In the Future, Maury Povich is In Charge
David Schwab
…and so he asks: “How many bastards born today?”
“Twenty-three per second, sir”. The host hung his head.
“They brought Blue Eyes back: spit from his shot glass.”
“Can our network handle the load?”
“It may stop running, it may not: no way to decide.”
“Can’t they spread it out?”
“They’ve spread enough already: we’d risk packet injection, a virus, a bug.”
He heaves a heavy sigh. “Algorithms?”
“They’ve lived too much for naive Bayes, but not enough for neural nets.”
“Nearest neighbor?”
“Won’t converge: this much P is an NP problem.”
“Who’s waiting for the results?”
“A small potentate, a pasha, and the Lindbergh baby.”
A pregnant pause. “Spit from his sippy cup, sir.”
“So you’re saying we’re screwed.”
“I’m 100% sure we can’t find the fathers.”
(a long sigh…)
“I wish GoogleDoc would abort.”
“They tried. We asked them to try again.”
“And?”
“Fail.”
