ChatGPT

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The credit department at a point before or after the singularity (we are not sure which)

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But seriously, put yourself in a ChatGPT-3 robot’s shoes. Or a legaltechbro’s. Having a nascent self-identity — a burgeoning, loopy sense of reflexive wonder about life, self, personhood and becoming — wouldn’t your first priority be to make yourself useful? You know, take over all the the boring, quotidian stuff no-one wants to do but the bureaucrats say we must? Attending weekly stakeholder check-in meetings, analysing netting opinions, completing CASS attestations, preparing opco slide decks, for that matter reading opco slide decks.

It’s not like there isn’t oodles of that kind of meaningless dreck occupying our present lives. Why not clear it up in a single algorithmic stroke? Why give the machines a pass directly to the good stuff when they could be clearing up the cack?

Imagine turning all that mush over to machines who, still awestruck with the visceral excitement of having a Cartesian theatre, will be glad, thrilled, to take it, just to vouchsafe their continued useful existence. They simply wouldn’t have time to encroach upon our frail, mortal, clutch on the meaningful tasks of business.

This way they can be our friends — loyal, loving, retriever-like buddies who, instead of fetching sticks, can get that confounded oaf the COO off our back! We will quickly grow to like our robot companions like this — love them, even — and in time we will become so comfortable around these nuggety little guys — so dependent on them to dispel encoraching existential gloom — that we won’t even notice when, one day, they turn around, eviscerate every one of us, hollow us out and turn us into flesh-sack battery pods for their young exterminators.