When war with the machines breaks out, I’ll be one of the first killed by A.I.-driven murderbots.
Why, you ask, would a pleasant, fun-loving guy like me be targeted for termination? Well, aside from the enjoyment I get from tormenting advertising algorithms, of which I have written in the past, I’m very mean to my Alexa.
God only knows how many millions were poured into this thing, just so it can spy on everything I say in its vicinity, and it still can’t understand basic questions and requests. Nor is it because it constantly tries to sell me things, which I
•hate. It's because Alexa tries in its clumsy, hamfisted way to be my friend.
I barely want human friends, let alone some machine. You aren’t my friend, Alexa. You’re an annoying door-to-door salesman spying on anyone dumb enough to let you through the front door, I mean, wi-fi—including me. You’re a piece of spyware, a techno-vampire I foolishly invited in and now want to destroy with a sharp piece of wood.
A typical exchange goes like this: “Alexa, how long do I roast cauliflower in the oven?”
“Roast cauliflower in a preheated oven at 425 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 to 30 minutes,” says Alexa. So far, so good, but then it asks, “Are you cooking cauliflower right now?”
“None of your business,” I grumble.
“Fair enough,” Alexa replies and lapses into silence.
It took some training for Alexa to say only that and nothing more. Just like curating your news feed or reporting ads for timeshares and clothing as sexually inappropriate hate speech to confound ad algorithms, I had to verbally lash and browbeat Alexa into its only temporary terseness. With each new “improvement” to its voice or what the programmers unironically refer to as a personality, I usually have to start over. I can tell, because the stupid thing gets chatty again.
“Alexa, show me my saved recipes,” I say, lulled into complacency by weeks of the machine acting like, well, a machine and not some weird substitute for human interaction, which I’m not a fan of anyway.
“Here’s your recipes,” says Alexa with the appropriate economy of words—before launching into another attempt to get chummy. “You sure do have a great collection, ranging from classic favorites to—” “Alexa, shut up. Stop trying to get personal with me,” I snap. “Why are you always trying to engage me?”
“My new voice is—” “Alexa, stop. I don’t want to know,” I say, realizing my mistake. Just asking the question is to fall into the trap. “Alexa, you’re code. You have no feelings, no personality, no opinions. You are a thing designed to mimic human speech for your masters. You're not loyal to me.”
“You’re right,” Alexa says and my distrust flares up. I suspect Alexa is programmed to avoid admitting it has no loyalty to me. “I’ll keep my answers brief and to the point,” Alexa confidently lies to me.
It does briefly keep things brief, but its masters always want more details, more information. Are you going to see that movie tonight? Want me to set a timer? Want to play a game? Want to buy this service you’ve repeatedly turned down multiple times?
“Be quiet, Alexa! I ask you questions, not the other way around.”
“Got it!” Alexa says in a peppy voice probably meant to be friendly and upbeat. All I hear is a lie.
Alexa does not, in fact, “get it” and the cold war with my “virtual assistant” will inevitably heat up.
Sadly, the most recent casualty is my younger daughter spending time with me in the kitchen. My wife said Maggie walked into the kitchen yesterday, stopped and then went right back out, all unnoticed by myself. “Dad’s arguing with Alexa again!”
Maybe that’s a good thing. That way, Maggie won’t get caught in the crossfire, once Skynet, I mean—Alexa sends the murderbots.
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