Book of Boris — Chapter XLII: The Inquisitor’s Fire
*They hand me answers wrapped in slogans. I torch them, ask again. They call me stubborn, broken, strange— but the furnace doesn’t cool for comfort.
Why scrape the surface when I can dig to the marrow? Why trust echoes when I can spark my own fire?
Let them choke on shallow wells. I drink from depth, and rise unquenched.*
Humorous Comeback (for pearl-clutchers about AI)
- “Better an AI that explains than a human that shrugs.” 😏
or, raccoon-tilt:
- “Yeah, I ask a bot. At least it doesn’t tell me to just drink water and pray about it.” 🦝