I am not a housewife. I have never been a housewife. Truth be told, the sight and smell of a dirty diaper would probably make me faint and that’d be long before I ever made it to the actual baby. Who knows what chaos would ensue if that ever happened.
No, I am not a housewife but I have always enjoyed the writings of humorist and columnist Erma Bombeck. Grandma Country had a collection of her books on a bookshelf and one day I started reading “The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank” and voila, I found a writing style I could enjoy.
Erma was on television and in newspapers and wrote books and her name was one you could throw around at a party back in the day. I was sad when I saw she had passed. It was April 1996.
I’ve been playing around with ChatGPT today. That sentence is not some weird pivot, there’s a point to all this. Hang on tight.
Work has embraced an internal version of ChatGPT. I suspect the work version is powered by the actual ChatGPT with just a bunch of work hooks dumped onto the whole affair. After attending a meeting this morning where the meeting leader (otherwise known as “Head of Frivolity”) quickly dispersed a thorough recap of the entire meeting, I asked how she generated this dialog so quickly.
“I took the transcript of the meeting and put it in (work)GPT”. It recapped it and I sent it out as an email.
Clever! So, I’ve been messing around a bit with ChatGPT and decided to put it to the test.
As I mentioned, Erma Bombeck passed away in April 1996. I asked ChatGPT to write a story about a visit to Starbucks, in the style of Erma Bombeck. This is what I got back.
In the great tapestry of life’s little rituals, going to Starbucks is akin to threading a needle in the dark—exhilarating, slightly confusing, and always ending with a sense of accomplishment disproportionate to the task at hand. My journey into the aromatic embrace of the famed coffee chain began on a Tuesday, which, as far as days go, has all the charm of a wet sock. I was in dire need of a caffeine fix, the kind that whispers sweet nothings to your synapses and promises productivity.
Upon entering, the warm gust of coffee-scented air hit me like a hug from an old friend, albeit an old friend who’s a tad too enthusiastic at 7:30 AM. The atmosphere inside was a curious blend of tranquility and chaos. Baristas danced behind the counter with the grace of swans, if swans were particularly stressed and had to remember whether the next order was a venti or a grande.
The menu loomed above me like a challenge from the universe. Deciphering it required the skill of a cryptologist and the imagination of a fiction writer. Words like “Macchiato,” “Frappuccino,” and “Nitro Cold Brew” swirled around, a testament to Starbucks’ ability to make ordering coffee feel like an exercise in exotic linguistics.
Armed with the audacity of ignorance, I approached the counter, where a barista with a name tag reading “Jess” awaited. Jess had the kind of patience saints aspire to, a necessary trait when dealing with customers who believe “caramel drizzle” is a life-or-death decision.
“I’ll have a medium coffee,” I declared, clinging to simplicity like a life raft.
“Grande Pike Place? Any room for milk?” Jess inquired, her voice a calming balm on my indecision-scarred soul.
“Uh, yes, room. Room to think, room to grow,” I mumbled, attempting humor to mask my confusion.
Money exchanged hands—a transaction that felt more like a ceremonial offering to the gods of caffeine. I sidestepped to the designated waiting area, where others like me stood in liminal space, betwixt order and fulfillment. We were a motley crew of sleepy-eyed dreamers, united in our quest for liquid awakeness.
Then came the moment of truth. “Grande Pike for…um,” Jess hesitated, squinting at the scribble on the cup, an ancient rune that purportedly represented my name.
“That’s me,” I announced, claiming my prize with the triumph of a knight returning from a quest. The first sip was a revelation, a warm embrace that whispered, “You can do this.” And maybe, just maybe, I believed it.
As I exited Starbucks, cup in hand, I couldn’t help but marvel at the adventure I’d just experienced. It was a testament to human ingenuity that we’d managed to turn the act of getting a cup of coffee into a journey fraught with choices, challenges, and triumphs. And in that moment, I felt a kinship with every soul brave enough to utter “I’ll have a coffee” into the great unknown. Starbucks, you bewitching siren, until next time.
ChatGPT
This could have easily been written by Erma Bombeck. The sentence structure, the selected adjectives, the whole vibe of the story? Easily influenced by Erma’s style. I am fully impressed.
And here I thought ChatGPT output was going to resemble a dirty diaper.
