FROM THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
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THE SPONGE.
There is a place where sponges grow;
Where corals sit and contemplate
The awful mysteries of fate;
Where, pickled in eternal brine,
The sea-cucumbers mope and pine,
Imagining a better life
Above the ocean’s daily strife;
Where sea-anemones despair
And curse the tangled hair they wear;
Where hermit crabs, dejected, roam
From shell to shell in search of home.
Not so, not so the gentle sponge.
Misfortune never makes him plunge
Into depression, nor does pain
Make much impression on his brain:
His brain in youth was very small,
But now he has no brain at all.
The key to bliss would seem to be
Inflexible stupidity.
We humans bear a brainy curse,
But we could do a whole lot worse
Than imitate this mindless sage
Who eats his brain when he comes of age.
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WE HEARD YOU!
FROM THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
Sir: You know what I think? I think artificial intelligence is getting too uppity, that’s what I think. I think someone needs to put that artificial intelligence in its place and tell it we won’t stand for any more of its nonsense, that’s what I think. Like today I was getting my annual physical, and the nurse told me to get on the scale, and when I did it said “174,” and below that it said “GROSS.” Now, it’s fine to make scales intelligent so they can take account of general relativity or whatever they have to do to calculate your weight, but they should be keeping their opinions to themselves. There’s no need for them to go around insulting patients. So I think someone needs to tell that scale it’s out of a job if it doesn’t change its attitude. —Sincerely, Abraham Mink, a man who is not at all gross.