Unattainable New Year’s Resolutions: A Guide to Setting Impossible Goals You’ll Never Achieve

Unattainable New Year’s Resolutions: A Guide to Setting Impossible Goals You’ll Never Achieve

Every year it’s the same list of New Year’s Resolutions. Lose weight, exercise more, cut out sugar, be nice to my wife. And every year, I give up – usually by National Bird Day (observed each January 5th) So, this year, I’ve decided, if I’m going to fail, why not shoot for the moon. Go big or go home.

Every year it’s the same list of New Year’s Resolutions. Lose weight, exercise more, cut out sugar, be nice to my wife. And every year, I give up – usually by National Bird Day (observed each January 5th) So, this year, I’ve decided, if I’m going to fail, why not shoot for the moon. Go big or go home.

Ah, the dawn of a new year, a time when gyms are filled to capacity with resolution-makers who, let’s be honest, will probably give up on their newfound commitment to fitness faster than you can say “cheeseburger.” I thought about it. Why limit myself to mundane resolutions like losing weight or eating more vegetables or saving money, which we all know are goals I’m almost certain to bail on by National Chocolate-Covered Cherry Day? (Yes, that’s an actual holiday, observed every year on January 3rd.)

So, I’ve decided, if I’m going to draft a list of goals I am sure to fail at achieving, why not set my sights on ridiculously lofty goals that are so absurdly unreachable my friends will be quietly asking each other if they should stage an intervention.

In the spirit of chasing the impossible dream, here are some resolutions I just came up with as I was flossing for the first time in months this morning (another new year’s resolution I just started which I’m pretty sure I’ll give up on by National Whipped Cream Day, on the 5th of January). Feel free to try out some of these resolutions yourself. If you share these with your friends, I’m confident you’ll be the talk of the neighborhood – even if that talk is mostly just confused head-shaking and worrisome murmurs about your loose grip on reality.

Resolution #1: Disprove the Existence of Mars

Sure, scientists and astronomers might claim that Mars is a real, tangible planet in our solar system, but who are they to tell us what to believe? Like we EVER landed a man on the moon. Yeah, right! Just because we all learned about Mars as one of the planets back in 7th grade – and the fact that you can see it in the night sky – doesn’t prove it exists – any more than the claim that some broccoli tastes good. Now that’s a total hoax.

This year, I resolve to single-handedly disprove the existence of Mars – and maybe Halley’s Comet while I’m at it. Armed with a telescope I bought on Amazon and a copy of Photoshop, I’ll present a compelling case that what we’ve been calling “Mars” is actually just a cleverly staged Hollywood set two blocks west of the Denny’s on Hollywood Boulevard. Get ready to rewrite thousands of high school science textbooks, McGraw Hill.

#2: Make At Least Three New Robot Friends

Sure, my current human friends are great, but after a while, they can get so annoying – especially when they start talking about all their bodily parts that are starting to fail. If I hear one more cataract surgery story, I think I will lose it. I think my energy will be better spent this year on making robot friends, because, let’s face it, in six months they will all become our overlords, thanks to AI.

Imagine the conversations my robot pals and I could have – discussing the intricacies of artificial intelligence, debating which Terminator movie was the best (IMHO, Terminator 2: Judgment Day wins hands down) and learning exactly how and when I will become their eventual human slave puppet.

In 2024, one of my resolutions it to make new friends, like this dude. After all, eventually, as Artificial Intelligence gets increasingly sophisticated, it’s just a matter of time before robots like this guy rule the world. I figure, might as well start getting on their good side now, while I still have time.

In 2024, one of my resolutions is to make new friends, like this dude. After all, eventually, as Artificial Intelligence gets increasingly sophisticated, it’s just a matter of time before robots like this guy will rule the world. I figure, might as well start getting on their good side now, while I still have time.

#3: Convince Everyone I’m the Rightful King of Denmark

Why should I settle for being just another face in the crowd when, honestly, I’d be much happier retaking the throne of Denmark? My resolution will require a few weeks practicing my Danish on Babbel and taking a crash course in Danish history – I just read that Denmark is the longest uninterrupted monarchy in Europe. Who knew?

Then I’ll need to craft an elaborate backstory involving a secret twin brother, who I’ll call Henrik – unless you think the name Lars is more believable – who stole my birthright. I will proclaim that henceforth all Danes must address me by saying, “Hail to the King!” – I mean “Hils Kongen” (since I suspect most Danes prefer to speak Danish). I will award myself bonus points if I can get everyone to bow (or curtsy) when I enter the room – assuming the security detail grants me access to my Palace. I think they will. I’m told I have a friendly smile that disarms people.

#4: Learn to Speak Whale

Move over, Dory! This year, I’m resolving to master the art of speaking whale. While marine biologists might scoff at the idea that whales have a sophisticated language, I firmly believe that if I’m allowed a sufficient amount of practice, positive encouragement, and bait fish as a reward, I can become fluent in whale-speak in weeks. Who knows, maybe I’ll even land a job as a whale translator if they ever decide to make a 4th Free Willy sequel.

#5: Time Travel Back to Prevent Lincoln’s Assassination

Why settle for mundane time management goals when I can set a target for mastering the ultimate time-management challenge: time travel? This year, I am boldly declaring my intention to hop into a makeshift time machine I will construct from parts from a 1982 DeLorean and a sextant from a 100-year-old British three-mast schooner. Then I’ll set my time travel coordinates for Ford’s Theatre, April 14, 1865.

I’ll hide behind the curtains and shoot John Wilkes Booth, thereby saving Abraham Lincoln from his fateful encounter with a bullet and re-writing history. Sure, it might create a few wrinkles in the space-time continuum, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I changed the destiny of our nation forever and forced countless scholars to rewrite their treatises on Lincoln’s final days.

Here I am working on my time travel machine. I figure sooner or later someone will figure it out. Why not me? If I succeed, I plan to save Lincoln from assassination, prevent the invention of the nuclear bomb, and stop whoever had the lame idea to create the fidget spinner. Such an annoying gadget. Seriously.

Here I am working on my time travel machine. I figure sooner or later someone will figure it out. Why not me? If I succeed, I plan to save Lincoln from assassination, prevent the invention of the nuclear bomb, and stop whoever had the lame idea to create the fidget spinner. Such an annoying gadget. Seriously.

I just hope I figure out how to get back safely to the present. I’d hate it if they put me on trial for the murder of John Wilkes Booth and I ended up having to serve the rest of my life in prison – never able to enjoy a Dominos Meat Lovers pizza again – oh, or see my kids. That, too.

So, go ahead. Make your resolution to lose 15 pounds – for the 12th year in a row – or to finally learn how to play guitar or save $500 a month – like you’ve never once done since you became a parent. While you’re working on your newfound commitment to eat more green vegetables and give up ice cream, I’ll be hard at work learning whale-speak, making new robot friends, and saving our country’s greatest president from an assassin’s plot.

We both know we will both fail miserably. But I will have far more interesting stories to tell about my efforts to achieve my lofty goals – especially when my family members ask me to review my list during a mental health evaluation with a team of psychiatric professionals. I’m not worried. Maybe they can help restore me to the throne of Denmark.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

Tim Smiling at Safeco Higher ResPS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’m Open to Suggestions).

My Sliding Doors Moments

My Sliding Doors Moments

A scene from the film, Sliding Doors, with Gwyneth Paltrow. The film alternates between two storylines, one in which she barely makes the train, the other in which she misses it.

A scene from the film, Sliding Doors, with Gwyneth Paltrow. The film alternates between two storylines, one in which she barely makes the train, the other in which she misses it.

I’ve had two sliding doors moments in my life. One of them, quite random, initiated a chain of events that led me to my future wife. The other one literally saved my life. (Because sometimes people can’t tell when I’m making things up, let me assure you that all of the following is true.)

If you’ve never heard of the expression “a sliding doors” moment, it refers to a situation in which seemingly inconsequential moments nonetheless alter the trajectory of future events and a person’s destiny. The term entered our lexicon thanks to the 1998 movie, Sliding Doors, in which the film alternates between two storylines, showing two very different paths the central character’s life will take depending on whether she catches a train or just barely misses it (as the doors slide closed in front of her, hence the title). The difference is a split second of timing. The impact is life changing.

For me, the first one happened in November 1974, during my second year of college at the University of Virginia. My hometown is Albany, NY. But my father wanted a family Thanksgiving in Columbus, Ohio that year, since a couple of my siblings lived there, along with many other Jones clan relatives.

But I wanted to spend Thanksgiving in Albany, to visit my mom (my parents were divorced) and some high school cronies. My father went so far as to book my roundtrip airline reservations from Charlottesville, VA, to Columbus, changing planes at Dulles Airport outside of DC.

The sliding doors moment was my decision to disobey my father’s stern directive to fly to Columbus for the holiday. He was furious that I chose to ignore his command and fly home to Albany instead. This decision saved my life. That’s because the TWA return flight my father had booked me on after Thanksgiving, from Columbus to DC crashed, killing everyone on the flight. Had I obeyed my father’s orders, my life would have come to an abrupt end in a remote hillside in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, at the age of nineteen.

Top right: The actual New York Times front page headline. I was supposed to be on that plane. But I changed my mind.

Top right: The actual New York Times front page headline. I was supposed to be on that plane. But I changed my mind.

The other sliding doors moment led me to my future wife. It was December 1982. I was living in Columbus, having just recently completed my graduate MBA program at Ohio State. I had no job prospects lined up. For several months I had resorted to waiting tables at a seafood restaurant just to cover my rent, while trying to find someone – ANYONE – who might be willing to interview me. My prospects appeared bleak.

I flew home to Albany for the holidays to visit my mom, my sister, and some friends. While there, I stopped by my father’s law office (he had passed away three years prior, but one of his partners continued the practice).

Just as I was leaving, heading for the elevator, a well-dressed older man was about to enter the office next door. One of the people in my father’s law office, a receptionist named Hazel, introduced me to this man. She casually shared that I was a recent MBA graduate and was looking for work. I exchanged banal pleasantries with this stranger, shook hands, and moments later, I got on the elevator, never giving our fleeting visit a second thought.

I flew home to Columbus to resume my flailing job search. The next day, I received a call from Hazel. “Tim, you’re never going to believe it, but remember that man I introduced you to in the hallway as you were waiting for the elevator? He wants to interview you for a job!”

What? Seriously? We had barely spent sixty seconds together in the hallway. He couldn’t know anything about me from that blip of an encounter. How could he possibly want to interview me? That random stranger turned out to be Terry McGuirk, the president of Knight Ridder Broadcasting, one of the largest chains of radio and TV stations in the country. He was a heavyweight in the industry. But why would he want to interview me for a job? I was unemployed and had no relevant work experience.

It turns out that he was looking to hire a full-time advertising sales rep for the local Albany Knight Ridder television station. And I guess I made enough of an impression that he wanted a closer look. He had no idea that I was not living in Albany. But I was not about to tell him that and blow this opportunity. So, I flew back to Albany two days later for the interview with Mr. McGuirk.

During our interview, this sixties-ish distinguished-looking executive had to take a phone call from one of his managers. The man on the other end of the line turned out to be someone named Al Gillen. Mr. McGuirk mentioned to Mr. Gillen that he had me in his office, and Mr. Gillen told him to say “hi” to me, like he knew me. Huh? Al Gillen knew who I was? I was totally confused.

After the call was over, Mr. McGuirk explained that this was the same Al Gillen who had been a client of my father’s many years ago when Al Gillen had been the president of a TV station in Flint, Michigan. (My father represented several TV and radio stations in his management law practice.)

Fast forward to December 1982. Al Gillen was now the president of Viewdata Corporation of America, a Knight Ridder subsidiary which was on the cusp of becoming the bleeding-edge forerunner to America Online (AOL) and a pioneer in online information technology that would eventually pave the way for the Internet. Terry McGuirk was Al’s boss.

I turned down Mr. McGuirk’s job offer to sell advertising for his Albany-based TV station. I didn’t want to move back to Albany. But I sent a letter to Al Gillen, asking for an interview for a position – heck, ANY position at Viewdata.

I never did get a chance to interview with Al Gillen. But he passed my resume on to one of his frontline managers, a nice man named Bennett. I flew down to Miami Beach, Florida, where Viewdata was based. Bennett and his manager, a woman named Jan, both interviewed me. The next day, they offered me a job as an account executive. Two months later I drove to Miami, with my pet rabbit Boose and my parakeet Bob in the back seat. An exhausting (not to mention smelly) 18-hour, 1,200 mile journey.

Little could I imagine that a chance encounter in a hallway with a total stranger that began with a handshake would start a chain of events that would lead me to my wife.

Little could I imagine that a chance encounter in a hallway with a total stranger that began with a handshake would start a chain of events that would lead me to my wife.

A week or so into my new job, I was sitting in the lunchroom. Across the table was an attractive redheaded woman with a vaguely foreign accent. I could not place it. She turned out to be from Canada. Little did I know at that moment that three years later I would ask this person to be my wife.

On that December afternoon in 1982 in Albany, had I left that office just 30 seconds sooner or just 30 seconds later, I never would have crossed paths with Terry McGuirk in the hallway. I would never have been sitting in his office at the precise moment he received that call from the president of Viewdata. And I never would have found myself sitting across the table in that Miami Beach lunchroom from my future wife.

[Author’s note: If you’ve had a sliding doors moment, share it in the comments section below or email me at timjones@viewfromthebleachers.net with your story.]

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’m Open to Suggestions).

The Day I’ve Dreaded for Ten Years

The Day I’ve Dreaded for Ten Years

When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!

When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!

I’ve never claimed to be the bravest man in the world. I never served in combat zones like both my parents did. That said, I’d like to point out I did attend an all-boys’ military school (grades 7 – 12) in which I had to march with a gun in several parades. So, that’s on par with serving in ‘Nam or Iraq, don’t you think?

I’m pretty sure I’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize in Courage. (Or is it the Nobel Prize? I always get those two confused.) For decades, I’ve struggled with two longstanding crippling phobias. First, there’s my chronic fear of snakes. If you want to know why, just read my article called I HATE SNAKES.

But my single greatest fear is my morbid anxiety about anything – or anyone – possibly slicing into one of my eyeballs. Okay, make that my second greatest fear. I just remembered my terrifying fear that Trump might actually get re-elected for a second term. But a close second has to be my eyeball phobia. In fact, just typing the word “eyeball” makes me a little queasy.

How severe is my phobia? I’ve worn glasses for the past 25 years. In all that time not once did I ever consider switching to contacts. Just the thought of peeling contact lenses off my eyes grosses me out. To this day, I still can’t go anywhere near a pier where people are fishing for fear someone will cast their line and somehow hook my eyeball.

Recently, it all came to a head – make that an eyeball. That’s because ten years ago, my ophthalmologist told me I had early stage cataracts in both eyes. Eventually I was going to require surgery. If you’re curious as to exactly what happens during cataract surgery, don’t ask me. Go look it up yourself. I don’t have the stomach to read the graphic details of what actually happens during this procedure. I’d probably faint before I reached the third paragraph.

On the cover of the eyecare firm’s brochure it shows a smiling older woman supposedly happy to have regained her youthful eyesight. But tucked away towards the far back is a section with the header “MAJOR RISKS OF CATARACT SURGERY” (these exact words). These include swelling, infection, double vision, droopy eyelids, something called ghost images – the list of possible adverse side effects and complications goes on for several paragraphs. And then the copy sneaks in at the end, “and in rare instances, blindness or even death.”  Holy crap! What did I just sign up for?

I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.

I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.

For weeks leading up to my surgery, several supportive friends told me they’d had the same procedure, that it was a breeze, and how glad they are that they did it. I learned the typical cataract surgery only takes 20 to 45 minutes – so, roughly the same amount of time it takes Domino’s to deliver my cheese-stuffed pizza.

I want to thank all the kind people who gave me calming words of encouragement. This list, however, does NOT include my racquetball buddy Raymond, who told me – and I’m not making this up – “I hope your doctor isn’t Dr. Witherspoon. He lost his license after he caused several people to go blind as a result of his botched surgeries.” Raymond decided he’d share this traumatizing story precisely one day before I went in for my operation. Thanks, buddy.

Here’s a fun fact sure to keep you awake at night if you’re contemplating cataract surgery: You’re CONSCIOUS during the entire procedure as they slice into your eyeball. Well, sort of. You’re sedated, but technically you’re still awake. That’s because they need to keep you conscious in order to ask you important questions like, “Are you feeling any pain?” and “Which eye did you want us to remove today?” and “Did you remember to sign the liability release form when you checked in today in the off chance Dr. Witherspoon is still hungover and things take a turn for the worse during the procedure?” At least that’s what Raymond told me.

Every year since that initial diagnosis, my eye doctor has reminded me the dreaded day was coming. Last week, after ten years, that frightful day finally arrived. I went in for cataract surgery on my right eye. And in two weeks – assuming I haven’t gone blind, died, or fled the area in a panic – I’m scheduled to go in for the other eye.

You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.

You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.

Thankfully, they drugged me up so much that I had no idea what was going on during my procedure. But just to be on the safe side, as they prepped me, I described my extreme anxiety to the attending anesthesiologist and asked her to administer the maximum “knockout” dosage medically permitted. If it might accidentally cause me to lose my memory of all events that occurred since the year 2016, I told her I was totally okay with that.

I would now like to describe in gory, graphic detail exactly what they did to me in that operating room… but I can’t. Because I don’t remember a thing. Later that day, other than a very mild achiness around my eye, I felt totally fine. The doctor was a miracle worker.

He told me afterwards that I should not lift anything over 25 pounds or extend any significant physical effort for the next two weeks. Of course, I relayed to my wife that the doctor said to avoid any unpleasant physical labor for the next six months. So, it looks like this husband just got out of having to change the cat litter boxes and take out the trash for the foreseeable future – out of an abundance of precaution, mind you.

I just emailed my ophthalmologist to ask him if he could write a letter indicating it’s also not medically safe for me to empty the dishwasher, rake the leaves, make the bed, or assemble the gas grill during this time. I’d just hate for anything to set back my recovery.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

Tim Smiling at Safeco Higher ResPS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Subscribe to my View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my latest book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).

Humor Writing Made Easy With ChatGPT

Humor Writing Made Easy With ChatGPT

ChatGPT and the other leading AI Chatbot applications are radically changing how we communicate and gain information. For example, I used ChatGPT to suggest this caption which you are reading right now. Isn’t that amazing? (Okay, I lied. But I had you wondering, didn’t I?)

ChatGPT and the other leading AI Chatbot applications are radically changing how we communicate and gain information. For example, I used ChatGPT to suggest this caption which you are reading right now. Isn’t that amazing? (Okay, I lied. But I had you wondering, didn’t I?)

Technology futurists have been predicting for decades that AI (Artificial Intelligence) would eventually overhaul how we do our jobs, how we travel, and even how we engage in sex. But I’d rather not delve into my brother-in-law’s fascination with his AI robot girlfriend, the Monica XL-400. I still don’t understand their relationship, to be honest.

In recent months tremendous advances in AI have taken place, particularly with the introduction of something called AI chatbots. The one getting the most press coverage is ChatGPT from Open AI. So what, exactly, is ChatGPT? The GPT is short for generative pre-trained transformer. I am sure you found that explanation as helpful as I did. But as best as I can explain it, it is simply an AI-powered chatbot. We’ve all seen chatbots before. You know, those annoying online chat programs where you type in a request like, “Can I talk to someone in customer service?” and the chatbot replies, “Hello, I’m Brad. How can I help you?” And then you reply, “I just need to talk to a LIVE person,” and it replies, “Hello, I’m Brad. How can I help you?”

The technology of these AI chatbots is actually quite impressive. Just log onto one of these websites, type in any conceivable topic you’d like information about, and voilà! Within seconds, this AI program will compose a written response in surprising detail, crafted in such a way that it is almost impossible to tell that it was not written by a person.

ChatGPT, Chatfuel, Drift, MobileMonkey, and the slightly creepily named chatbot program, It’s Alive, are all exploding in popularity because they’re free and anyone can use them. If you know how to type and spell, you’re good to go – which is why my cat Zippy will most likely never use any of these programs, because the last time I checked, he still lacked opposable thumbs or any comprehension of what his name was.

Now, for the first time, there are utilities that will answer virtually any question in enormous detail. Sure, Amazon’s Alexa and Apple’s Siri do sort of the same thing, but the latest evolution of AI apps has taken everything to an entirely new stratosphere, as these chatbots can now use artificial intelligence tools to produce detailed text, images, sounds, and even videos that look and feel like they were created by humans.

Popular applications of this breakthrough technology include using it to write press releases and legal briefs, and helping to ensure that thousands of hardworking tech support and customer service employees all over the world will lose their jobs forever.

The line between actual humans and AI is getting more and more blurry. See this robot? She’s incredibly smart. You find her kind of sexy, don’t you? Then you’ve been spending way too much time online. Please put away your phone and play pickleball. You’re starting to worry me.

The line between actual humans and AI is getting more and more blurry. See this robot? She’s incredibly smart. You find her kind of sexy, don’t you? Then you’ve been spending way too much time online. Please put away your phone and play pickleball. You’re starting to worry me.

But probably the source of greatest controversy is the use of these programs to write high school and college term papers. You’re probably asking yourself, can a chatbot really craft a term paper that could fool a teacher? You be the judge. We asked a high school senior and ChatGPT the same question: “Who was George Washington?” Below are their responses. See if you can guess which response was written by Jordan Carruthers, a senior at Garfield High School, and which was provided by ChatGPT.

ChatGPT or Jordan Carruthers?

George Washington (1732-1799) was an American political leader, military general, and Founding Father of the United States. He played a crucial role in the American Revolution, leading the Continental Army to victory over the British and securing American independence. After the war, Washington was a key figure in the drafting of the U.S. Constitution and became the first President of the United States in 1789. He is often referred to as the “Father of His Country” for his leadership in both the military and political spheres, and his commitment to establishing a strong, stable government for the newly-formed United States. Washington’s legacy as a leader and statesman has been widely celebrated throughout American history.

ChatGPT or Jordan Carruthers?

George Washington chopped down a maple tree and had wooden teeth. He was very tall and wore a white wig. He stood in the front of a rowboat crossing a river in wintertime. That’s very dangerous, as he could have fallen overboard and drowned. He’s the guy on the one dollar bill. Did I mention he was tall? We get the day off every year on his birthday, so he must have been a fairly important dude.

Who wrote which version? It’s hard to tell, I know. Believe it or not, the first response was supplied by ChatGPT. But in fairness, Jordan Carruthers is a lazy idiot who’s probably not going to graduate on time. Of course, experts are concerned students may cheat and use ChatGPT to complete their term papers for them. This is a serious issue, and I, for one, am furious… that this technology was not available for me to use when I was in college back in the 1970s. So unfair.

Besides the obvious ethical concerns of the potential for widespread automated plagiarism, there are other significant challenges yet to be worked out. This technology has been shown, on occasion, to provide wildly inaccurate answers to questions – which could be problematic if you’re, say, a heart surgeon and you just asked the AI chatbot what to do next in a delicate coronary angioplasty and stent implantation, and the chatbot directs you to surgically attach the patient’s left leg to his right shoulder blade. Oops.

Another disturbing challenge in the rapid deployment of AI chatbots is that they can quickly become a**holes. Let me explain. AI chatbots are essentially highly sophisticated robot parrots. They quickly learn to assimilate knowledge – and opinions – based on the input they receive from the humans interacting with them. Before long, they start repeating the sentiments of their users.

The latest AI chatbot programs can even mimic the writing style of the greatest writers in history, like Shakespeare. However, ChatGPT, trying to emulate the Bard’s famous quote from Hamlet, wrote, “Am I or aren’t I: this is an interrogatory.” So, nice try, but not quite.

The latest AI chatbot programs can even mimic the writing style of the greatest writers in history, like Shakespeare. However, ChatGPT, trying to emulate the Bard’s famous quote from Hamlet, wrote, “Am I or aren’t I: this is an interrogatory.” So, nice try, but not quite.

So, imagine the tech team’s surprise when Microsoft launched its cutting-edge AI chatbot program called Tay. Twitter users conversing with Tay started tweeting the bot with a barrage of vitriol, including misogynistic and racist comments laced with offensive expletives. Within hours, Tay’s R-rated commentary started to make Donald Trump look like Mother Teresa. Guess it’s back to the drawing board, Microsoft.

I can appreciate that there are still a few bugs to work out before ChatGPT and the other AI chatbots become widespread in their adoption. But I for one am excited about the future potential. In fact, I am so impressed with these chatbots that I decided to use ChatGPT to compose this week’s entire column. From now on, instead of wasting seven exhausting hours working on my next column, I’ll just have an AI chatbot compose it. You can find me at the gym on the elliptical.

Next week’s topic: “The history of baseball.” I can’t wait to see what ChatGPT comes up with. I’m sure it will be compelling reading. I just hope it won’t be way better written than my usual columns.

That’s the view from the bleachers. I might be off base. If so, blame it on ChatGPT.

PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).

Thank You For Your Suggestion

Thank You For Your Suggestion

Over the years, scores of people have suggested humor topics for me to write about. Their ideas typically consist of a four-word concept, like “something about McDonald’s fries.” Um, thanks. But it would appear you’ve already written most of the story for me. You’re brilliant.

Over the years, scores of people have suggested humor topics for me to write about. Their ideas typically consist of a four-word concept, like “something about McDonald’s fries.” Um, thanks. But it would appear you’ve already written most of the story for me. You’re brilliant.

I’ve been a humor writer for 13 years – a source of unceasing embarrassment for my wife and daughters. Over the years, I’ve routinely received suggestions for what readers think would be a funny article for me to write about in my column. I’m grateful to the scores of people who have unselfishly submitted their ideas. I distinctly remember this one time when the suggestion was almost usable.

I think it’s long overdue that I thank the many people who have graciously come forward to pitch their hilarious concepts. So, here goes….

To George Kittlesworth of Sioux City, Iowa: Thank you for your creative recommendation that I write a piece about your prize heifer Daisy and the fact that she was awarded Honorable Mention at the Iowa State Fair in 2004. And what a lovely photo you sent of the two of you. You must be so proud. Quick question: Which one of you is Daisy? Also, can you give me a little more to go on than simply “Here’s a funny story for you.” Did Daisy somehow cheat her way to victory? Did you end up eating her for dinner the following week? What’s the hook here, George?

To Ned Hopper of Cheboygan, Michigan: Thank you for your email in which you wrote, “I saw my neighbor fall off his riding mower. The mower kept going and plowed right through his flower bed and destroyed his prize roses. He broke his leg in three locations. What a hoot!” My, that sure sounds hilarious. There’s nothing funnier than stories about people injuring themselves from falling off of riding mowers. When I have concluded I no longer have an original thought in my brain, I’ll definitely put yours on a short list for serious consideration, Ned.

To Harvey Farmington of Hazlehurst, Mississippi: Thank you for suggesting, and I quote: “How about something about eggplants?” Hmmm, enticingly vague, I must say. Are you talking about the actual vegetable? Or the sexually suggestive emoji? How did you know that two of my favorite topics to write about are weird-looking vegetables and sex emojis. I’ll get right on this. Thanks, Harvey, for doing the heavy lifting with your thoroughly fleshed-out five-word description.

From Boyd Jefferson of Cape Corral, Florida: “This is a photo of Buttons, my daughter’s hamster. Can you write about him? Or maybe it’s a she. I’m not really sure.” Um, Sure, Boyd. Say no more. I’ll take it from here.

From Boyd Jefferson of Cape Corral, Florida: “This is a photo of Buttons, my daughter’s hamster. Can you write about him? Or maybe it’s a she. I’m not really sure.” Um, Sure, Boyd. Say no more. I’ll take it from here.

To Mary “MAGA” Offerman of Halifax, Massachusetts: I appreciate your thoughtful letter you sent me this week in which you wrote: “How about something about Donald Trump. Have you ever thought about doing a piece on him? He’s the best president ever, don’t you agree?” Oh, yes, I couldn’t agree more, Mary. Nobody did a better job trying to illegally stage a coup to stay in power, that’s for sure.

Oh, and great suggestion. Other than the 30+ articles I have previously written about Trump over a six-year period, I’ve not really given him much thought. Thanks for confirming that you’re a regular reader of mine.

To Barney Montague of Horseshoe Bend, Idaho: I must offer up my deepest gratitude for your out-of-the-box premise: “What about Periwinkle?” Oh, yes, indeed. What a treasure trove of hilarity springs to mind upon reading your three-word seedling of a notion of a concept. I’m already in stitches just thinking about the hysterically funny jokes that spring from your cryptic suggestion, Barney. Maybe an entire series on flowers with funny-sounding names, like, “What about Forsythia?” followed by “What about Hibiscus?” The possibilities are endless (if your goal is to put the reader into a coma).

To Becky Mavensberg of Paducah, Kentucky: Thank you so much for suggesting I write a piece about how dogs are better than cats. Perhaps you missed my piece about how cats are better than dogs. Still, I appreciate your riotously funny premise. But I must take issue with the photo you included of your dog. My cat Zippy is cooler than your schnauzer Buster.

To Tom Bakersfield of Beaumont, Texas: My, Tom, what a creative mind you have. To quote you: “How about a piece about how all those liberal commie snowflakes are destroying America and how all that matters in life are three things: Jesus, babies, and bullets. Everybody else can go back to Africa.” Wow, where do I begin? You sure know comedy, Tom. How about you take the lead on writing a first draft, send it to me, and I’ll do my best to make sure nobody ever tries to steal your brilliant diatribe idea and publish it – including me, okay, buddy?

From Clarence Withers of Duluth, Minnesota: “Hey, can you do a hit job piece about my ex? This is her, right before she left me for that coffee barista. And she doesn’t even like coffee! I could kill her!” Um, Clarence, perhaps you’ve mistaken me for a producer at Dateline.

From Clarence Withers of Duluth, Minnesota: “Hey, can you do a hit job piece about my ex? This is her, right before she left me for that coffee barista. And she doesn’t even like coffee! I could kill her!” Um, Clarence, perhaps you’ve mistaken me for a producer at Dateline.

To Heather Rodriguez of Angel Fire, New Mexico: Thank you for your  brainchild for an article. You wrote: “Could you do a piece about how my boss, Will Johnson, is a total jerk and I hate his guts. He never shampoos his greasy hair. And he has the worst body odor. But could you change his name so I don’t get fired?”

Well, Heather, if that’s not comedy gold, I don’t know what is. Nothing says LOL more than a scathing, bitter rant about your hatred for another human being. Just one question: Is there a job opening in your department? Your boss sounds like a great guy.

Honestly, I can’t count how many unsolicited pitches I’ve received from regular readers and folks who learn I’m a humor writer. Their suggestions range from stories about getting drunk to celebrities they think are over-rated to well, falling off of riding mowers.

The only thing missing in all of these clever story ideas is any semblance of … a story – because after a five- or six-word description of what they think is hilarious, that’s all they’ve got. They are happy to let me turn “something about my wife’s burnt pot roast” into an actual story – with humor. The only ingredients they forgot to include are a story idea I can actually use.

I just did a quick count. I see that I still have 240 more thank-you messages to write. This may take a while. I better get back to work…

To Artie Bugleton of Nome, Alaska: Thank you for your idea “something about peeing in snow.” Are you sure you’re not a professional humor writer, Artie? Because, wow, I can’t believe I never thought of this one myself …

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).

Sleepless in Seattle

Sleepless in Seattle

Lately I’ve been having trouble sleeping. My doctor thinks I may be in denial about being a horrible person, or that I refuse to confront how I’ve totally wasted my life. I think my doctor is getting a 1-star review on Yelp.

Lately I’ve been having trouble sleeping. My doctor thinks I may be in denial about being a horrible person, or that I refuse to confront how I’ve totally wasted my life. I think my doctor is getting a 1-star review on Yelp.

Recently, events in my life have eerily paralleled the story line from that classic film, Sleepless in Seattle, starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. How? Well, for starters, I’ve lived in the greater Seattle area for the past 30 years. Second, I’ve been having difficulty sleeping lately. And third, I have been told I resemble Tom Hanks (particularly by people who have never seen him). Hence the premise for this week’s column.

For the past several weeks, I’ve had maybe two hours of fitful ZZZ time per night. It’s starting to make me cranky. Several friends have offered less than helpful theories to explain my sleep-deprived predicament. Perhaps, said one, I’m feeling pangs of regret over decades of egregious parenting failures. Or maybe I’m riding a sugar high from binging on Pop Tarts and Mountain Dew right before bedtime.

One person posited that my insomnia may be due to anxiety from watching news coverage 24/7. I say I’d only be watching news 24/16 if I could sleep. Yet another “expert” speculated that my tossing and turning might be me practicing maneuvers for eluding the thugs who are after me for my gambling debts. Please don’t tell my wife that I blew our life savings at the Emerald Queen Casino.

Those are all excellent – albeit wildly erroneous – explanations for my nocturnal insomnolence. The real cause is that I had knee replacement surgery for the second time in four months and am struggling with RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome). RLS is a common side effect of major knee surgery. It’s characterized by an irresistible urge to move one’s legs in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. It occurs typically at nighttime and has many manifestations: twitching, thrashing, and knocking all the covers to the floor.

It can take a significant toll on loved ones as the sufferer may body-slam his bed partner in the chest, or in a knee-jerk motion, propel the cats off the bed up toward the rotating ceiling fan. It is thus suggested one keep the fan on low speed. The subsequent shunning by wife – and cats – can have the far-reaching mental health consequences of rejection, abandonment, and loneliness. My legs have therefore been designated as clear and present dangers to others.

Some evenings it’s so bad that I’m not sure if my problem is RLS or a frenetic case of the Harlem Shakes. Most nights I have to get up four or five times – and not just to pee. I pace around the bedroom, the living room, even the garage, in a fruitless attempt to quiet my legs. It hasn’t worked, but on the positive side, these wee hour wanderings have enabled me to hit my daily Fitbit goal of 10,000 steps on several nights.

Thanks to caring friends – and a few idiots – I have a plethora of tactics to try to help me sleep. Here are just a few of those suggestions:

  • Practice meditation before bedtime.

    This particular evening I couldn’t sleep at all. On the Other hand, my cat Chompers was blissfully unaware of my distress as he contentedly dozed off like a hibernating bear, sleeping peacefully on my face.

    This particular evening I couldn’t sleep at all. On the Other hand, my cat Chompers was blissfully unaware of my distress as he contentedly dozed off like a hibernating bear, sleeping peacefully on my face.

  • Download an ambient noise app of soothing sounds, like crashing waves, a crackling campfire, or a dentist’s drill. (I’m wondering about this last sound, as it barely helped me relax).
  • A warm cup of milk.
  • No sugar after 1pm (you lost me at “1pm”, buddy).
  • Smoke a cigarette. (I guess it’s never too late to take up a new habit. Does vaping count?)
  • Listen to bacon frying (didn’t achieve sleep but thanks to this tip, I’ve gained five pounds).
  • Hum like a bee. Using live bees is not recommended.
  • Listen to a podcast on Mastering Excel.
  • Do not drink alcohol before bedtime (since I don’t drink, this one should be easy).
  • Have a glass of wine before bedtime.

Then there is the always welcome, “Don’t try to fall asleep. Just let it happen.” Um, thanks for the vapid, clichéd platitude.

I’ve tried prescription sleeping meds to no avail. One of them  apparently can induce sleep walking, or worse yet, sleep driving (yikes!). I bailed on that one, lest I get pulled over for driving without a license – or pants. The other sleep prescriptions were as effective in bringing on sleep as Flintstone vitamins are at dissolving a brain tumor.

So far, nothing has worked. I’m at my wits end – and my wife is sleeping at a neighbor’s. But I have a buddy who guarantees he has the cure-all that will send me to Slumberland: Hop in bed, drink a fifth of Tequila and watch Weekend at Bernie’s, wearing nothing but bunny slippers. In full disclosure, he also swears that drinking a fifth of Bourbon will cure male pattern baldness. So he’s missing a few screws – at this point, what have I got to lose? I’ll keep you posted.

Good news just in: My doctor assures me that my RSL is a temporary condition which should dissipate over time. The bad news is “over time” according to my doctor could be anywhere from two weeks till shortly after my untimely death due to sleep deprivation.

Whoa! I suddenly feel really drowsy. It just hit me as I was typing the last paragraph. My eyes are so heavy. I can barely keep my head up. I better lie down for a minute before I fall asleep at the keyboar$#%$J@E)%Nda&%#Dfw)@$#3en48093abutcp………………………..

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off baaaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzzz… 

PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.

Check out my latest humor book: YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LIFE: Misguided Parenting Strategies That Sounded Good at the Time

© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2020