The ChatGPT Thread

[Renton 22677]

4 minutes ago, Gemmill said:

 

What is this one on about? 

 

He's just jealous he doesn't have one. 

 

Here you go @Monkeys Fist

 

In the quiet town of Forest Hall,
Lived a man known to one and all.
They called him Monkey’s Fist, you see,
For his climbing feats in the old pine trees.

 

An alpine climber in days of yore,
Scaling peaks where eagles soar.
But naughty deeds left a shadowy trail,
A trickster’s charm, a legend frail.

 

From icy cliffs to panes of glass,
He cleaned the windows high and fast.
Even the stands at St. James’ Park,
Shone bright and clean from dawn till dark.

 

But fate would twist like ropes once tight,
His life took turns beneath the night.
An articulated truck he now did drive,
Through winding roads, his spirit alive.

 

Yet whispers grew, a chilling tone,
Of secrets buried near his home.
Beneath the patio, stories hide,
Of bodies laid where shadows bide.

 

Monkey’s Fist, a legend grim,
A life of peaks now dark and dim.
From climbing heights to depths untold,
A tale of mischief, strange and bold.

 

So tread with care in Forest Hall,
Where Monkey’s Fist still casts his thrall.
A man of lore, both light and shade,
A curious tale that time has made.

[Meenzer 15911]

You do know these are all the same, right?  

[Dr Gloom 22784]

In Paris streets, beneath the skies,
Where wealth and power met his eyes,
Lived Chezgiven, a financier grand,
With silver tongue and a golden hand.

He danced through life with flair and grace,
A high-flyer in the city's race,
Yet whispers circled, faint and near,
Of favours done for sailors' cheer—
A box of tobacco, an evening's trade,
For promises in shadows laid.

 

But fate, it seems, had more in store,
For Chezgiven, the man of lore.
In distant lands, a forum called,
Toontastic, where the Geordies sprawled.

A place for banter, dreams, and rants,
Where football ruled, and hope enchants.
And there, amid the posts and noise,
A new voice rose—Chezgiven’s joys.

 

With sharp debate and wit profound,
He challenged minds, he held his ground.
In politics, he found his muse,
A lover of the fine, the few.
From caviar to vintage wine,
He spouted thoughts, both sharp and fine,

But deeper still, a darker side—
For class A drugs, he did not hide.

And then, in time, the forum kings,
Appointed him with power's wings—

A mod, a ruler of the thread,
A force to fear, a voice to dread.
He wielded bans with iron hand,
"New rules!" he'd shout across the land,
The members groaned, the trolls did flee,
As Chezgiven set Toontastic free.

 

He banned the blasphemers, crushed the fun,
With every click, he’d make them run.
And soon, the forum, once alive,
Lay still, beneath his rule, deprived.

His power swelled, his ego grew,
Until he’d banned both old and new.
And still, he sat, so high, so proud,
The king of Toontastic, shouting loud.

 

But fate is fickle, as it goes,
And Chezgiven, blinded by his prose,
Did not see the danger close,
That came in bubbles, soft and rose.

 

A party night, a grand affair,
Champagne corks flying through the air.
And in a moment of pure jest,
He sought a “new way” to feel blessed.

A champagne enema, quite absurd,
To lift his spirits, so he stirred.

But chaos struck, a deadly twist,
As bubbles burst, he could not resist.

The fizz, the burn, the sudden pain,
It took him down, it sealed his reign.

The forum mourned, though few were kind,
The king had gone, the mod declined.

His power now a distant tale,
Of champagne dreams and ego’s wail.

So, remember Chezgiven’s fall,
A man who rose, and then did stall.

From Paris heights to Toontastic's seat,
His life was grand, but incomplete.
The lesson here, though dark and grim—
Too much of power can drown you in.

 

Edited Wednesday at 14:15 by Dr Gloom

[Monkeys Fist 43899]

1 hour ago, Gemmill said:

this one

[thebrokendoll 9713]

@Renton, @Dr Gloom,

 

can you do one these for our mate keith from over the road?

[Renton 22677]

9 minutes ago, thebrokendoll said:

@Renton, @Dr Gloom,

 

can you do one these for our mate keith from over the road?

 A bit too nice, but still. Thing is if I had time I would just make some manual edits, as it is, this is ChatGPT's work. 

 

 

Keith, the Legend of the SMB

There’s a man named Keith, with a Sunderland scarf,
He’s middle-aged, retired—though it makes people laugh.
How he earned it, no one’s quite sure,
But Keith swears his wisdom is always mature.

 

He moderates the SMB, a forum so grand,
Clicking and typing with sausage-like hands.
An enemy of Newcastle, he spits at their name,
Declaring them doomed to eternal shame.

 

“Oh, Isak’s a waste, just look at the fee!
He’s slower than me, and I’m fifty-three!”
“Gordon’s a flop, he’s all hair, no skill,
And Bruno’s just hype, not worth the bill.”

 

“Joelinton’s a joke, can’t hit a barn door!”
Keith said it all with a confident roar.
But the Magpies soared, their stars shining bright,
While Keith sat fuming on SMB each night.

 

His predictions are bold, his opinions are loud,
He’ll preach to the masses, drawing a crowd.
“Trust me,” he says, with a confident grin,
But his forecasts? They never quite win.

 

Unintelligent, sure, but earnest and proud,
Keith's still adored by his Sunderland crowd.
He’s a Terry Fuckwit, a fool with a heart,
A comedic misstep in football’s grand art.

 

So here’s to Keith, the SMB knight,
Wrong about everything, yet still a delight.
For what would we do without his bold claim,
And his endless devotion to Sunderland’s name?

[Gemmill 47704]

You're better off with a short story than a poem. Chat GPT really goes to town. This from when CT discovered that the AI on his mugs was just stealing was a beauty. 

 

On 06/12/2024 at 06:39, Gemmill said:

### The Fragments of Christmas Tree

 

Christmas Tree wasn’t his real name, of course. His parents named him Christopher, but everyone in town called him Christmas Tree because he ran a seasonal shop that sold trinkets, ornaments, and festive junk all year round. It hadn’t always been this way. He used to dream of being an artist, but life had ground those dreams into dust, leaving him to peddle cheap nostalgia in the form of glitter-coated baubles.

 

Then he discovered AI-generated art.  

 

It started innocently enough—a friend had shown him an app that could conjure beautiful, intricate images with just a few words. Landscapes, animals, surreal dreamscapes—it could do it all. Christmas Tree saw an opportunity. His trinket shop was failing, and he needed a way to stay afloat. Why not print this AI art onto cups and mugs? People loved unique, artistic designs, and no one had to know they weren’t his own creations.  

 

The business took off. He sold more mugs in six months than he had in six years. Customers loved the designs: serene woodland scenes, abstract splashes of color, melancholy portraits that seemed to speak to the soul. Christmas told everyone the work was “AI-assisted,” but deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t made anything. The AI had done it all—or so he thought.  

 

One evening, as he was loading another batch of mugs into his online store, he received a message.  

 

The email was blunt:  

**“Your AI is stealing. The designs you’re using are mine.”**  

 

Attached were links to a gallery. Christmas clicked them, and his stomach churned. The artwork was identical to the images he’d been printing. The same swirling skies, the same delicate brushstrokes. The artist explained that the AI didn’t “create” anything—it scraped data from existing works, breaking them apart and recombining them. His bestsellers were stolen fragments of someone else’s soul.  

 

For the first time in years, guilt hit Christmas Tree like a freight train. He had spent months profiting from stolen creativity. He had built his success on lies and exploitation. Worse, he realized, he had never even *cared* about the art. It had just been a means to an end, another way to make money.  

 

He couldn’t live with himself.  

 

Christmas stumbled into his workshop that night, his breath ragged, his mind a storm of shame. The mugs and cups were stacked high on shelves, their glossy surfaces gleaming in the pale light of the single bulb overhead. Each one felt like a testament to his failure—not just as an artist, but as a human being.  

 

He grabbed a mug off the shelf and hurled it against the wall. The shattering sound was satisfying, cathartic, so he grabbed another, and another. He smashed them against the walls, the floor, the workbench. The workshop became a symphony of destruction, shards of ceramic flying in all directions.  

 

In his frenzy, he didn’t notice a sharp fragment of a mug flying toward him until it was too late. The jagged edge sliced clean through the tip of his right pinky finger.  

 

Christmas screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured onto the floor. He sank to his knees, the pain sharp and unrelenting, the guilt swelling even larger in his chest. There he sat, surrounded by the wreckage of his business and his body, blood pooling beneath him as he cried out to the empty room.  

 

“This is what I deserve,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is what I deserve for being a fraud, a coward…”  

 

The workshop door creaked open. His wife, Clara, stood there in her robe, her face pale with worry.  

 

“Chris, what the hell is going on?” she gasped, rushing to his side.  

 

He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, his hand trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding.  

 

“I’ve ruined everything,” he said. “I lied… I stole… I’m no better than a parasite.”  

 

“Chris, you’re hurt! Stop talking like that. Let me get something for the bleeding—”  

 

“No, Clara. You don’t understand,” he interrupted, his voice trembling. “It’s not just the mugs. It’s my whole life. I’ve been lying to myself… to you. All this time, I’ve been hiding who I am. I don’t even know if I ever loved you the way you deserved.”  

 

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”  

 

He lowered his head, unable to meet her gaze. “I’ve always been gay,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought… I thought marrying you would fix me, or make it go away. But it didn’t. And now… now I’ve hurt you too. Just like I hurt those artists.”  

 

Clara knelt beside him, silent for a moment. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.  

 

“Chris,” she said softly, “you’re bleeding out. Let’s deal with that first.”  

 

Her practicality jolted him back to reality. She grabbed a clean rag from the workbench and wrapped it around his hand, applying pressure to stem the bleeding.  

 

As she worked, he stared at her, bewildered by her calmness.  

 

“You’re not… angry?” he asked.  

 

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I think I’ve known for a while. Maybe not consciously, but… I’ve felt it. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Or if I should.”  

 

Christmas Tree let out a shuddering breath, the weight of decades pressing down on him. He felt stripped bare, as if the last mask he’d been wearing had finally crumbled.  

 

“Clara,” he said, “I’m so sorry. For everything.”  

 

She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “But first, let’s get you to a hospital before you bleed to death, okay?”  

 

He laughed bitterly, the sound choked and raw. “A fitting end, don’t you think? Dying in the middle of my own mess.”  

 

“No,” she said firmly, helping him to his feet. “This isn’t the end. It’s just… a new beginning. A painful one, sure, but maybe it’s the one you’ve needed all along.”  

 

As they left the workshop, the shards of broken mugs glittered in the dim light, a fractured mosaic of everything Christmas Tree had been—and everything he might yet become.  

 

[RobinRobin 11896]

4 minutes ago, Gemmill said:

You're better off with a short story than a poem. Chat GPT really goes to town. This from when CT discovered that the AI on his mugs was just stealing was a beauty. 

 

 

Short story? 🙂 

[Renton 22677]

Okay, Keith, the story.

 

Keith’s Last Stand

Keith Fuckwit sat in his dimly lit bungalow on the outskirts of Sunderland, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee in his prized possession: a battered mug emblazoned with the Sunderland crest and the words 1973 FA Cup Winners. It was his daily reminder of a simpler, better time when men were men, footballers didn’t dive, and Sunderland reigned supreme—for one glorious afternoon at Wembley.

Keith was 54 but retired. His official reason? "The bloody EU ruined everything!" Despite Brexit being nearly a decade behind him, Keith still blamed Brussels for his early exit from work as a forklift operator. "It’s all the immigrants and the regulations," he'd mutter to anyone who'd listen, which was mostly the crowd on the SMB (Sunderland Message Board), where he served as an overzealous moderator.

The Glory of SMB

On the SMB, Keith was king. From behind his keyboard, he enforced forum rules with an iron fist, banning “wronguns” and Newcastle fans with glee. He spent hours typing up rants about how "the Geordies are ruining football" and "Nigel Farage is a bloody genius." When he wasn’t banning users, he was making bold predictions about Sunderland’s future: "Promotion is nailed on this season, lads!" or "Newcastle’s bubble is about to burst, mark my words!"

Unfortunately, Keith’s words were rarely worth marking. Every prediction he made fell flat. Sunderland had languished in League One longer than he cared to admit, while Newcastle soared, backed by their controversial Saudi owners. But Keith didn’t care for facts. "It’s all fake news," he declared. "Sportswashing, that’s what it is. They’ll implode."

The Breaking Point

It was February 2025 when Keith’s world came crashing down. He had reluctantly tuned in to the League Cup Final, muttering about how Newcastle would “bottle it” as they faced Liverpool. Deep down, he feared the worst but kept his ritual of bitter hope alive.

And then it happened. Newcastle won. A thunderous 2-1 victory at Wembley, complete with a last-minute screamer from their star midfielder. The black-and-white stripes lifted the trophy, their fans erupted in celebration, and Keith… well, Keith erupted too.

He stared at the TV in stunned silence, his face flushed with fury. His trembling hands gripped his 1973 mug. "Traitors! Cheats! Bloody Geordie-loving media!" he roared. Then, with a primal scream, he hurled the mug against the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces, just like Keith’s dreams.

The Final Shutdown

Keith turned to the SMB for solace, but the board was ablaze with trolls and rival fans mocking Sunderland’s plight. He read a particularly cutting post from a Newcastle fan: "Cheers for your predictions, Keith. You’ve been wrong for 10 years straight! How’s the Chamionship treating you?"

That was it. Keith snapped. Fueled by rage and his inability to cope with reality, he announced in a now-infamous post: "Due to new data protection regulations, the SMB is shutting down indefinitely. Blame Brussels!"

It was a lie, of course. Keith simply couldn’t bear to face the ridicule any longer. He clicked the button to deactivate the board, his finger shaking with the weight of his delusions.

Aftermath

With the SMB gone, Keith retreated further into his bubble. He spent his days ranting at the TV, muttering about how the world had gone to the dogs. His only solace was his Brexit mug—a replacement for the one he’d shattered (bought from a man from Etsy based in Boldon) —bearing the slogan "We Got Our Country Back."

But even Keith couldn’t fully escape reality. Sunderland were relegated to League One, Newcastle thrived, and his neighbors—former SMB members—whispered about his meltdown.

In the end, Keith was a man defeated not by the world but by his own inability to change. For Keith, the 1973 mug wasn’t just a relic of Sunderland’s glory—it was a symbol of a life spent clinging to the past. And once it shattered, so did Keith’s delusions.

---

Keith’s story is one of stubborn pride, self-inflicted isolation, and a deep hatred of change. Somewhere, Terry Fuckwit would surely nod in approval.

Edited yesterday at 12:46 by Renton