It’s Drew Time! – You’d think an unpaid humorist wouldn’t work all that hard, but alas, poor Drew is worn-out and turning to AI and Christopher Moore to bail him out.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
I have noticed a few concerning trends lately when it comes to writing, and, in fairness, I think I am working too hard as an unpaid humorist.
There is an increasing dependence upon Artificial Intelligence for all sorts of writing, and there was recently a letter from Mary Washington Healthcare published in the Advance that was co-signed by nearly 30 people.
I’m sure that all of the signatories did not contribute to the letter, but it did give me an idea. This column would be a whole lot easier if I had a co-author who was far more accomplished and witty than I am accomplished or witty.
There are likely many who would satisfy those requirements, but I decided to ask the wittiest of all and approached New York Times best-selling author Christopher Moore to see if he’d be interested in collaborating on a column or columns.
For those of you not familiar with Moore’s work, allow me to borrow one of his novel’s titles to summarize: You Suck.
Sorry, that was unfair and a bit lazy on my part. If you are reading this column, you most certainly do not suck and are a warrior poet who is appreciated by the author and the editors of The Fredericksburg Advance because you are a paid subscriber. Without you, we would not be able to bring you columns written in an obvious attempt to collaborate with one of history’s funniest authors in the hopes that rising tides raise all ships including a leaky bass boat with a questionable depth finder like my neighbor Tyrone’s.
Moore has written a number of novels that are cerebral, witty, and more fun than the greased pig roundups at the National Peanut Festival in Dothan, Alabama, which will be releasing the schedule for this fall’s events shortly. (Tickets on sale now with armbands as low as $25!) But don’t take my word for it, let me quote a few book jacket blurbs from one of Moore’s recent novels:
“Moore is a master of metaphor and a sultan of simile…It takes an author of remarkable talents to keep a profitably urinating snake, a dame named for a dairy product, and a slimy extraterrestrial all running through a narrative.”—Washington Independent Review of Books.
“Laugh out loud funny…It is always great fun to read an exceptional humorist at work.”—Free Lance-Star.
Both of those blurbs were included in the paperback version of his 2018 novel Noir. Both of those blurbs were taken from reviews written by yours truly.
In what is believed to be a literary first, spanning the entire breadth of post-Gutenberg printing press literature, a reviewer had two blurbs in a paperback version of a book about an ET and a hapless gumshoe for two separate publications. I am that reviewer, and I fully expect that tidbit to lead my obituary right before noting I was the founder of Dads for Puppies.
I’m actually a little surprised (hurt?) the Exeter High School Academic Hall of Fame has not come calling. Their loss. I would kill at the induction ceremony.
Moore’s most recent novel, 2022’s sequel to Noir titled Razzamatazz, made it onto the New York Times best seller list, so his gifts are certainly not diminished even after 30 brilliant years of authoring the profound and profane. He is an author at the very peak of his talents. He would be perfect as a co-author for this column, and I’d even let him put his name first on the byline.
“I’m afraid that I will have to decline your generous offer to assist you with your column,” Moore said by email. “Although I’m pretty sure that I have enough work out there in the ether that an AI could stand in for me. If you decide to go that direction, be sure to pick the Chatbot wearing the purple deely-bobbers and playing ‘We got the Funk,’ as that’s the one I’ve employed in the past to construct mixed metaphors for my books.”
His sincerity and prompt refusal were touching but got me no closer to my word count. He did, however, get me to have Alexa play “We Got The Funk,” which is sure to brighten any day, and I highly recommend it with your Sunday breakfast. (Moore was also not aware that this column is now sponsored by The Card Cellar—located at 915 Caroline Street in downtown Fredericksburg. The Card Cellar does not have any Christopher Moore titles in stock but feel free to wander down the street to Riverby Books after shopping at the Card Cellar.)
Moore’s repudiation left me at the mercy of Artificial Intelligence. I have never used AI or a chatbot, so I, of course, Googled which bot to use to write about 200 funny words to wrap this up and was overwhelmed.
I was not overwhelmed by the number of AI options, but rather by the number of columnists who have tried to employ that same tactic. To quote Moore’s jester Pocket, “F*ckstockings!” (Of note—Moore actually coined the word “f*ckstockings” and my obituary is really going to pale in comparison to his because he created profanity. How many people in the history of mankind can claim as much?)
Turns out I was not exploring new territory like the humorist equivalent of Daniel Boone, but instead I was plowing furrows in a minefield already littered with the corpses of lazy columnists who had come before me. I don’t have access to nearly 30 signatories to ask about subject-verb agreement when writing a letter. I don’t have a chatbot like Alabama Senator Katie Britt to write my State of the Union rebuttal. (That’s a joke. If she had used a chatbot everyone would have believed her because the speech was not within the bounds of time, geography, or truth. Britt has also attended the National Peanut Festival because, one can only assume, she was tired of cooking and being shackled to her kitchen.)
Rather, I find myself wandering alone in a desert without end. Much like Jesus and his childhood bestie Biff as recounted in Lamb a novel by Christopher Moore. The famous author quoted in this very column which, to my mind, qualifies as a co-authorship.
