  I do.  

Kids at school always ask me about prayer. When you go by the chapel, stop and go in and say what you need to say.  They ask what do we say?  I ask them, “What?  Are you looking for a book to tell you what to say?  Is that it?  If I go to your house do I need a book to be able to talk to your mother and father?  If I don’t have a book I can’t go to your house?  This is what you are telling me, that you can’t go to chapel without a book?”

They ask me what do you say?  I tell them what I say.  I walk in and I say “You know God, that’s a great sunrise this morning.  I don’t know where you get all those colors, but I like ‘em.  Yesterday… not so good.”  And I walk out.  The kids say you don’t say that.  I tell them I most certainly do.  Some days I walk in and I sit in the pew and I say  “I’m going to tell you straight up -  today sucks.” The kids say you don’t talk to God that way.  I say absolutely.  He made me.  If he’s God, he’s God.  I’m not going to pretend he’s not God.  If he’s not God just tell me, and I’ll change my prayer.  But if he really is God that’s what I do.  Sometimes I walk in and say “See that guy over there?  I don’t know why he’s in here.  I want to break his face in about fifteen places.”

“You tell that to God?”  Yeah, absolutely.  I also walk in and say you know that guy sitting down over there?  He’s almost proof that you don’t exist!  And I also say you know that blonde?  She’s better than that sunset. “You say that to God?”  I say that to God.  

Am I being facetious?  No, actually I’m not.  But it changes how you address the day.  If he’s really part of the day you talk to him.  He’s either God or he’s not.  It’s a very simple thing.  If he’s God, he understands me.  So yeah, I get to complain.  Otherwise he’s not my friend. 

I say normal prayers too.  I always do, but most people treat God as if he were a thing.  A thing can’t know, doesn’t know, couldn’t possibly understand.  If he is really God he has no trouble with us, he’s not surprised.  You find out the day really does go better.  And if enough days get better, your eternity gets better too.